The bearded man sitting at one corner of the tea stall right next to the medical college emergency gate had an air of familiarity about him. The problem was I knew I had seen him before, but could not place the exact link. He was engrossed in selecting a biscuit from the large glass jar placed on the wooden counter. The tea was served; he extended his hand to take the cup and, at that moment, the rusty memory cells suddenly opened up.
This guy was known in the early 90s as “Chika Javed” -- an apt epithet for someone who was an avid Chika master. For those who are not acquainted with public university campus lingo, Chika is the art of writing political slogans on walls, especially those around educational institutes.
Like a torrent, the images from another time flooded back. The early 90s saw a surge in democratic hope among politically savvy students in Dhaka University and a large section of these young men avidly held on to the hope of triggering a socialist revolution in the country.
They were, one can safely say, the last champions of an almost dead ideology. In the West, socialism had already fallen; seceded states from the once mighty Soviet Union were trying to carve out a new identity emerging from the shell of years of communism.
The disintegration of the USSR was, however, of no consequence to the idealists within the university. Their flames burned with unbridled passion with Javed being at the centre of the romantic movement with his talent for slogan writing on the walls.
Down with imperialism, say no to US expansionist policies, Che’s ideals will rule forever, soldiers of equality unite, together a revolution we shall ignite -- there was no dearth of pungent resolutions. There was a common belief that a countrywide student uprising would pave the way for a new brand of socialism.
At night, the die-hard believers of a new order came out of their residential halls, carrying paint brushes, cans of paint, hearts filled with hope, pockets with filter-less Star cigarettes. Javed, the centre of all attention, devotedly wrote in beautiful Bangla on the walls -- heartfelt calls for denouncing materialistic values and individual aggrandisement.
Back in those days, the slogan culture around the campus had a predominantly anti-capitalist flavour. Small student bodies formed aimed at encouraging political thoughts that had failed elsewhere.
Sorry to be blunt, but these romantics were unwilling to see the inexorable signs of a capitalist beast devouring all. They formed intellectual interaction groups where Marx and other obscure socialist advocates were discussed.
All material obsessions were frowned upon, any observation endorsing some achievement of the corrupt west was forbidden; the ideologues lived in their own cocoon.
A revolution will happen, they fervently believed; Javed carried on writing on the walls.
On one occasion, the police detained the midnight crusaders. You are uniformed slaves of a decadent system, the young men shouted in unison.
The police officer recognised the talent beyond the rebellious fervour and soon was taking TOEFL lessons from them.
Out from the station it was back to the cause -- more slogans, plenty of wall writings, endless packets of cigarettes and sleepless nights spent hoping for change.
Change came, though not in the way they had expected. The flames died out in time. Maybe it was inevitable. The midnight excursions to write on the walls became irregular, stopping eventually.
Javed, the much sought-after wall artist, disappeared from the scene; the revolution happened within, distinctly transforming the young men.
Survival in the real world doused the flames of social utopia, igniting a new philosophy.
Today, wall writings around the Dhaka University campus do not have the call for an uprising; in fact, I wonder if anyone ever reads the slogans on the walls anymore.
Young men do not form intellectual interaction groups; the goal of today’s youth is far from romantic, it’s practical -- better grades, solid employment, and improved life.
Finishing my tea, I walked over to Javed and said: “Aren’t you the guy who was an expert on wall slogans?” He looked up, stolid expression: “So what if I am?”
A bit taken aback, I added: “No, just wanted to make sure.” He gave a resigned smile saying “that was another age, another time.”
Of course, I added, no filter-less cigarettes now!
Did he sound morose? Nope, just sarcastically unconcerned!
Without prolonging the conversation, I walked off; just could not shake off the image of a group of young men heading out in the dead of night with paintbrushes and a resolve to ignite a social movement.
