The making of <i>Muktir Gaan</i>

It was in the fall of 1990. Tareque and I had been in the US for about one year. We didn't really have any particular plan in mind at the time for staying in the states. Rather, it was a "decompression" of sorts, after a hectic period in Bangladesh and India when we had struggled to complete "The Inner Strength," Tareque's documentary film on the life and art of the painter S.M. Sultan.
In New York, Tareque was working in a famous used bookstore called the Strand, and amassing an enormous collection of books on film and Indology in the process. I was an executive in an advertising agency, half-heartedly climbing the corporate ladder. We were both looking for something inspiring to throw ourselves into, but weren't quite sure how and where to start.
At that time, we were spending almost every weekend with my brother Alfred, who was completing his post-doctoral work in physics in Princeton, New Jersey. One day he was stopped on the street by a South Asian-looking woman who needed directions to the physics department. They began to chat -- she said she was originally from Bangladesh, and Alfred said his sister was married to a Bangladeshi.
One coincidence led to another -- it turned out she was the wife of Tarik Ali, an old friend of Tareque's first cousin Benu. The Alis lived in the neighbouring town of Lawrenceville, and the following weekend found us sitting cozily in Tarik bhai's living room, exchanging stories of Dhaka and dreams of return.
The conversation drifted to the Liberation War. Tarik bhai and Tareque's cousin Benu bhai were together at that time, singing in a cultural squad of refugee artistes. Tarik Ali recalled that an American film-maker and his crew had traveled with them for some time, documenting their experiences during the war. Tareque vaguely remembered that in the early 1970s, Benu bhai had often mentioned this film-maker in passing during reminiscences of the War. His name, according to Tarik bhai, was Lear Levin. We were immediately intrigued. What an unusual name: Lear. It conjured up images of grandeur and tragedy. What had become of his footage? Perhaps it was a journalistic catalogue of events of the war. Certainly Lear no longer lived in New York. Perhaps he was long since dead.
Over the next week or so, Tareque and I gradually forgot about Lear Levin. But the following Saturday, I was suddenly inspired to pick up the phone book and look through the Ls. There were pages and pages of Levins. But suddenly, there it was. Lear Levin. And Lear Levin Productions. I am always nervous about phone calls, so I handed the phone to Tareque. He called the production office -- it was the weekend, but he could leave a message. But someone picked up the phone.
Tareque: Yes, I was trying to reach a Mr. Lear Levin.
Lear: This is Lear Levin.
Tareque: Oh ... were you by any chance in Bangladesh in 1971?
Lear: Yes.
Tareque: You did some shooting then?
Lear: Yes.
Tareque: Well, I wanted to talk to you because I'm also from Bangladesh, I'm a film-maker, my name is Tareque Masud. Mahmoodur Rahman Benu is my first cousin. Do you remember Benu?
At the sound of Benu's name, Tareque could almost feel, through the telephone line, a rush of emotion overtaking Lear.
Lear: Of course I remember him. Well, in 1971 I was a young man, thirty years old. I went to Bangladesh to make a film about the Liberation War. I put a lot of myself into that film, a lot of money and time, but eventually I had to abandon the project. And now, you have called. I've been waiting almost twenty years for this phone call.
[For the full version of this article, please read this month's Forum, available with The Daily Star on Monday, March 3.]

Catherine Masud is a film-maker.