A couple of weeks ago, on a crisp morning, I found myself cruising down the beautiful Dhaka-Mawa Highway. I was heading towards Sreenagar in Munshiganj. All along the route, the fluffy white feathers of catkin bushes danced between the asphalt and the parallel rail tracks—a breathtaking visual testimony to the arrival of autumn.
While my final destination for the day was Arial Beel, a vast wetland, I decided to take a spontaneous detour at Shyamsiddhi, a Union under Sreenagar. There lays a hidden gem, tucked away in the tranquility of rural life – Shyamsiddhir Math. This math is a two-century-old architectural marvel that pierces the sky.
I am no stranger to math monuments in Bangladesh, having explored many across different regions, including the famous Sonarang Twin Math in the neighboring Tongibari Upazila. Yet, nothing quite prepares you for the sheer scale of Shyamsiddhir Math. Standing at an imposing height estimated anything between 220 to 240 feet, it easily dwarfs the others.
Built in the early 19th century by a wealthy merchant named Shambunath Majumdar to honor his deceased father, historical records note it as the tallest math in Bangladesh and one of the highest in the entire Indian subcontinent. The slight variation in its exact recorded height depends on whether you include the ancient, massive iron trident that still proudly crowns the apex of its spire.
For travel writers, spelling math in English is always a bit of a riddle, given its myriad South Asian variants like matha, moth, or mutt. Linguistic nuances aside, the very concept of math carries diverse connotations. While its Sanskrit root refers to a monastery or a place of learning for monks, the word has evolved in our part of the world. Today, it can mean a Hindu monastery, an ashram, or—most commonly—a distinctive, cone-shaped commemorative monument.
My own travels confirm that across rural Bangladesh and near old Zamindari (landlord) estates, these tall, slender, sharply pointed structures function primarily as cremation monuments (Chita Mandir). Built over the cremation sites of prominent landlords, saints, or family elders, they serve as soaring, brick-and-mortar tributes to the deceased.
Approaching the site through a neighborhood dotted with traditional tin and wooden stilt houses, the dense greenery surrounding the monument caught my eye first. Then there was that unforgettable sight and sound of pandemonium of parakeets hovering overhead before diving back into the structure.
Over the years, structural decay has created hundreds of tiny crevices and holes near the top tier. Nature has beautifully reclaimed this decay, organically transforming the ancient monument into a lively bird sanctuary. Framed by thriving coconut, mango, and guava trees, the upper sections of the tapered monument also host opportunistic parasitic vegetation. Small wild fig and banyan saplings stubbornly take root directly out of the high brick fissures.
Architecturally, Shyamsiddhir Math is a masterclass in 19th-century artisanship. It is a robust, octagonal brick structure built using traditional chun-surki — a highly durable heritage mortar made of slaked lime and powdered burnt clay. Its structural blueprint features a base measuring 21 feet in both length and width (though some archaeological records classify the external bounding box as a six-meter square) with foundational walls stretching roughly a meter deep.
The monument rises in three distinct vertical stages: at the base – a lower square section serving as the primary sanctum, featuring a prominent entrance adorned with a pointed arch on its southern façade; in mid-section – heavy brickwork begins to taper inward; and finally an internal chamber that seamlessly transitions into a narrowing spire stretches up to its pinnacle.
Today, these heavily perforated upper exterior walls are a thriving ecological haven. Inhabited by hundreds of native birds—predominantly parakeets and crested mynas—the ancient brickwork stays vibrantly alive with their chirping.
Long after I left the premises and advanced toward the sweeping waters of Arial Beel, I could still see the math's spire slicing through the horizon from miles away. It stands like a historic lighthouse over the green plains of Munshiganj—a poetic reminder of past craftsmanship, familial love, and the wild resilience of nature.
