In contemporary Bangladesh, school students seeking insight into the lives of their peers abroad can readily turn to platforms such as YouTube. However, for children growing up in the 1980s and 1990s, access to such global perspectives was far more limited. They depended largely on anecdotes shared by elders or relatives who had travelled overseas, as well as on American television series and films broadcast on national channels. Nevertheless, many of these students—particularly those from middle or lower-middle-class backgrounds attending Bangla-medium schools—often lacked the resources or linguistic proficiency to fully engage with these portrayals. As a result, their exposure to, and understanding of, a coveted international lifestyle remained constrained, yet it continued to influence their aspirations and worldview.

There was one other way: Sheba Prokashoni, the local publishing house, was churning out many translations of western classics in Bengali which had gained huge readership. It had also commissioned authors who imagined and created fictional characters and stories, albeit adopting from western authors’ originals, in foreign lands involving Bangladeshi culture and characters. Rakib Hasan’s Tin Goyenda series was one such creation. It described three teenagers, including one of Bangladeshi origin, in suburban America (Los Angeles to be precise) observing their community curiously, inevitably stumbling onto mischievously suspicious phenomenons that took their fancy to solve crime mysteries to safeguard their community. 

Reading those incredibly thrilling stories, peppered with fascinating tidbits of a desired land, its people and culture, was highly enjoyable. So engaging were the tales that a secondary school student could lose oneself for an entire day or two in them in those boring decades without internet or cable TVs. Reading them and comparing reflections with fellow schoolmates, cousins or siblings, and sometimes even with seniors was entertaining, enlightening and thought evoking.

Completion of one book meant an agonising wait for the next in the series. Such were these books’ impact in my youth. They were my initiation to suburban America. Though the stories were mostly adapted from original western authors such as Robert Arthur, Jr’s The Three Investigators, as later growing up we would know, they have not diminished the childhood joy that we had. And though I am yet to visit, let alone live, in America, watching numerous Hollywood films and other arthouse movies and friends and relatives photos and video clips confirm Rakib Hasan’s illustration of suburban America is close to the reality. They evoked curiosity and imagination in teen minds of the 80s and 90s.

Societies around the world are currently struggling with young persons’ lack of interest in reading in general, owing mostly to the distracting yet immensely engaging smartphone and embedded social media therein. Last massive global fictional sensation, in my view, was the Harry Potter series. Which caught the imagination (and attention) of the young people. 

Rakib Hasan’s Tin Goyenda series also did the same for my generation, and that too in a time when young people were not only into reading fictions but had many good opinions – for example, Satyajit Ray’s Feluda series (a super popular investigative crime thriller series with plots in different parts of India) from West Bengal. 

Rakib Hasan died on 15 October 2025, leaving a significant literary legacy. His work was crucial in cultivating a love for reading and a vibrant reading culture among Bangladeshi youth, offering them an accessible form of entertainment, education, and escape . Below is a translation of an interview with him, conducted by the Kishor Alo interview team in August 2015 on the anniversary of his popular Tin Goyenda (The Three Detectives) series.

— Irfan Chowdhury

Rakib Hasan: The Man Who Walks Away When Things Peak

For a vast segment of Bangladesh’s readers, the iconic trilogy Tin Goyenda (The Three Detectives) was a constant companion during their adolescence. Rakib Hasan, the creator of this immensely popular series, was born on December 12, 1950, in Cumilla. His childhood, however, was spent in Feni due to his father’s transferable government job. After completing school in Feni, he enrolled at Cumilla Victoria College. Following his education, he dutifully joined the workforce, but his mind never settled. Consequently, he changed several jobs, unable to adhere to the nine-to-five office grind despite numerous attempts. Eventually, he abandoned everything and began to write, discovering an unbreakable bond with his authorial self. He chose writing as his profession, becoming a full-fledged writer and achieving popularity across several generations of readers.

Hasan began his career at Sheba Prokashoni and has penned over 400 books under his own name and various pseudonyms. He started by translating world-class classic literature, then wrote numerous popular series, including Tarzan, Goyenda Raju (Detective Raju), and the Reza-Suja series. Yet, this intensely private man has found a permanent place in the hearts of countless readers primarily as the creator of Tin Goyenda.

On the 30th anniversary of the series, he finally consented to a lengthy interview with the Kishor Alo (KiA) team. The discussion covered his childhood, the beginnings and ends of his writing life, his time at Sheba Prokashoni, and his current lifestyle.
The interview team included Mashraba Ahmed Chowdhury (Sher-e-Bangla Govt. Girls’ High School), Mahtab Rashid (Udayan Higher Secondary School), Marzuka Ahmed Chowdhury (Dhaka City College), Sabera Akter (Motijheel Model High School and College), and Ankan Ghosh Dastider (Notre Dame College), along with Anisul Hoque, Simu Naser, Adnan Mukit, and Mohitul Alam. The interview took place at the KiA office, and photos were taken by Kabir Hossain.

The Author and His Many Names
Kishor Alo: You’ve used pseudonyms like Jafar Chowdhury, Abu Sayeed, etc. Is ‘Rakib Hasan’ also a pseudonym?
Rakib Hasan: No, but it’s a fabricated, composite name.
Kishor Alo: What was the reason for using various pseudonyms?
Rakib Hasan: When Tin Goyenda became popular, I wondered if it was popular because of the name Rakib Hasan or the writing itself. I wanted to test if books written under a different name would achieve popularity.
Kishor Alo: What was the result?
Rakib Hasan: Success.
Kishor Alo: Your Goyenda Raju series, written as Abu Sayeed, was also for teenagers, wasn’t it? And Jafar Chowdhury for the horror series…
Rakib Hasan: Yes. Sixteen books came out in the Goyenda Raju series—Mama’r Mon Kharap, Chocolate Rohossho, Dami Kukur, etc. For the horror series, under Jafar Chowdhury, there were eleven books—Jao Ekhan Theke, Naroboli, Pagla Ghonti, Ovisapto Churi, etc. There was another reason for this. I divided them into three categories: one for very young readers (around grades three to five); Tin Goyenda was for grades five to nine or ten; and the horror series was for nine to intermediate level.
Kishor Alo: Did your writing career begin under the name Rakib Hasan?
Rakib Hasan: No. As I said, Rakib Hasan isn’t a pseudonym, but its creation is an amusing anecdote. My certificate name is enormous: Abul Kashem Mohammad Abdur Rakib—a compilation of five names. Since I had no brothers, my father joked that he’d create five sons through my name! (Laughs) He might’ve felt the need for another, so he sometimes called me ‘Hasan.’ I’ve written under Shamsuddin Nawab and even Kazi Anwar Hossain.

The first book published under my name was a translation of Kenneth Anderson’s hunting tale, Jungle. I wrote it as Abdur Rakib. Shahadat Chowdhury, the famous editor of Bichitra magazine, was doing the cover, and he disliked the name. He said, ‘With so many names, don’t you have one more? Can’t you find one?’ I mentioned that my father sometimes called me Hasan. He left, saying, ‘Alright.’ Three days later, I went to Sheba. Kazi Anwar Hossain summoned me. We used to frequent his office. Shahadat Chowdhury unveiled the cover—a beautiful picture with ‘Rakib Hasan’ written on it, coupling ‘Rakib’ with the nickname ‘Hasan.’ He asked, ‘How does it look now?’ I said, ‘Fine, keep it.’ Though I thought, what difference would Abdur Rakib have made? Perhaps after three or four books, Abdur Rakib would have become popular. When I first saw Humayun Ahmed’s name, it seemed ordinary; now, it feels rhythmic. Muhammud Zafar Iqbal, Imdadul Haq Milan, Anisul Hoque—all ordinary names now revered. Anyway, I didn’t object. The book was a hit under Rakib Hasan, and that settled it. The second book, Dracula, was also a massive success.

Joining Sheba Prokashoni
Kishor Alo: How did you come to Sheba Prokashoni?
Rakib Hasan: Since childhood, I’ve loved reading. Not just reading, I adored the printed word so much that I’d pick up a discarded paper bag on the street to read what was written on it. The content wasn’t the point; the printed letters were. As I grew up, I realised the collection of Bengali books was limited at the time. My resources were books from India, which were also scarce. I had read the available ones so many times that I had them almost memorised—Sharat Chandra, Niharranjan, whatever I could get—Doshshu Bahram, Doshshu Mohan, Swapan Kumar series, etc.

I lived in Feni, where books were hard to find, but my high school principal was a great book lover, making the library exceptionally rich with both English and Bengali books. I wasn’t an English-medium student, so I struggled with novels, as academic English differs from fictional English. I loved hunting stories. I got a translated copy of Jim Corbett’s Man-Eaters of Rudraprayag from a friend in class six or seven, who imported books from India. Halfway through the book, the school bell rang for dismissal. My friend, not wanting to part with the new book, took it back, promising to give it later. Unfortunately, he lost it, and Rudraprayag remained stuck in my imagination.

Later, I found the original English book in the Adamjee Cantonment College library. I started reading it, constantly having to consult the dictionary, but realised I could do it. From then on, I read English fiction. I frequented old bookstores in Dhaka, which were plentiful then but have decreased now.

One day, at an old book shop, I saw a very lean gentleman sitting there—wearing a pyjama-panjabi, thick, slicked-back hair, black spectacles, smoking chain-cigarettes while swinging his legs on a plastic armchair. The shopkeeper said, ‘A lot of new books have come.’ After looking around, I scoffed, ‘Nonsense! These are all old and read. You haven’t brought anything new.’
The gentleman put down his cigarette and asked, ‘What do you do?’ I replied, ‘Nothing.’ He said, ‘You know the names of so many books.’ I said, ‘I read.’ He continued, ‘Have you read Masud Rana?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘How do you like it?’ ‘Kazi Anwar Hossain has become my favourite person because of Masud Rana.’ ‘Do you know that these are written based on foreign books?’ ‘Yes, I do.’ ‘Do you know how to find the plots for the books?’ ‘No.’ He explained, ‘We read English books and write based on the shadow of foreign books. You’ve read so many books; you’ve mentioned authors I don’t even know!’ I said, ‘I haven’t recognised you either.’ The shopkeeper introduced him, ‘He is Sheikh Abdul Hakim.’

I exclaimed, ‘Oh, you are Sheikh Abdul Hakim! You write Masud Rana under Kazi Saheb’s pseudonym?’ He smiled, ‘That’s why I’m looking for English books. The names you mentioned are unfamiliar to me. Are there Masud Rana plots in them?’ I said, ‘Of course, there are plots.’ He challenged, ‘I don’t believe you.’ I asked, ‘Why?’ He replied, ‘We are exhausted from searching for plots; we can’t find books.’ I shot back, ‘You don’t even know the names of many authors. Where would you find plots?’ I was a bit rough-mannered then, being very young. I disliked that Hakim Saheb was swinging his legs and chain-smoking. The smoke bothered me, and I had to wave it away, which made me angry at him.

He straightened up and said, ‘Tell me the names of a few English books.’ I did. Hakim saheb asked the shopkeeper, ‘Do you have those books here?’ ‘No,’ he replied. Hakim turned to me, ‘Can you meet us next Friday at Sheba Prokashoni? I’ll inform Kazi saheb. Can you bring two Masud Rana plots?’ I said, ‘I can. I’ll bring ten.’

I brought twelve, not ten. I immediately liked Kazi Saheb. Sheikh Abdul Hakim was also a very good person; later, when I worked with him on Rohossho Potrika (Mystery Magazine), I realised I was the only bad apple in the entire group. (Laughs) They were all extremely polite, humble, and I was undisciplined, being the youngest at 27.

Despite my rude behaviour towards Hakim, I was eager to go on Friday. The prospect of visiting Sheba Prokashoni, Kazi Anwar Hossain’s place, was exciting! Deciding to face whatever came, I took the twelve books in a bag. Kazi Saheb’s office was a tin house then. I peeked through the door and saw a very stern-looking man sitting and writing—Kazi Saheb’s accountant. I greeted him, but he didn’t look up. Nervously, I said, ‘Excuse me, brother.’ He frowned. I asked, ‘Has Sheikh Abdul Hakim Saheb arrived?’ He curtly snapped, ‘So many people have been asking for Hakim Saheb today!’ I figured I should leave, that it wouldn’t work out. Just then, a voice from inside said, ‘Who is it? Ask for the name.’ The accountant looked startled, realising Kazi Saheb had entered his inner office through another door. The accountant asked, ‘What is your name?’ ‘Rakib.’ The voice from the office replied, ‘Tell him to come in.’

I entered. Kazi Saheb was sitting there and said, ‘Hakim Saheb will be here shortly.’ Hakim Saheb arrived a little later. I gave him the English books. That is the story of my entry into Sheba Prokashoni, probably in late ‘1977.

The Writing Life
Kishor Alo: Did you get a writing offer that day?
Rakib Hasan: Five or seven days later, Kazi Saheb called me and asked me to meet him that evening. I thought I was in for some insults, having spoken so confidently! I was young and a bit unsure, but I suddenly hardened my resolve. So what if Kazi Anwar Hossain, Sheikh Abdul Hakim, Shahadat Chowdhury, Sajjad Qadir were all great men of knowledge and talent? They hadn’t read the English books I had. (Laughs) They had all read less than me. I didn’t know then that they were, in fact, not less-read than me. They were more educated, older, and more experienced. I reasoned that even if they were great poets, editors, or authors, none of them had read as many English thrillers as I had. I reassured myself. What was the worst that could happen? They’d just say, ‘Your books won’t work for Masud Rana.’ Then I’d leave.

I went to Sheba. I was asked to sit. Hakim started right away, ‘Brother, how did you read so much? At such a young age?’ I replied, ‘It takes two or three days to read a book; how many books can be read in a lifetime!’ He said, ‘Almost all your books will work.’ Kazi Saheb wanted to make it dramatic, but Hakim spoiled it by blurting out the main point. I said, ‘I behaved badly towards you in the shop that day…’ Hakim interrupted, ‘Nonsense, I forgot that day long ago! You saved me by giving me so many Masud Rana plots. I couldn’t find any and couldn’t write.’
I then thought: if I can read, why can’t I write? I’ll write a Masud Rana. I read a very good book and felt it was ready-made for Masud Rana. I told Kazi Saheb that this book would make a Masud Rana. He asked, ‘Better than the ones you gave us?’ ‘Yes, better.’ He joked, ‘Why didn’t you keep it for yourself instead of giving it to me earlier?’ I said, ‘I just grabbed whatever was handy and ran.’ Kazi Saheb asked, ‘So, can you write it?’ I said, ‘You tell me if I can.’ He said, ‘You can.’ ‘How do you know?’ ‘Because you can read. Reading is the foundation of writing. You’ve read in both Bengali and English.’

I wrote my first Masud Rana. It had many errors. Kazi Saheb read it and called me again. I went in fear this time. He spread the manuscript in front of me. I saw lots of red ink, spelling errors, and cross-outs. I thought I had failed. He said, ‘No, you’ll succeed. It’s almost there. You’ve written very well.’ I gained some confidence. He said, ‘Fix these few things. Then I’ll have Hakim edit it. Finally, I’ll review it.’ After that, the Masud Rana book came out quite easily.

I felt emboldened and asked, ‘What should I write next?’ He said, ‘Don’t try Masud Rana again yet. It requires experience; it’s difficult. Start with something easier.’ I wondered what to start with. I loved Jules Verne. I asked if translating Jules Verne would work. He said, ‘Yes, you can try.’ I asked, ‘I wrote Masud Rana under Kazi Anwar Hossain’s name, but what about the Jules Verne translation?’ Hakim warned me, ‘Rakib! Don’t write under your own name! Persuade Kazi Saheb to let you translate under his name.’ I asked, ‘Why?’ He laughed, ‘If you write under that name, the book will sell even if it has errors!’ Kazi Saheb interjected, ‘No, the Jules Verne translation will be under his own name. If he has the courage, let him write.’ I was ready to write under my own name, but Hakim wouldn’t let up. Then Kazi Saheb said, ‘Alright, write under a pseudonym, Shamsuddin Nawab.’ Shamsuddin Nawab was another of Kazi Saheb’s names.

That’s how the translation started. I first translated Patal Abhijan (Journey to the Centre of the Earth) under Shamsuddin Nawab, then Sagortole (20,000 Leagues Under the Sea), and Rohosser Khoje (In Search of Mystery). While I was writing these three, Sajjad Qadir brought a book called Bermuda Triangle. He praised the book highly, saying it contained extraordinary stories. I hadn’t read it. I flipped through it and said, ‘I haven’t read this.’ Sajjad laughed heartily, ‘We’ve read a book that Rakib hasn’t! So, Rakib, what will you do?’ I said, ‘Give it to me. I’ll translate it.’ He said, ‘I bought it thinking I’d translate it myself. That’s why I brought it to show Kazi Saheb.’ I was too excited to realise he was teasing me. I insisted, ‘No, give it to me.’ He asked, ‘How do you know it’s good?’ I replied, ‘I understood from the back cover.’ Kazi Saheb said, ‘Alright, take it. Let’s see what you bring back.’ I completed it, and it was also published under Shamsuddin Nawab. It became one of my biggest hits under a pseudonym. Then came Jungle! By then, I had gained confidence. I said I would write under my own name. I ignored Hakim’s warning. Thus, Rakib Hasan was born. Jungle was Kenneth Anderson’s hunting tale.
Kishor Alo: Was that your first work under your own name?
Rakib Hasan: Yes. The second was Bram Stoker’s famous book, Dracula, which came out in the late ’80s.

A Life of Adventure and Freedom
Kishor Alo: Your childhood was spent in Feni. What were those days like?
Rakib Hasan: I didn’t want to go to school. I didn’t want to read textbooks. I’d finish the stories in the rapid reader and Bengali books within a few hours. Although I didn’t want to go to school, I had to follow the strict rules. My father would go to the office, and my mother was very strict! There was no way to trick her; I had to go to school. I have no brothers, only three sisters—one older, two younger. I used to hide storybooks inside my textbooks and read, just like children do now. (Points and laughs). I think all young readers do this when their mothers object.
Kishor Alo: Did you write back then?
Rakib Hasan: I hadn’t started writing yet. At that time, Niharranjan’s Kalo Bhromor was very popular. Reading it, I thought, ‘This is amazing!’ Reading Doshshu Bahram and Tarzan filled my mind with all sorts of fantasies, and I felt like writing. I badly wanted to write a bandit series, imitating Bahram. I was in class eight then. I wrote one book and titled it Daku Mansur (Bandit Mansur). I didn’t write the second. A friend read the manuscript and said, ‘You wrote great.’ He said that but also lost the manuscript. It was never published.

Anyway, even in class eight, I didn’t want to read textbooks. I went to school and listened carefully to the teachers, but I did the homework, or I would be punished. I’d have to stand holding my ears. My mother was strict. I would study hard for seven days before the exams, twenty-four hours a day. Once, in class five, I think, I came in first without studying. However, I managed to pass class eight without studying much.

Parents now take their children to school and keep a strict eye on them, but it wasn’t like that then. Mothers only watched to see if the child was sitting down to study properly and if they went to school on time. That was the case for me. My mother didn’t investigate what I read or wrote. And my father paid no attention. My father believed in letting me grow up independently—if I read, fine; if not, fine. Since I was born a boy, I would become something; as long as I didn’t become a thief, bandit, or a bad person, it was okay.
Kishor Alo: What did your father do?
Rakib Hasan: He was a government employee. He was also a reader. If I brought a book from school, he’d take it and read it. When I was old enough to go to the market with him, I once asked him, ‘How much have you studied?’ My father said, ‘The same amount as you.’ I asked, ‘Did you skip school?’ My father laughed and replied, ‘I also didn’t want to go to school, but my father always kept a cane. He wasn’t an easy father like yours! My mother didn’t say anything, but my father would hit me with the cane, so I had to go to school and study.’

My father’s granting me this freedom didn’t make me bad; instead, it helped me later in life. My mother’s strictness also helped. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have even passed my S.S.C. However, the academic pressure parents put on children now is terrifying. I feel sorry for the children. Putting them into competition…get this, get that, get a GPA, enrol here, enrol there…so much pressure, it’s virtually torture. I believe I read something similar in an interview with the esteemed educationalist Dr. Abdullah Abu Sayeed, perhaps in Kishor Alo itself.

Kishor Alo: Do you remember any funny incidents from school?
Rakib Hasan: I didn’t want to attend Urdu class. I wondered, why learn Urdu? I started thinking about skipping it. We had to wear a cap for Urdu class. We called the Urdu teacher ‘Chhoto Hujur’ (Little Hujur). His demeanour made it seem like Urdu was a sacred language, and not wearing a cap while learning it would make it impure.

One day, I saw Chhoto Hujur catch a boy in the front row who wasn’t wearing a cap. Hujur asked, ‘Hey, where is your cap?’ The boy replied, ‘Huzur, I forgot to bring it.’ Hujur pulled his ear and said, ‘Get out.’ He kicked him right out. Meaning, you couldn’t be in Urdu class without a cap. I got an idea. I took out my cap but didn’t put it on, keeping it in my pocket and sitting there innocently. ‘Hey, why don’t you have a cap on your head?’ Hujur asked me. I replied, ‘Huzur, I forgot to bring it.’ He pulled my ear too and said, ‘Get out!’ I got my chance.
From then on, whenever Hujur had a class, I didn’t wear a cap. Then one day, Hujur caught my trick. He said, ‘Hey, I see you wearing a cap during the national anthem! Are you skipping class?’ (Laughs).

Kishor Alo: You lived in Feni due to your father’s job, or was your home there?
Rakib Hasan: Because of my father’s job. My home, my birthplace, is Cumilla.
Kishor Alo: In what year?
Rakib Hasan: I was born on December 12, 1950. There’s an issue with the certificate. My father taught me at home from a very young age. One day, he took me to the Primary Training Institute to enrol me. He told the Superintendent, ‘Admit him to Class Three.’ The Superintendent said, ‘No, the rule is to admit him to Class One first.’ My father insisted, ‘No, you see, he can do it. He can even handle Class Four work.’ The Superintendent saw that I could indeed do the work of Class Four. I was admitted to Class Three. That’s why I was ahead of my age in terms of class. According to the board rules, one had to be thirteen and a half years old to take the SSC exam then. So, before the SSC, my age was deliberately increased.

Kishor Alo: There are so many professions around, a pilot or 007! What did you want to be when you were little?
Rakib Hasan: I think I wanted to be a writer. I had no other attraction outside of that. I had opportunities for many jobs, but I didn’t take them. The jobs I mentioned weren’t insignificant. Still, my heart consented only to stay at home and write like an idiot.
Kishor Alo: Were you ever in another profession?
Rakib Hasan: I joined twelve or thirteen jobs, some lasting eight hours, some twenty hours, some twelve hours, some ten days! (Laughs) After doing all that, I understood that I couldn’t tolerate the boss’s scolding, I couldn’t go to the office regularly, I couldn’t say ‘Sir,’ I couldn’t salute. I’m an independent person; it’s better to live freely. Whether I make money or not doesn’t matter.

Kishor Alo: You were the editor of Sheba Prokashoni’s Rohossho Potrika for a long time. That was a kind of job…
Rakib Hasan: No, it wasn’t a job. I proposed to Kazi Anwar Hossain that he restart Rohossho Potrika so we could have a place to hang out. I was getting bored writing books all the time; I had nowhere to go. Everyone else went to the office, carried umbrellas, and commuted packed in buses. We couldn’t go anywhere. Just sitting at home, writing books on a typewriter. I suggested he arrange something that would allow for a little socialising. I said, ‘Relaunching Rohossho Potrika would be beneficial. Many people will come; we’ll talk, hang out, drink tea, write, they’ll bring their submissions, which will be cut and edited—it will create variety. And if I do the work for Rohossho Potrika, your business will grow. If the business grows, you’ll cover our tea and travel expenses. That’ll be enough for us.’

He said, ‘I’ll think about it.’ Five or seven days later, he said, ‘I’ve decided to restart Rohossho Potrika.’ Initially, there were no restrictions on when we could go; everyone chose the evening, and we came and went as we pleased. Kazi Saheb himself disliked rigid rules; he never worked in an office either. The magazine was published in an atmosphere of complete freedom and camaraderie. However, the moment it started becoming professional—meaning sales and profits increased significantly, and our salaries rose—I quit. My job, you see, is to walk away when things peak. (Laughs). Because that then becomes a trap for me. Any interference with my freedom means I’ll quit.

Kishor Alo: You always write so many mystery and adventure stories. Have you ever felt like embarking on one of these adventures yourself?
Rakib Hasan: I read only one book by Humayun Ahmed at the time, called Daruchini Dwip. I started reading it one stormy morning when I got the book. I didn’t understand how great Humayun Ahmed was then, but he wouldn’t let me stop until I finished. I had a lot of work at the time. After reading Daruchini Dwip, I thought, he’s a writer, and I write too. We’re the same age. If Humayun Ahmed could go to St. Martin’s Island and build a house, why couldn’t I go there? I set out in the storm.

First, I went to Teknaf. There were issues with the Shanti Bahini and Rohingya in Teknaf at the time. The manager of a hotel called Samrat Hotel saw me and asked, ‘Are you going to St. Martin’s in this storm?’ I said, ‘If you can take me, I will.’ He asked for my identity. I told him. He was the manager of a remote hotel and jumped up, ‘Aren’t you the writer of Tin Goyenda?’ I said, ‘Yes, I am the writer of Tin Goyenda.’ He said, ‘Both my daughters are huge fans of Tin Goyenda.’ After that, I didn’t have to do anything. He called a waiter and said, ‘Take his bag and stuff. Give him food and a place to wash up.’ Then he asked again, ‘Do you really want to go?’ I said, ‘Didn’t Humayun Ahmed go?’ He said, ‘Yes, he did.’ I said, ‘I’ll go too.’

He then called the boatman of a trawler. He said, ‘This gentleman is my man. It’s your responsibility to get him to St. Martin’s.’ The next morning, the storm stopped, and the sun suddenly came out. The trawler crew first took me to a Chinese market in Teknaf. They made me buy two pairs of rubber sandals, a rope net bag, a towel, some clothes, and a special cap. They said, ‘You won’t need the bags and luggage you brought from Dhaka; keep these.’
Then they started walking me through a mangrove forest. It was low tide. My knees sank in the mud. They kept walking me through the jungle. I asked, ‘I’m going to St. Martin’s; why are you taking me into the Sundarbans?’ The boatman said, ‘Let’s go!’ After walking for a long time, we saw the Naf River. A trawler was in the middle of the Naf River. It was so old; it looked like something ancient Spanish pirates would use. After reaching it in a small dinghy, climbing the ladder felt like boarding a Spanish pirate ship. When I was a child, I wanted to be Tarzan and a Spanish pirate.

I was going and thinking, ‘Why is there no sea?’ The trawler chugged along. When it reached the estuary, I thought, ‘Finally, I see the sea.’ The trawler jolted as it crossed the estuary and hit the open sea. It was bright sunshine. After travelling for a while, I became very disappointed. I thought, ‘Oh, this is nothing! This is just like the lake near our house where we used to go boating during the rainy season. The sea is not a big deal.’
Then I went to St. Martin’s. I loved the island immensely.

Kishor Alo: You crossed the sea; weren’t you scared?
Rakib Hasan: No. As I said, it was calm, like a pond. There was no wind; the storm had completely stopped. And I was disappointed that it didn’t rock a bit; I wanted some rocking on the sea! Then I went, landed, and saw Humayun Ahmed’s house. There was a fisherman’s house in front of where the port is now. Twenty-six coconut trees, two acres of land, and a small hut, raised on stilts. Humayun Ahmed had completely turned my head. After seeing his house, I felt I wanted to live on this island and not go back. I asked the person with me, ‘Can we buy this fisherman’s house?’ He said, ‘Yes, we can.’ He called out, and the fisherman’s family came down. I liked the house they came out of—a hut you have to climb a ladder to enter. I offered to buy it. They immediately agreed. Eighty thousand taka, including registration. I calculated that I could give them about twenty thousand taka advance in Teknaf. I said, ‘Come with me.’ They came. I gave them twenty thousand taka. So, I bought it.

After that, it became an addiction. I was a landowner on St. Martin’s; naturally, I was addicted! I went often. Twice a month. I went four, five, six, seven times like that. On the seventh or eighth trip, there was a gentle breeze. This breeze hadn’t been there before. From the hotel, I saw the tops of the coconut trees swaying slightly. The manager of the Samrat Hotel said, ‘You’re going to get a shock.’ I asked, ‘What shock?’ He said, ‘The wind.’ Wind? It felt pleasant on my face, comfortable and peaceful.

I got on the Naf River; the river looked dark. A spooky feeling, but the sun was shining. The familiar estuary looked hazy from a distance. The trawler went on and on, and then suddenly, there was a pull. After the pull, there was a sound like several cannonballs firing simultaneously. I was searching for the source of the sound. It was the sea waves crashing against the bottom of the trawler. It reached the estuary. As it crossed the estuary, the waves crashed continuously, and such waves! I apologised to the sea then for looking down on it, for calling it a pond. It was tilted one moment, inches away from capsizing, then straightened up again. With every sway, I felt my life was ending. I somehow reached St. Martin’s.

The land hadn’t been registered yet. I had gone for the registration. I saw the wind had bent the tops of the trees to one side. Coconut trees are very strong, but they were completely bent like angles. I realised the island isn’t always paradise! The screwpine forests were trembling as if in fear. There was a roar in the distant sea, and the bluish-green water was gone. White smoke was rising. I felt good that finally, I saw the sea of the pirates. Anyway, I saw it much better on the way back.

Kishor Alo: Did you return the same day?
Rakib Hasan: The same day. Why would I stay! On the way back, I constantly felt a sticky film on my cheeks. I used to wear metal glasses then. The waves kept splashing, and my nose started to burn. Then I saw a sore near my nose. Touching it, I felt a thick, sticky layer of salt.
Perhaps a group of students from a school in Rajshahi had gone that day. Everyone was crying, wearing life jackets and everything. I was scared too. I told them, ‘If you scream and jump around, this trawler is very light. If you tilt it to one side, even by a few inches, it will sink.’
After crossing the estuary, I kept thinking. My life was at stake for the sea. Why should I be crazy just because someone else was? (Laughs) I crossed the estuary. After crossing, the natural scenery was magnificent. I could see a shoal in the distance, looking like acres and acres of bright red. It was a white shoal. Shah Parir Dwip was a shoal then; there were no houses. As I got closer, I realised it was nothing but sea crabs. Getting a storm warning, millions of red crabs had climbed out of the water and covered the sand like a red blanket.

I moved a little further and saw the mangrove forests were all pristine white. So many white egrets had come that they had turned the trees white. Meaning, everyone had received the signal and had come in search of shelter. At that moment, the sun was shining brightly; there was no sign of a storm.

On the way, many philosophies formed in my mind. All thoughts of land and property vanished. I saw how effortlessly the seagulls floated on the water. Compared to them, I felt how helpless humans were. The boatman told me to sit with a bottle of water. I knew holding a water bottle wouldn’t help. If I sank, I wouldn’t even get a chance to drink that water. But those seagulls? They could drink water, move their feet, and fly away whenever they wanted. And I was so helpless! Why do humans think so highly of themselves? Anyway, I crossed the Naf River. That was my last journey.

Later, the landowner and the brokers kept calling me frantically. I said, ‘Let the twenty thousand taka go. I don’t need my earnest money back. I won’t risk my life for the sea for the sake of land.’ My desire to be a Spanish pirate was over. (Laughs).

The Three Detectives: A Legacy
Kishor Alo: Tin Goyenda is turning 30. It’s been a long journey for the series and its characters, Kishore, Musa, and Robin. How did it all begin?
Rakib Hasan: After reading adult books, I eventually started reading children’s books. One day, after lunch, I sat down to read a light book—one of The Three Investigators series. I loved it. I felt that if this could be adapted for our country’s teenagers, they would enjoy it immensely. That’s how the idea came. At one point, I decided to stop writing for adults and write only for children. That’s how Tin Goyenda began. I later wrote Kakatoa Rohossho (The Mystery of the Talking Parrot) based on that book. Robert Arthur’s book was the turning point in my writing life.
Like Arthur, when creating Kishore, Musa, and Robin, I divided the three characters into three parts. I’d always seen detective stories with one detective and one assistant. The assistant was a bit foolish but good at fighting, while the detective had sharp intellect. I thought I’d have three detectives: one would use his intellect, another would be physically strong, and the third would have all kinds of information stored in his head. Thus, the three of them would become one.

Kishor Alo: Did you ever think at the beginning that this series would become so popular and teach teenagers to read?
Rakib Hasan: I didn’t know if it would teach teenagers to read, but I knew the series would stand on its own. The reason was that the book I was so fascinated by, as an adult, made me feel there was no reason why teenagers wouldn’t like it. But I didn’t think it would be so popular or last so long. I was sure it would be popular.
Kishor Alo: How did you come up with the names? Is there a story behind the names Kishore, Musa, and Robin?
Rakib Hasan: No, there isn’t. I decided to choose easy names but ones that weren’t too common. I needed to select three such names, especially Bengali ones.
Kishor Alo: Kishore, Musa, and Robin used to attend a school in Rocky Beach, but why is their class never mentioned?
Rakib Hasan: It’s not mentioned because assigning an age creates a problem. For example, if you set the age at thirteen, they would have to age every year, and that would have to be written. Imagine them gradually growing moustaches, having longer hair, becoming teenagers. Would you like that? I’ve noticed that famous children’s writers all avoid this or freeze the age at one point. The reader doesn’t want them to age.

Kishor Alo: Tin Goyenda is written primarily for Bangladeshi teenagers. But why are almost all the stories set against the backdrop of Los Angeles in faraway America?
Rakib Hasan: When I started writing Tin Goyenda, it wasn’t possible to create a modern, rich, and informative setting like that in Bangladesh. The way the police and people are depicted wouldn’t have been accepted in our country. The socio-cultural context here didn’t allow for that kind of freedom and openness. So, I thought I’d write it in the American context. That way, I could tell many different kinds of stories. However, if I were starting now, I would write it in the Bangladeshi context.

Kishor Alo: In the earlier Tin Goyenda books, the story often began at the scrap-metal yard, where Rashed Pasha was sitting, the detectives were busy, and Aunt Mary was pressuring them to work. Why don’t we see Tin Goyenda in that setting anymore?
Rakib Hasan: The main reason for not having that setting anymore is that The Three Investigators books ran out. I continued to write for a long time by creating my own stories. Then, at some point, I found myself bored. It was always the same work: getting in through the dog’s eye, through a tunnel—it became monotonous. These three boys are so intelligent, so smart, ahead of their time, why would they always do the same thing? The era has changed. They should now drive new cars, motorcycles, planes, ships, and spaceships. Otherwise, why would the readers of the internet age read it? I always try to bring variety to Tin Goyenda.

I found five new The Three Investigators books online. A German writer wrote five or six The Three Investigators. Reading the English translations, I felt drowsy after three or four chapters. I realised these wouldn’t work anymore. Because if I don’t like it, I can’t make the reader like it. When I started Tin Goyenda, the idea of a Junkyard was new to Bengali readers. Now, Gina and Rafian are more popular. The moorland, the grassy fields, going out on an outing, smoke rising from a farmer’s house, buying cake, biscuits, and bread, and eating them inside a tent, the dog barking at a thief at night, the fragrance of wild flowers, the hoot of an owl—these things will last as long as the world does. But the scrap-metal yard will become outdated.

Kishor Alo: Tin Goyenda, Rakib Hasan, and the books printed on newsprint by Sheba Prokashoni are intricately tied to the adolescent memories of countless people in Bangladesh. But now, your stories about Kishore, Musa, and Robin are published by many places other than Sheba Prokashoni. Why this change?
Rakib Hasan: Actually, I didn’t want to stay with newsprint anymore. When I achieved fame as a writer, I saw many other writers around me. I saw Humayun Ahmed, Zafar Iqbal, and many other good writers—none of them stayed confined to paperbacks. Paperbacks were created to make books accessible to all classes of readers cheaply. This was Kazi Anwar Hossain’s idea, and it succeeded. But I am not a publisher; I am an author. Paperbacks didn’t satisfy me. I knew that if I wanted to move to white print, I would have to give up the paperback Tin Goyenda. At that time, the popularity and sales of Tin Goyenda were at their absolute peak. I didn’t care. I decided to leave it, and that was the right time. If I didn’t leave it then, I wouldn’t be able to. If I wrote Kishore-Musa-Robin’s stories in white print, I would face some difficulties initially, but if I had the ability and the readers’ love for Tin Goyenda, the price wouldn’t matter. Readers would accept it. And now I see that readers prefer white print over paperback.

Kishor Alo: Has the original Tin Goyenda somehow been lost? Many feel that the original flavour and excitement are no longer there. What is your opinion on this?
Rakib Hasan: These are not just simple translations. You have to tell a story, keep the reader hooked, and make them enjoy it—there are many factors. A person has limitations. After writing more than four hundred books, how much more can a single mind contain? However, I try to remain as honest and faithful to the reader as possible within my capacity. I am trying to provide the best possible material. My books are selling well. Some of the current books are selling more than the earlier ones. In fact, none of my books, from the first to the last, are selling poorly.

Kishor Alo: The characters are all fictional. But have you ever seen someone in real life and thought they were as clever as Kishore, as brave as Musa, or as talented as Robin?
Rakib Hasan: Nope! Never felt that way.
Kishor Alo: Have you ever felt, when you couldn’t solve a mystery in real life, ‘I wish Kishore Pasha were here!’
Rakib Hasan: No. I don’t bother myself with mysteries!
Kishor Alo: Which of the characters—Kishore, Musa, or Robin—do you most resemble in real life?
Rakib Hasan: None of them.
Kishor Alo: One day you wake up and find yourself in a room in Terror Castle. A chilling, spooky tune is playing from a distance. What would you do?
Rakib Hasan: I would laugh, out loud. The matter would be utterly ridiculous, as I don’t believe in ghosts.
Kishor Alo: One morning you are sitting at your desk writing a Tin Goyenda story when someone rings the doorbell. You open the door and see Kishore, Musa, and Robin standing there. What would you do?
Rakib Hasan: I don’t believe in ghosts, the unreal, or the supernatural. So, they would never stand there. They sit inside my brain. If I kick them out, they might circle back, give me a gentle nudge, and say, ‘Why did you kick us out? Write again!’ (Laughs).
Kishor Alo: You have written various series and translations that are still extremely popular. Which of your series is your personal favourite?
Rakib Hasan: The one that is my favourite doesn’t sell as much. It sells less than Tin Goyenda. I translated twelve books of Edgar Rice Burroughs’ Tarzan series. That is my favourite series. Mr. Abdullah Abu Sayeed published all the Tarzan series books from Bishwa Sahitya Kendra.

Kishor Alo: When you write, do you write continuously? Do you plan the entire story beforehand?
Rakib Hasan: I don’t write continuously. And you can’t plan the entire story beforehand. I keep writing, and the story develops as I write. Besides, when adapting from a foreign story, having a template makes the job much easier.
Kishor Alo: What time of day do you write?
Rakib Hasan: My writing time has changed over the years. For a long time, I wrote from 11 PM to 6 AM. Writing, editing the magazine, reading books—everything. Then I would wake up at 1 PM after sleeping. Now, I regularly wake up in the morning and sit in front of the computer. Whatever needs to be written is done before lunch; if it’s not written by then, it’s not happening.

Kishor Alo: Do you always write on a computer?
Rakib Hasan: Yes, I have never written by hand. Not even my first book. My handwriting is illegible. I wrote one book by hand when I was in class eight—Daku Mansur! Later, when I started writing again, I found out that you could type Bengali on a Munir keyboard. Kazi Saheb advised me to buy an old typewriter. Then I used a typewriter, and when computers came, I bought one. Since the Apple Macintosh came to the Dhaka market, around 1990-92.

Kishor Alo: What kind of books do you read now?
Rakib Hasan: The same as before. Detective, adventure, and ghost stories; mostly children’s and teenagers’ books. I also read fairy tales.
Kishor Alo: Your autobiography, Amar Koishor (My Adolescence), was published by Projapoti Prokashoni in 1994. Do you intend to write more autobiographies in the future?
Rakib Hasan: No. The incidents from my adolescence are childhood events. If I write now, they will be adult events. Why would children read them? Why would Tin Goyenda’s readers read them? Actually, I don’t want to write an autobiography for adults.

Kishor Alo: You are media-shy. Frankly, many readers might not recognise you in person, but they’d recognise your name instantly. What is the reason for this privacy?
Rakib Hasan: There was a thriller writer named James Hadley Chase. He was a very private person. His name was also a pseudonym. Once he was asked, ‘Why do you write under a pseudonym?’ He replied, ‘Whatever my name is, my readers will recognise me by my writing.’
After I suddenly became popular, I would occasionally go to the Bangla Academy Book Fair. Children would surround me, ask for autographs, and ask various questions. I quite enjoyed it. Suddenly, I realised this would become a problem for me—the burden of fame. I live a very simple life. I might go out on a rainy day wearing a pair of sandals and carrying an umbrella. I might return home by rickshaw or an old, broken-down bus, and no one recognises me. I go to the market, and no one recognises me. No one says, ‘Hi, Rakib Uncle’ or ‘Rakib Bhaiyya.’ I don’t want anyone to say that on the street. I want to live as an ordinary person, mingling with ordinary people. So, I don’t want to provide my picture. I am invited to television and newspaper interviews or talk shows, but I don’t go. Now, I quite like this privacy. What I like most is seeing that Wikipedia has a lot of information about Tin Goyenda or Rakib Hasan, but the picture box next to it says ‘Coming Soon’! (Laughs) Although an old picture has been added now. Two or three old pictures have been published, and they are circulated everywhere. I couldn’t fully become James Hadley Chase! I could have, if I weren’t a children’s author.

Kishor Alo: A TV series has been made based on Tin Goyenda. Do you watch them?
Rakib Hasan: No, I don’t watch them. I was never interested in letting Tin Goyenda be made into a drama, and I still am not. I knew the true appearance of Kishore, Musa, and Robin wouldn’t be found in it. Fans of Tin Goyenda wouldn’t like it. But the director confidently said, ‘I’ll make something, Rakib Bhai, that you will absolutely love.’ I said, ‘If I like even forty per cent of it, I will thank you.’

Little grief makes one mourn; great grief makes one stunned. Seeing the drama about my Tin Goyenda, I wasn’t stunned; I was frozen. After that, I never contacted him again. I haven’t watched any episodes.

Kishor Alo: Foreign television has some very nice programmes for children. Perhaps the budget here…
Rakib Hasan: I wouldn’t say there’s no budget. Actually, good programmes primarily require talent. Just throwing money at it isn’t enough. And making things for children is very difficult. Many people in our country can say, ‘I will do this, I will do that,’ but later, they lay a goose egg. Such people cannot make things for children, even with a budget.

Kishor Alo: Have you ever been to Los Angeles? Or have you ever wanted to go?
Rakib Hasan: No. It would shatter my dream. I love to live in the world of my imagination. I never go to a place that I love in my imagination. Even if someone wanted to take me, I wouldn’t go.

A Question That Puzzles the Author
The Kishor Alo interview team was delighted to finally puzzle Rakib Hasan with a difficult question.
Kishor Alo: Musa has a catchphrase, ‘Khaise’ (Oh, boy!). Do you have any such catchphrase?
Rakib Hasan: Actually, I used to say ‘Khaise’ unconsciously. I felt like putting the word in. The catchphrase was transmitted from me to Musa. Although I don’t say ‘Khaise’ myself anymore.

Kishor Alo: We used to read Tin Goyenda secretly because our parents would get angry and scold us if they saw us. Yet, we learned countless things from Tin Goyenda, like how to use wits to get out of trouble and how to keep a cool head in a crisis. What do you have to say to the parents who don’t let their children read Tin Goyenda?
Rakib Hasan: In our time, there was a word called ‘out book.’ Parents considered any book outside the textbook an ‘out book.’ I think not reading a book is ignorance. And it’s entirely wrong to say that reading books harms education. On the contrary, books sharpen the mind. They increase intelligence. They broaden human tolerance. They teach us to distinguish between right and wrong. They keep us away from bad deeds. I, for one, don’t see a better or more useful friend than a book.
Kishor Alo: What is your advice for those who want to write?
Rakib Hasan: First, you have to read a lot of books. Second, never consider writing to be an easy and simple subject. There should not be the slightest unfaithfulness or cutting corners. From the beginning to the end of your life, you have to be faithful to every sentence if you want to succeed. Simply put, you must have patience, perseverance, and faithfulness. Along with that, you must read constantly.
Kishor Alo: Thank you very much.
Rakib Hasan: Thank you too.

In addition to the five members of the interview team, questions from the following were also selected: Afsana Chowdhury, Fariha Raisa, Hasanul Ferdous, Mir Mainul Islam, Muhsi Rahman, Nafisa Maliyat, SK Shahriar, Shafayatul Islam, and Umme Hani.

(Originally published in Bengali in the August 2015 issue of Kishor Alo)