I saw him, a few months ago, walking leisurely on the pavement near Kawran Bazar, on his way to New Age newspaper’s office. The air of a philosopher was there, topped with casual nonchalance. That look of perpetual relaxation, something which, if I am not mistaken, is the essential feature of a lot of people involved in journalism.
Humayun Zaman bhai died a few days ago after he was diagnosed with latter degree lung cancer. At 61 years of age, he never looked a day over 52 -- lean and composed with the Bohemian feel about him that was hard to ignore.
He was a senior journalist but not the editor, and, maybe, if he had lived, he would not have bagged the top post at a media house, ending his career like many others who live with free-wheeling fervour, and then silently disappear.
His death got me thinking about all those in journalism who devote their whole lives to the profession, but never hog the limelight. To be precise, these people do not become editors, media advisers, or press ministers, they are hardly seen in talk shows and are rarely seated in a polished car, wearing neatly-pressed clothes, heading for some high-profile meet.
Not saying that those who have brought corporate professionalism to journalism have done any harm; in fact, it’s only right that media should evolve along with the changing mores of society.
However, despite the much-needed metamorphosis, which gives us more streamlined/cutting edge journalism, there is an undying mystique surrounding old-school journalism based on high thinking and plain (read: Unconventional) living.
Unfortunately, journalists of this category rarely receive the praise they deserve. Sadly, in a world where almost all social definitions ferociously revolve around material success, the Bohemians are often regarded with a tinge of pity.
Humayun Bhai’s death brought back memories of a few late media mavericks with whom I had the pleasure to work. There was Jamal Arsalan, a true eccentric who had studied English literature with my parents at Dhaka University in the late 60s.
My first meeting with Jamal Bhai at The Independent in the late 90s left an indelible mark. In hot weather, with the office interior cooled by the air conditioner in full blast, the diminutive man was wearing a jumper, a blazer with a muffler tied around his neck.
He enjoyed this feel of winter, I was told.
Jamal Bhai was having lunch, chicken curry with Mr Cookie biscuits with occasional bites from a banana.
“Love this variation of taste,” he said with a smile. Something inside me said: “You are at the right place.”
Jamal Bhai was a moving dictionary, with a writing style filled with pathos. Emotion played a huge part in his life -- for a man who had to struggle financially most of the time, facing the ugly face of the real world, he loved only happy endings in books and films.
But he could have made his life better, far better. When below-average-but-astute people became wealthy, owners of homes, flats, and cars by opening English coaching centres, feeding thousands of students with template-versions of “Spoken English for Success,” Jamal Bhai was perfectly content with his world.
In that sphere, the word “contentment” ruled supreme, competition was absent. The monthly salary was enough if paid on time, a yearly bonus triggered euphoric outbursts, several trips to the second-hand market for Tolkien’s books, something to cherish, buying DVDs of old English classics, a treat and a hearty meal, the rejuvenating fuel for taking on the week ahead.
The late Zakaria Shirazi was another of the Bohemian sort -- leftist in ideal, his greatest dream-come-true was when he went to London and visited Ben Johnson’s residence. In love with English literature, he could afford to buy very little in London, but that hardly bothered him.
He scoured second-hand book stores, picking up works by forgotten leftist writers. Shirazi bhai remained a staunch socialist long after the Berlin Wall fell and the Communist dream crumbled in the West.
When he published a book, a collection of analytical essays on the works of Nikolai Gogol, Pushkin, and others, it never occurred to him that to publicise the work he needed a launching ceremony with the TV media present.
The book, A Sheaf of Essays, won’t be available anywhere, yet it’s a magnificent collection of writings lucidly analysing a variety of “isms” in literature.
Coming back to Humayun bhai, I never saw him in a car or a rickshaw -- he walked a lot. And that way, got to see the social transformation from the grassroots.
The obituary plus tribute printed after his death mentioned that his possessions were his books. Neither Jamal Arsalan nor Zakaria Shirazi left notable material possessions, only a Bohemian melody that fades away …leaving an intoxicating whiff!
