Memorial Day, 2013

Omar Khayyam, the 11th century Persian poet, is well-known for his four-line poems or quatrains known as Ruba'i, and his Rubaiyat have been dear to us since my high school days.  Only the other day, my friend Mushtaque, while reflecting on the value of money and the importance of non-monetary objects in life, quoted the following to emphasize his point:
Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse — and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness —
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
(Omar Khayyam translated by FitzGerald, 1859)
Of course the idyllic picture painted by Khayyam may or may not be realized in this world, but we attempt mightily to recreate his vision of it every now and then. We are each, or least some of us, also devising our own paradise on this planet. However, philosophers have from time immemorial wondered whether one could truly build a replica of the paradise (or invent one) in this world. One of our own poets, Fazlul Karim,  articulated the same sentiment in the following lines:
"Kothaye Shorgo, Kothaye Norok, Ke Boley Ta Bohudur/ Manusher Majhey Shorgo Norok, Manushetey Shurashur".
My readers might at this point be trying to guess where I am heading with these musings on pleasure and paradise. Well, on some days I find myself sympathizing with poets like Omar Khayyam and Fazlul Karim and feel that paradise, or a paler shade of it, can be found on this side of the Rubicon. One of these occasions came to us on the last Memorial Day. First, a little bit of introduction to this national holiday celebrated in the USA for the benefit for my readers.
Every year, this country observes Memorial Day on the last Monday of May. On this day, the nation pays homage to the fallen heroes, and remembers the sacrifices made by the members of the armed forces in defending the country particularly during the two World Wars. As a Bangladeshi transplant, we've also gotten into observing the various national days of our adopted homeland, including Memorial Day. Since it is a federal holiday, banks and offices are closed, and so are liquor stores. It is one of the three days in the year when sale of alcoholic beverages is prohibited in the state of Massachusetts where I live. However, that does not prevent one from celebrating the holiday, and to welcome the unofficial onset of summer.
Thus, Memorial Day serves a dual purpose, a day also for visiting the memorials and veteran's cemeteries strewn around the country. The wars this country fought in the last two hundred years are numerous, some good and some not so good. But the heart-felt sentiment of gratitude we all feel for those who made the ultimate sacrifice for the country is universal, and is almost as passionate as the devotion to the national flag. Parades, waving the flag, and visits to the national monuments (mostly in Washington, DC and in all states) are the order of the day. Then there are also the cookouts and picnics. Open-air bar-b-cue (called "cookouts") in every backyard is a de rigueur, and the smell of hamburgers, hotdogs, and chickens roasting on the grills adds to the flavour of the day in most neighborhoods. Also this day heralds the beginning of the lawn mowing season and the constant noise of the engines, weeders, and hedge trimmers gives away a cacophony of medley sounds that can truly be called the concert of summer.
For the Bangladeshi community, the biggest challenge often becomes one of finding the right balance between their urge to celebrate this national day and the instinct to fuse it with the Bengali trait of adaptation and dedication to our roots. This year we celebrated Memorial Day with our friend and neighbor  who invited us for a mid-day cookout. However, Mukta, our host, also hinted beforehand that should the guests be so inclined, we could have an impromptu concert of our own after the feasts are over. And we were not disappointed. Mukta arranged a "fusion menu" and in the first round served the guests jhal muri, chatpatti, and other deshi hors d'ouvres. Before we had time to finish these mouth-watering nashtas, the gas grill outside the house was already sizzling with corn on the cob (bhutta), barbecued chicken, and fried vegetables. The aroma stoked our appetite again, and the volunteers who were tending the grill made sure that the food was done with the care and delicacy of professionals, and served them right out of the stove top. The most amazing scene was the choreography of cooking, serving, and scooping up the food from the tray. As soon as each trayful of food was passed around, it was just snatched up before one could blink. As one partygoer joked, the trays are going full inside, but coming back empty in a split second. Where are they going? Well, where else? Into our hungry mouths and stomachs!
After a while, as we were diving into our second and thirds servings of drumsticks, chicken thighs, and breasts, we heard the announcement from the ladies in charge that the third round was ready to be served in the dining room of the house.  When we went inside to the dining table, we could not believe the variety and arrangement of the most incredible array of deshi delicacies: aloo bharta, begooner dolna, tomato chutney, shutki, lotee, deem bhuna, kathal bichi bharta, daal, etc. etc. Need I dwell on the mood and the camaraderie we felt as we fought and vanquished the gastronomical beasts inside the belly?
As we sat down to recover from the battle of gorging from the last round, the sound of harmonium with our friend Rumi at the helm, and all of us lending our voice for the chorus, took us from worldly pleasures to the realm of ecstasy.  And, just as Khayyam rejoiced with the flask of wine, we did the same with coffee poured from the Dunkin Donuts "Box of Joe" served with the payesh, cheesecake and other desserts.  It was one of my favourite songs that finally tipped the scale and took me into the land of paradise:
"Amar praner porey choley gelo key"
Who wafted by my heart
Like soothing breeze of spring
She touched me, brought me to my knees
Made flowers bloom in tens of thousands…

Dr. Abdullah Shibli lives and works in Boston