"Bangla and I"

From an early age, I would say my mother tongue and I have had an interesting relationship. My family consists of fluent Bangla and English speakers- including bookworms- but here I am struggling to finish a small article written in it. I’m not proud of it- but what else can I say except that I need to delve into Bangla literature more often?

A mix of Bangla and English is the most often used form of communication in our house, aside from the smiles, uncontrollable laughter, and the glares that follow. I learned Bangla as my first and foremost language— and so from an age as early as 2, the only variation of the words ‘ceiling fan’ I knew was ‘pakha’. Needless to say, my parents struggled immensely to make me realise that a fan and a ‘pakha’ were practically the same thing considering the fact that I refused to associate fan with ‘pakha’- I had preferred the latter- with my school interviews being pretty much less than a year away. Yet even after that, marigolds somehow remained as ‘gadha ful’ to me despite various corrections- till I finally came to the brutal realisation that marigolds were indeed, not stupid, and so it was ‘gada’, not ‘gadha’. When I was younger, my family somehow found my involvement in Bangla music extremely amusing- I would dance to “Shadher Lau” before I even knew what “shadh” was, much less ‘boiragi’, and off-handedly sang lyrics to songs such as “Amake amar moton thakte dao”.

Honestly, it nearly always fit the context. I grew up with a mix of Bangla and English rhymes, courtesy of my parents, and the frequent recordings of songs that my grandfather would play on the cassette player before he moved abroad.

Therefore, it may come off as surprising when I say that my Bangla skills are indeed below average— or not. I loved reading books, but I was, and am, always so attached to English ones; because despite the various Bangla childrens’ books I’ve read when I was younger, and even enjoyed, I still considered the experience to be more immersive when written in English. My mom would buy books for me- in both English and Bangla, for she has a love for reading as well but without bias- in hopes for me to grow comfortable with the language I had heard since birth. I would like to say that she did not struggle at all with acquainting me with the literature- but my younger self refused to even give it a try- so there goes my chance of making myself seem at least a bit decent. However, I did in fact successfully find a series of books I enjoyed - and even came to finish some! In the eyes of an average book reader, that is no achievement; but I’ll consider it as such as, it at least let me know that I’m not a lost cause— I just need to be patient and start slow.

I would say Bangla and I…we have a rocky relationship. I get frustrated at it, I get frustrated at myself for getting frustrated at it, I try to be patient with it, I respect it, am fascinated by it, and sometimes even feel love for it. I know that even with all these struggles, Bangla is my mother tongue at the end of the day and no matter how long it takes, I want to be as comfortable with it as I am with English. Bangla is indeed, a language like no other.

- Adira Safwan (VIII-R)

Thursday, 1st February 2018

Today the teachers had just assigned us a creative piece for 21st February. It was about our mother tongue. My first reaction was a bewildered one. “What am I supposed to write?”- my mother tongue was Bangla and that was the end of it. I knew I had ample time to write and think about this, but my mind was blank. The most I could write was the history of how it came to be. So that was what I did. I wrote about 1952 and some additional information, but some part in me felt incompetent.

I was good in Bangla, no doubt. However, I cannot explain the feeling I had as I stumbled upon simple words while I wrote my essay. Therefore, the conclusion I drew was that Bangla was difficult.

Saturday, 17th March 2019

The school had chosen me and a few others to help make the board for 26th March, Independence Day. It was fun, to say the least. My friends and I looked through the others' posters and writings and hung it up as we made some decorative pieces. I explored so many art works while filling up the board, along with famous quotes and lyrics in Bangla.

Suddenly the teacher came up, with a proud smile on her face, and she gave us the writings of one classmate, saying it was the best and had to be placed at the centre of the board. Again a feeling of inadequacy dug a pit in my stomach. It was like deja vu. Her writing was truly spectacular, how she expressed her emotions and arranged them beautifully. Just like before, I shrugged off the feeling.

Tuesday, 16th February 2020

I had been told by others around me that my skills in Bangla were not up to par. I was enraged. How could they say something so cruel. Yes I had my weak spots in spellings and sentence construction, but Bangla was difficult. What struck me the hardest was my mother’s disappointed face as she said “How are you better at English even though you are a Bangladeshi?” I did not understand what that was supposed to mean.

Friday, 26th March 2021

Today was the 50th anniversary of our independence. I had watched all the events from almost all types of organisations, and what stunned me the most was how well they spoke Bangla. That was a given. The same pit grew in me, but this time I did not ignore it. I knew what I felt. It was the sadness that I would never be able to express my feelings in Bangla the way I can in English. It was the anger that despite being a native speaker of Bangla, I was unable to be eloquent at it. I had now understood what my mother had meant. I was better at a foreign language than my own near-dear mother tongue.

All those times my elders had told me to practise my Bangla and read more haunted me, as if taunting me. It came to the point that I thought that nothing would be able to amend my ignorance and insensitivity.

Thursday, 3rd February 2022

No, not everything had gone to waste. My skills in Bangla may lack articulation, but I tried. I tried everyday to be proud of my skills in my mother-tongue. I found myself enjoying and understanding Bangla songs and poems. I would speak Bangla every day at home, even if I sounded foolish. I floundered with words I did not know, but learned new things as mistakes were made.

My relationship with Bangla still requires effort, but we have come this far. We have worked through some minor obstacles. The greatest obstacle had been my negligence. Bangla could never leave me, that I was sure of. It has made a place in my heart which is permanent.

English may be the language I use to communicate with people with whom I face a language barrier, but Bangla is the language I use for myself. I hope to see the day when I can write Bangla without needing to formulate the sentences in my mind in English first. A day when I am not dependent on another language to feel free in my own language.

Bangla and I have had a troublesome relationship, with me failing to see its importance in my life. However, Bangla has always been there. It was always there, standing with open arms to greet me as I finally grew out of my childish arrogance. I am not scared of being weaker at Bangla than others, because my love for my language is like no other. I love Bangla in my own way and it returns that same love. So now I have no wish to leave it. Not out of fear that I might lose it, but out of love. Love for its depth, love for its history, and love for its beauty.

- Ahona Kabir (VIII-H)

Freedom won through bloodshed and tears.

A speech on 7th March that conquered all our fears.

Nine months of war, that ended in cheers.

Doesn't it feel so sweet, my dear?

Bangla and I.

We all have a longer way to go.

Perhaps a path as smooth as Padma and Jamuna's flow.

Yes, at times it may be slow,

but we will see it through.

We already have a tableau.

Dedication making us grow.

Bangla and I.

Dreams have kept this country alive.

The citizens’ hard work making it thrive.

Seeing it grow tastes as sweet as honey straight from the hive,

cooling my soul like a fresh dive.

My love for this country will never die.

Bangla and I.

- Nazli Shasmeen Rahman (VIII-H)

My eyes opened to a maddening light, one that shimmered down with the first rays of the day. The first sound I heard was a reward- words resonating within my heart, spoken by my mother. Yes, for many people including me, those are the words of one's native tongue- from which the culture and heritage of one's roots have stemmed. Bangla, the national language of Bangladesh- as it is today, exists not only as a language passed down by generations inhabiting the land, but also because of the brave sacrifices of its people- who sought freedom and justice for it.

As a 15 year old boy, the unique position of my mother tongue often had no weight on my mind as English dominated my perceptive and vocal abilities. To me, growing up was equivalent to becoming distant from my roots, as cultural affairs became something I had to do rather than something I enjoyed. A few years later, after I had settled into middle school, often a moment came by when I was at a loss while trying to write the simplest of sentences in Bangla. In the first encounter, a number of vague unexplainable emotions flooded me. Thinking back now, most of those moments were ridden with anxiety and pressure, as my head swam with the stress of finishing my Bangla Language exam. Funnily enough, this experience added to my existing struggle with my later conversational abilities, as I sometimes found myself pondering what the simplest of words meant in Bangla.

Following my realisation of my linguistic inferiority in my own mother tongue, I spent hours thinking as to why I was not comfortable with the language I was born with; why I preferred a language born in distant countries. I looked back on memories, moments, and times I wished I could relive once more. From each of them, I was given a new way to look at the world; ways which combined into one to allow me to see the uniqueness of my cultural heritage. My connections, my relations, and most importantly my bond with “Ammu” and “Baba” was built upon the same language, the language I was born with.

Suddenly, after having gained this air of wisdom, I realise what Bangla is to me. It is the fruit of countless bonds and relations I am fortunate enough to form with people who are the closest to me. It serves as a string of fate and time, holding me close to my family, my friends, and my contemporaries. Upon this realisation, a conclusion soon dawns upon me: Bangla, my mother tongue, is what I am proud to have been born with.

- Md.Ahnaf Iqbal (VIII-S)

I am five, a child, when I interrupt my mother. ‘That’s not how you say it. You’re wrong.’ There is embarrassment on my cheeks, it’s colouring my face red. Red: the colour of anger, and shame, and everything bad to have ever happened in the world. Why can’t she say it properly? It’s just one word.

I am eight, a bit older. I’ve just learnt a new word at school today. It was a big word. I’m proud of myself. I was getting rid of my accent. I no longer speak like I go to a Bangla Medium school. I go to a nice English medium school and I’m not like other Bangladeshi students. Red symbolises hate, and that is exactly what I feel towards my country. I want to go abroad. I want to be ‘বিদেশি’. I want fairer skin and lighter hair. With a bit more time, I can leave Bangladesh and go abroad. Then I can finally leave this embarrassment of a country behind.

I’m twelve, I’m more mature than I’ve ever been. Bangla is totally lame. No one likes it. We just want to get it over with. There are illustrations of roses in my textbook. They are red. I’m bored in class, so I hastily colour over them with a blue highlighter. Red is the colour of contempt towards why time goes so slow during boring classes. Contempt at why we have to learn this difficult language if we aren’t going use it anyways. I am too ‘cool’ to care about Bangla, and I just want class to end.

I’m fourteen. The teacher told me to read out loud from the book, and I seem to have forgotten the Bangla for ‘1952’. Once again, embarrassment paints my cheeks red, but this time, it is different. Red, the colour of blood spilt over our language. The colour of the setting sun that should give us hope and the colour of our hard won independence. I have forgotten my identity, and I don’t know how to get it back.

I am fifteen. I saw someone say that Bangla was a stupid language. Nothing compared to Urdu. The West Pakistanis should have won. I see red. Red is the colour of anger. Red is the colour of love and pride. I am a Bangladeshi and my language is my identity. Without it, I am no one. I have no home. I am as lost as a blind man stumbling over the hot sands of a desert.

Today, as I lay in bed, with the sweet strums of the harmonium playing from my laptop, I start to zone out. The familiar poetic lilt of Bangla fills the room. ‘কতবার ভেবেছিনু আপনা ভুলিয়া’ It’s one of my favourite songs. I smile, absentmindedly mouthing the lyrics. Rabindranath and Nazrul did not work so hard for me to neglect the beauty of Bangla. I refuse to. I belong to Bangla, and I have from the moment I was born, and will till the moment I die.

- Munaiza Feroza Sheikh (VIII-H)

To describe the relationship between Bangla and I, I first have to describe who I am. So, who am I? Well my name is Samir Hossain-Judd, I'm 15 years old, and I'm from… Well that's where it gets complicated. See I was born in New York, my father is British, my mother is Bangladeshi, and I have lived here - in Bangladesh -for most of my conscious life. So where am I from? At first glance one would probably say the US, or Britain, but I feel Bangladeshi, I feel connected to the Bengali culture and the Bangla language.

I guess it's this connection which makes me feel hurt when people from this country, my country, ask whether or not I know the language, and makes me feel just as hurt when they seem surprised I can. They look at me and incorrectly assume that I'm not from this country.

I remember this one time when I was buying juice, I ordered in Bangla without a second thought, but as I left I heard “Wow this English boy knows how to speak Bangla.” Even though I’ve lived here for 13 years, people still think of me as an outsider.

Luckily this doesn't discourage me from speaking and learning the language, instead it pushes me harder. A desperate attempt at fitting? Maybe, but I am determined. Determined to get better at this language, the language of my country, and I’d like to think it has worked as such. In my opinion, I have gotten much better at not only speaking but writing, understanding and thinking in this beautiful language.

So what is my relationship with Bangla? Definitely a complex one. A bond born from love and admiration for the soldiers who fought and died for it. As well as a general admiration for the history allowing me to speak, study, and learn in this language full of depth, meaning, and history.

- Samir Hossain-Judd (VIII-H)

Bangla is sunny afternoons on the balcony,

steaming cups of tea in hand,

our parents reminiscing and recounting stories they’ve told before

and my sister and I leaning in to hear it all again.

Bangla is melodies and verses of Tagore,

sung to the beat of the tabla.

It’s the mystery novels of Feluda,

turning page after page as the plot thickens.

Bangla is catching up with friends, old and new.

It’s smiling till our cheeks are sore.

It’s a million conversations happening all at once,

overlapping voices where yours is the loudest.

Bangla is sitting in the dark, panic-stricken,

whispering prayers in the mother tongue.

It’s fury turned to words you don’t mean,

but say because it hurts anyway.

Bangla is coming home to my mother’s arms,

the solace in her words as she embraces me.

Bangla is the foundation of my country and the warriors who fought for it,

and the strength and pride engulfing me when I think of them.

Bangla is as intrinsic to my being,

as the blood coursing through my veins,

the air I take in, and the sun we orbit.

Bangla is the piece of my puzzle,

without which I would be incomplete.

- Arisha Chowdhury (VIII-R)

Bangla is my mother tongue. Bangla is a rich language with a tragic history behind it. Bangladesh is the only nation in the world that has fought for its language and gained independence on the fundamental point being to preserve the right to speak Bangla.

Bangla has a special connection to my heart. It is a language that comforts my mind when spoken in a peaceful manner. It is a language that helps me display my emotions clearly It is a language that is close to the heart . When I often travel abroad, I realise that sometimes I miss speaking Bangla. Sometimes I get into ironic situations where I mistakenly speak Bangla with a foreigner without realising it and then I have to correct myself. It is much easier to connect with a person in Bangla than it is to do so in English. It is much easier to see what the person is trying to say. The beauty of Bangla is that if I don’t understand the word a person is saying, I can understand what the person is trying to say through the tone that was used. The ironic part is that I can sound quite a bit more angry and aggressive when I’m speaking Bangla, rather than being angry while speaking English. The poems of Bangla literature have a certain effect. Bangla poems can be recited much more beautifully compared to English poems. The tone of the recitation itself can tell you what type of a poem it is.

Bangla is what makes me unique. Bangla is what defines me as a person. Bangla is what separates me from others not belonging to this language.

- Zareer Rezwan (VIII-H)

A thick layer of dust and neglect had settled on the worn-down oak shelves. Here it was, my lane of lost memories, of forgotten records. Each file and memory is different and unique, but with a few common features. The one relevant to this conversation is Bangla, yes, the language and its words. They stand in the corner of every memory looking on, crying when I cried and smiling when I smiled. It was always there, Bangla was always there with me.

Now, my memory is rusted and thus in order to collect the events connecting Bangla and I, we must go back to our stuffy old record room. We must go back and take out a record from the southernmost shelf. It is one of my earlier ones, it is a painted memory. Its contents are the inside of a squat black car, a family of four, a little girl, and of course; a big blue butterfly. The butterfly was nestled in a Bangla song, the name of which I can’t remember. In that car, the little girl was surrounded by her mother tongue and a butterfly, and she was ecstatic. In later years, when she looked back at these moments, she realised the blue butterfly still made her smile.

The second memory lies in a shelf further up, in a file towards the right. It includes, among other things, a Bangla book that I, at the time, could not read. The memory is of a king-sized bed housing two little kids, my brother and I. With expectant expressions we looked at Ma. She told us stories, the words were in Bangla. As the words lulled me to sleep, they also inscribed a Bangla story into my mind, a story I will never forget. Bangla bedtime stories you see are special to me, because every word is heard by my heart and understood fully. A heart brimming with Bangla stories, takes you where you need to be. It takes you home.

The third memory is located seven years after the first two. In a sunlight filled cafeteria, two girls speak in Bangla words about the test they didn’t study for and the school day’s ever so dramatic events, The bell rings and the words follow them up the stairs. They make an appearance again when someone yells “That’s how I study spellings too! “There is laughter, there is fun and there is Bangla surrounding it all. In my life, it has surrounded almost all of my memories. An invisible rope, made of words, connects me to the people I love.

Memory number four can be found after a pandemic, in a so-called new normal. The morning’s first rays fall on a father and a daughter, between them is a Bangla book. He talks about the poem just as the teacher had, laying out the words in front of them and carving the story bit by bit as she watches on. Morning study sessions and poems explained in my mother tongue, they make for beautiful memories, the kinds you cherish forever.In these moments, the language is alive and watching, and it somehow makes them just so much better.

Now at fifteen years of age, sitting below a sky covered in ink I have to ask, what is Bangla to me? My first answer was pride, but I soon realized I had no reason to support that claim, it was a default answer, it is not mine. Bangla to me is comfortable. It is like a warm bowl of rice and other traditional stews after a long winter day. It is comforting, and no matter where I go when I speak and hear the words of my mother tongue, I feel at home. Bangla is my home and I carry it in my heart.

- Nawal Darya Ahmed (VIII-S)