By Firoz Ahmed

Farida Parveen’s passing feels like the loss of a part of my childhood. I remember being too young to even read, yet on weekends, the song “Ei Padma Ei Meghna” would play on the television, mornings and afternoons. I realize now though these tunes were probably used to fill the gaps between programs. As a result, I heard that song countless times.

Thinking of Farida Parveen takes me back to my childhood home in Rayerbazar in the late seventies. I lived there for four years. I remember my father lying on the bed, swinging his legs, reading: the Ittefaq newspaper. Most of my childhood memories are centered on my mother, but when it comes to Farida Parveen, my father jumps to mind, likely because my mother was busy with housework then. No other song from that period left such a deep impression. I did not understand the lyrics, at that age, but I loved it.

I recall a visual of large sailboats and vast fields accompanying the song. The line, “Nijeke hariye jeno pai fire fire” (I found myself after losing myself, again and again), made me, like many other children, think of kidnappers. Had the child been lost? Was he looking for his home along the banks of the Dhansiri-Modhumati rivers?

As a child learning the language, the song made countless new impressions on me as I grew older. It was not until I left school that I finally understood the line, “Milan biraho sankate” (in the crisis of union and separation). Even today, the song resonates with me. It captures the essence of Bengal’s rivers and its riverine civilisation.

Besides “Ei Padma, Ei Meghna” other songs by Farida Parveen were also regularly played on television and radio. The most popular was “Tomra bhulei gechho mollikadir naam!” (You have forgotten the name of mollikadi!). This song, reminiscing about teenage love in a rural setting, became popular for its line, “Je din gechhe she din ki ar firiye ana jay!” (Days passed cannot be brought back ever). I know it by heart from hearing it so often. Another song was “Nindar kata jodi na bidhilo gaye, premer ki dam achhe bolo” (If the thorns of slander did not pierce the body, what value would love have?). Its context is the love story of Sri Krishna and Radha, a central theme in Bengali literature.

These songs were written by Abu Zafor. I first became aware of him during my university days in 1996. The opposition was calling for near-daily strikes to demand a caretaker government. One strike lasted a whole week. A group of us from our law review organisation decided to take advantage of the free time and go on a trip outside Dhaka. We chose to go to Kushtia, where a classmate lived. The girls would stay at her house, and the boys at a guesthouse.

It was there that I first heard that Abu Zafor, the lyricist of “Ei Padma Ei Meghna,” who had recently returned from Hajj and was telling people that music was religiously forbidden. This created a serious rift between him and his wife, Farida Parveen.

At a younger age, I did not fully grasp the nature of that cultural divide. Many years later, around 2008, I found a book by Abu Zafor in a bookbinding shop. In the book, he declared himself an “intolerant fundamentalist” and shared some “unpleasant truths.”

Reading that book reminded me of Abul Mansur Ahmed, poet Golam Mostafa, and many others. They all faced similar cultural crises, disparities, and divisions, and each reacted differently. Abu Zafor, despite being from a later generation, suffered the same kind of anguish. A man who didn’t want to be sectarian repeatedly found himself a victim of sectarian discrimination. The experience made him extremely sensitive about his own community.

Beyond personal pain, his mental anguish had historical roots. From the very beginning of Bengali literature in the medieval period, Bengali Muslim poets suffered an inner conflict over the Bengali language itself. The motherly, feminine essence of Bengali culture, which flowed through songs by figures like Lalon, often ran parallel to or even overpowered other ideals.

In the song “Ei Padma, Ei Meghna” one imagines how the country is personified as a woman, perhaps a muse. They saw the country as a motherland, with female imagery prevalent in all symbols and metaphors. The dominance of a masculine ethos began on the other side of the border in West Bengal. In Bengal, even the masculine figure of Aryan civilization made a compromise with the feminine form of nature.

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This problem has resurfaced in different forms over time. A prominent critic, the brother of Syed Ali Ahsan (I can’t remember his name accurately now), once cautioned me while I was working on poet Nazrul’s work: even his Islamic songs contained this Hinduised feminine imagery. It is not so much Hindu as it is profoundly Bengali.

In Bengali culture, the dominance of Hindu symbols sometimes unsettled the Muslim psyche, while sectarian and communal tensions between Hindus and Muslims created friction in literature and life. Abu Zafor took this a step further, embracing a specific religious ruling against music. I cannot find his book, so I am writing from memory and based on popular anecdotes. I had heard a few things about Abu Zafor’s later realisations on explorations of feminine beauties in Lalon’s songs . Not sure whether they were in the book, but if I am not mistaken , he had written an analytical piece titled, “Min Rupe Sai Biraj Kore” on the daily Inquilab. Which revealed the sexual connotations of the song. [I also had heard that after returning from Hajj, he would walk down a busy street in Kushtia with a rosary (tashbi), explaining his past mistakes and giving religious advice to others.]

The fault lines of religious, communal, and cultural identity fractured their marriage. The couple went their separate ways, along the banks of the Dhansiri-Modhumati. Despite their divorce, Farida continued to sing for decades, performing Abu Zafor’s songs and those of Lalon.

I believe Abu Zafor’s “Ei Padma Ei Meghna” will remain a timeless song. The deeper cultural significance of his other songs may fade for newer generations, but the rich heritage that fed and was enriched by them will continue to inspire Bengali literature for generations to come.

Perhaps the difference between Farida Parveen and Abu Zafor lies in this: his immense talent made him more sensitive and vulnerable. I am indebted to Abu Zafor too—even if I do not agree with his decisions—because he openly discussed a painful fissure in our intellectual landscape instead of hiding it.

But it was Farida Parveen who carried that flag. That is her greatness.

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I faced another, perhaps less significant, fault line with Farida Parveen in the mid-nineties. I met an intellectual whose profound insights on Lalon made me rethink many issues. When I told him during our first conversation that I often listened to Farida Parveen’s Lalon songs, he replied that Farida Parveen sang Lalon for the middle class. To truly understand Lalon, he said, one must listen to and learn from genuine devotees.

For various reasons, I had never gone to the hermits (saints, pirs) and fakirs, as many of my friends did. I am sure they may have gained a lot from their visits. I have listened to many Lalon devotees like Rob Fakir and Tuntun, sometimes on the computer and sometimes when they appeared on television, but I never went to them. Why not? Perhaps there are three reasons. As a political activist, I was too busy. Even when I went to Kushtia, I never had time for the hermitage. Second, those who can afford to spend time at the hermitages either have inherited wealth or are willing to give up everything. I dedicated all my resources to politics and had nothing left. The third reason is that Lalon was not a path of spiritual practice for me; he was a cultural and intellectual resource and item. As I was not researching this, I did not feel the urge for hands-on experience and encounters with these pirs and fakirs; my interest was purely intellectual. It was not strong enough to push me further. I listened to Lalon’s songs most often in the voice of my friend Arup Rahi and probably had the most conversations about Lalon with him.

The question I faced with Farida Parveen was this: what should be the relationship between a philosophical tradition—like that of the fakirs or folk music — and the middle class? If a part of the population that is not on the path of spiritual practices or is not involved in the adulation of folk music finds cultural sustenance and entertainment there, would it be an act of aggression? Is it commercialisation? Up to what point this is acceptable?

The first thought that came to my mind was: my introduction to Lalon’s songs as an urbanite was through Farida Parveen! Years later, when I saw the legendary Rob Fakir on NTV and listened to his conversations with Tuntun Fakir, I felt a certain sadness, realising that even the genuine practitioners (of Lalon) were being pulled toward the mainstream.

After discovering Chandana Majumdar, I did not listen to Farida Parveen’s Lalon songs as much as before. But still now I cannot resist listening to the songs written by Abu Zafor and sung by Farida Parveen. It is as if they are part of the very fabric of our mind. The song “Ei Padma, Ei Meghna” feels like a small manifestation of the supreme soul, as if, through it, she found herself again after being lost.

Every generation has its own problems. Every generation inherits some crises and passes on some challenges to the next. Farida Parveen faced them in her time and lived a life of a winner. For that, she has my respect and love.

Firoz Ahmed –  Member, Rajnaytik Parishad. Gonosonhoti Movement. Former Chair, Bangladesh Student Federation.