Places From Our Childhood

Sometimes I run into people who have lived in the same small town all their lives. When I was younger, they did not impress me, but lately I feel a touch of jealousy. There is much to be said for living close to one's roots.

I have lived in three continents, but my roots lie in Sylhet where I grew up. Visits to my childhood town evoke a mix of emotions: joy laced with nostalgia. My childhood home, once called Shawkat House, survives under a new owner's name although one part has made way for a high-rise. I get butterflies in my stomach whenever I pass that house as childhood memories come rushing.

Crossing the house, I invariably look across the road to check that the old pond is still there. I learned to swim here – with the wrong breathing technique, it turns out, but nevertheless well enough to survive marine disasters. That same pond was also where I went pearl-diving, collecting buckets full of oysters. Most pearls were small, but one day I found a decent-sized gem that my mother placed in a ring and, years later, gave my wife.

Next to the pond, another abode of my memories, the police station, stands unchanged. As a child, my natural unease around policemen had led to an unforgettable incident. When I was about six or seven, I decided I was done with school. My mother was out of town and I took advantage of her absence, skipping school for several days. My grandmother tried to warn me, but to no avail. In desperation she called the police station and asked a sergeant to show his face at our door. I panicked when he appeared and asked me if any boy from this house was playing truant. That was the last time I skipped school, and the episode left a deep mark.

Rain figures prominently in my memories of Sylhet, which receives twice the average annual rainfall of Dhaka. The tin roof of our Assam style bungalow amplified the sound of rain. After heavy downpours, the drains that channelled rainwater out of our house would roar with rushing water. The owls living in a cavity in our krishnachura tree stayed put while the crows, shaliks, fingeys and cuckoos shivered miserably in the rain.

During my childhood, trips out of town were rare. Today, better mobility and improved roads enable me to visit remote places easily and frequently. Jaflong, once the favourite picnic spot, has been overwhelmed by stone business. But several hard-to-reach places have opened up, including Lalakhal, Pantomai, Ratargul, Bisnakandi and of course the haors - those broad, shallow depressions which dry in winter and flood during monsoon.

Often, creative people – writers, artists, photographers – draw nourishment from their roots. It is hard to precisely define the result, but their work has a sense of confidence and understanding of the subject. I have seen and felt it, for example, in the plays of Tennessee Williams, the photographs of Sally Mann, or the work of others who have a strong sense of belonging to a place. Every time I visit Sylhet, the photographer in me feels inspired. And so I eagerly look forward to examining the pictures whenever I visit the place of my childhood

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