Paddy Fields

My obsession with rice fields only grew while in Nepal and I found a close-to-perfect description of the colors of the rice paddies in BG.

"The land was divided into rectangular plots of rice, framed by a raised mud bank the width of a footprint. Different stages of growth were segregated in the plots: there were the pale, tiny shoots the colour of limes, which would be pulled and replanted when they grew waist high; and then the established shoots, denser and slightly darker; and finally the milk-toned paddy, ready to be harvested. the plots were miniature islands, each in its own flooded pool; together they were a chequered palette of green and gold." 

The Golden Age, Tahmima Anam

Different from the rice paddies of BG, because Nepal is rooted in the Himalaya mountains and the consequent valleys, the plains for rice are limited. I was impressed with how the Nepali's used the sides of their hills to grow rice and maize; usually area reserved for forests or rocks in West, not agriculture (from what I have seen, I mean). I assume terraced rice paddies are common in South East Asia, as well...It lead to the varying green hues interspersed with the lush greens of the forests, dotted with sunlight and the rich yellow of corn. 

Side note: Although BG seems to produce tons of rice throughout the country, all the rice in the Chittagong Hill Tracts (CHT) is imported from Burma - I guess they haven't learnt how to use the sides of the CHT hills for rice yet.

Much Seen and Done

So, it's been like three weeks since I've written anything! In that time, I went to Nepal for a week and I visited my fieldsite for a week and a half and am now back in Dhaka for Eid and Durga Puja holidays...It will take me a while to update on all these things, so bear with me. 

My new fascination is South Asia history, as pushed by my trip to Nepal and the Chittagong Hill Tracts. The more I read about how the history of each of these countries is linked, the more interested I become in reading each side of the story - Indian v. Pakistan, Bangladesh v. India, Pakistan v. India. Because of being in BG, my first priority was attempting to understand the events leading up to the Liberation War in 1971 and political control after that. My first foray into the subject was a fiction novel called The Golden Age. It relays the life one family through the year of the Liberation war - a mother with a son and daughter, both involved. It gave me a lot of insight into how families were ripped apart between West and East Pakistan, how Hindus felt loyalty to a country that had a single (and different) religion associated with it, and, of course, the process of fighting for independence of a country. If anyone is interested in the subject, I highly recommend it as a read.

The one thing that most struck me about the war was women's involvement. Not just were they nurses and caretakers, but they were trained in fighting, and led a lot of the frontline efforts. Shortly after finishing this novel, I read A History of Bangladesh in which I found the following poem, written by Sufia Kamal. She was one of East Pakistan's literary figures, before BG independence. Throughout the 40s and 50s, she was prominent in speaking out against the suppression of Bengali language and culture by the Pakistani government, and was also highly involved during the war in 1971. She wrote a poem, copied below, called No More Time For Braiding Your Hair.

There's no more time for braiding your hair in patterns, 

Or for being concerned with the glamorous border of your saris,

The tip mark on your forehead, your mascara or lipstick. 

No more time, no more time - for the battle for life is on!

There's no more laughter in blossoming girls, or in young widows. 

Their mouths and lips are firmly pursed in stern resolve. 

Restless now, like the sharp edge of a sword

Are the ender eyes, now piercing and raised. 

Not like the frightened doe are these eyes any more. 

They are searching, like a hunting hawk.

Their bitter hearts have turned cold, savage, hard, 

To take revenge on the brute ravagers. 

The women have shed their coy, delicate gentility

To wreak vengence for the sorrow of their lost dear ones. 

In the slender bodies and hearts is gathered 

The courage of lions.

Boudless strength they hold - these valient women. 

No more mere love songs - instead, 

They sing: 'Victory for my motherland, 

My people, the heroic fighters!'

Dipping their onchol in the martyrs' blood

Spilled in the street, they repay their debt

To Mother Earth in blood.