S. M. Sultan

Polli Kobi Jasimuddin in Bengal Colony

Before leaving for Europe, Polli Kobi Jasimuddin stayed at the residence of Fazlur Rahman, the then Education Minister of Pakistan. Hearing about me from others, he came to visit the place where I was staying. I had already heard of this open-hearted and renowned man during my time in Calcutta. This time, I met him in person.

There was no trace of jealousy or malice in his mind. He was a naturally generous and beautiful human being. Despite the considerable difference in our ages, a friendship quickly grew between us within a very short time. I took him to my residence in Bengal Colony and introduced him to the sitar playing of Hafizuddin. Jasimuddin, a connoisseur of music, was moved to tears while listening to the sitar. After seeing several of my paintings from that time, he expressed great hope about my work.

Even after returning to the country, I maintained a long relationship with him. Perhaps out of affection for me, he included a fragment of my life in Karachi in his book Holde Porir Deshe.

At the Home of the Poet

Our region was spread across the intricate waterways of the Chitra, Kajla, and Bhairab rivers, along with countless canals and branches. I am speaking of the 1950s. There was no scarcity of water then. The rivers were youthful. The current flowed strongly toward the south, toward the Bay of Bengal. During high tide, the rivers and canals would fill to the brim. The waters of the Chitra, Nabaganga, and Kajla seemed to rise and overflow at the banks.

The people of this region carried within them the same rhythm of ebb and flow. When the tide rose, my own mind would fill as well. I would sit quietly at the ghats of the Chitra, completely absorbed, as new thoughts stirred restlessly within me.

In contrast, the people of the city seemed endlessly busy, rushing from place to place. They were lively, restless, unable to remain still. The Bhairab flowed swiftly, while I sat silently observing.

The sound of steamers echoed across the river. Launches moved along, their whistles cutting through the air. Small and large boats drifted along the current. Some ferried passengers across the water. The entire environment was alive with sound and movement.

Our steamer was bound for Dhaka. It would stop briefly at Chandpur, a vast river port and commercial hub, before continuing toward Badamtoli on the Buriganga.

By evening, the launch departed. We reached Dhaka the following afternoon. From there, I took a horse-drawn carriage to Kamalapur. At that time, Kamalapur was not part of the main city. It was more like a separate, forested locality on the outskirts.

I had no difficulty finding Jasimuddin’s house. Carrying a flute in my hand, wearing a simple dhoti, and with a small bag slung over my shoulder, I stood before his home. Seeing me, the poet was filled with joy and surprise. He embraced me warmly and exclaimed, “Sultan! After so long. Where have you been all this time? In Narail village? And what is this, you have given up the sari and taken to a saffron dhoti?”

Before I could respond to his rapid stream of questions, he seated me on the veranda.

All the fatigue of my journey disappeared.

Life Inside the Poet’s World

His home was like a vast garden house. There were mango, jackfruit, date palm, and banana trees. In such a rural setting, my mind shed all its exhaustion and drifted into a quiet state.

Birds filled the trees. They perched on branches, flew past windows, and filled the air with their calls. From morning to evening, there were mynas, parrots, bulbuls, and countless others. In the afternoons, cranes and herons rested high on the branches. The call of the bou kotha kao bird lingered in my mind. The call of the holud moni bird, crying “a guest has arrived,” felt deeply comforting.

When the poet was not at home, I felt a certain emptiness. At such times, I would pass the hours playing melodies on my flute and smoking tobacco. Sitting in his house, I felt as if I were experiencing the meditative stillness of ancient sages. There was no agitation, no urban noise. For a poet of the soil, such an environment felt necessary, almost inevitable.

Music, Emotion, and Conversation

In the evenings, after finishing his work and errands, he would return home, hand over the groceries to his wife, and come straight to my room, smiling. He would ask about my day.

As I prepared tobacco in the pipe, he would watch with great interest. After I had taken a few pulls, he would say, “Now play the flute for me.”

As I picked up the flute, his face would light up with a pure and gentle smile. When I played a sorrowful evening raga, he would drift into another world. I too would become emotional as I played, my eyes growing moist.

At times, he became so overwhelmed by the music that, after I finished, he would embrace me and weep.

After the music ended, our conversations would begin. We spoke of folk songs, jari, sari, murshidi, bhatiyali. Nothing was left untouched. These were unforgettable experiences.

Jasimuddin was a poet deeply rooted in the soil. There are very few like him. He knew countless folk poets, singers, mystics, and wandering fakirs from Faridpur and Jessore. He was intimately familiar with their works. Once he told me that he knew Bijoy Sarkar well and had performed folk poetry with him on Calcutta Radio before Partition.

Regardless of how his voice may have been, there was music in it. He even sang for me.

Nights of Stories

After dinner, we would continue talking late into the night. I spoke of my travels to America, Britain, Kashmir, and the mountains of northern India. He spoke of his travels to Russia and his interactions with distinguished figures of the country.

He told me stories of staying at the Tagore household in Calcutta, and of his encounters with Rabindranath Tagore, Abanindranath Tagore, and Gaganendranath Tagore. I listened intently, absorbing every word.

At times, I would take a few pulls of tobacco, as if to gather strength to continue listening.

Those long conversations remain among the most valuable memories of my life.