How will the boy eat: Jhinedar remembers Mizan’s uncle

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শেখ মিজানুর রহমান

Once upon a time, there were some people in almost every urban city of Bangladesh who were literature lovers and culture lovers. There was no shortage of their efforts for the cultural development of the district town. Someone in the city is writing poetry-stories, singing-they took the responsibility to develop it. Day by day, these sincere people have started to decrease. Some of them may have committed suicide by reaching the age of death, some may have died. Sheikh Mizanur Rahman of Jhenaidah was one such person. He passed away on the morning of April 25. He has contributed a lot in the cultural development of Jhenaidah.

Gitanjali Road and Agniveena Road – two roads in the city named after two timeless poetry books by Rabindranath Tagore and Kazi Nazrul Islam. A man of Tingting is walking along one of those two roads. Two thin lips are red after drinking. A bundle of papers in hand. He is walking. Where is Gitanjali of Jhenaidah city crossing Agniveena road? If you meet someone with a copy of a weekly newspaper called ‘Chalantika’, you say, ‘Come Friday, but come to Sahitya Asare.’

When I think of Sheikh Mizanur Rahman – Mizan Kaka, such images repeatedly appear in my eyes.

Mizan Kaka – Sheikh Mizanur Rahman, who grew up in the light and air of Jhenaidah, died on the morning of April 25. Much like Mofsal’s cultural figures exit quietly, news of their passing being reported in bits and pieces in the national media, he went much the same way. Can you call him a cultural figure? Sheikh Mizanur Rahman was a cultural figure in the city of Jhenaidah—locally called Jhineda—which emerges from the mouth of the Navganga river. If anyone writes a poem or a story in this town of Gandaghera in Mofsl, he is definitely a helper of the new poet or storyteller. Such was the scenario for the last thirty years. But from now on that scene will no longer exist. Because Mizan Kaka is now lying in the grave.

When I heard the news of his death through Facebook on the morning of April 25 in Dhaka, I could only remember my terrible childhood. From the depths of memory came the voices of some people in a horrifying mood:
‘How will this boy eat… How will Nayan eat… What will happen in his life… Oh my…!’


The neighbors said these things. My family members also said. How I cringed when I was very young, when I was eight-nine! Every day I was a little smaller!

At the age when everyone learns to walk, I could not walk at that age. My distribution started a bit older, at 10-11 years. My left vein is small. I could not walk in time. But once I learned to walk with one leg, two legs, my walk was not like five normal people. (still walking like that). So from my very childhood, I heard ‘sick’, ‘lame’, ‘handicapped’ – all these. What is now called ‘bullying’, I did not understand the meaning of this word then, but I became a victim of bullying. Not that anyone would have done it. And in those eighties there was not so much awareness about this as now. For related reasons, I almost regularly had to hear, ‘He can’t walk, why not play football’ or the ever-familiar phrase, ‘How is this boy going to eat?’


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