TSI
Dhaka’s pieces of India
Whether they are in slums or chandeliered living rooms, Indian communities add to the cosmopolitan sheen of Bangladesh’s capital, says Saurabh kumar Shahi.

Slums have a thing about them. They look the same in every country. This one at Sayedabad locality in Dhaka was no different— palm-thatched mud huts and shanties covered with colourful designs. As we moved from the main road to the dark alleys, nothing much changed. However, there was one difference. The deeper we went, the graffiti in linier eastern-Nagri script of Bangla gave way to the cursive and round Telugu script. Also, there was a visible change in the dresses and appearances of the people who lived in these houses. White coarse saris gave way to colourful and patterned ones; and lungis were replaced by Angavastrams. Welcome to Dhaka’s Telugu colony!

The Telugu people were first introduced here by the British after the Sepoy Mutiny. Although many of them were soldiers in the Imperial Army, the majority worked as janitors. The then Gazetteer of Dhaka puts their population to around 20,000. Today, their population has swelled to around 3,50,000, and their profession remains unchanged. “Of the 12 sects of Telugus, members of only three sects—Kapolo, Malolo and Shaklolo – migrated to Bangladesh,” quips Alluvari Demudu, a community elder. “Kapolo, who were from royal blood of Kapu were brought as mercenaries. The rest work as sweepers.”

The community has remarkably preserved their unique culture and cuisine in this foreign clime. Women still wear nose-pins on the both sides of their noses – something that is not very common among Bangalis; so also are silver anklets and toe-rings. Shankar Pollati Apparo, head of Telugu Development Society says, “We struggle hard to preserve our culture. But it is difficult. Youngsters prefer Bangla over Telugu. There are no jobs apart from a janitor’s if you speak only Telugu. Also, we are constantly uprooted and cannot have any permanent home.” When you are poor the only thing you own is your identity. That is the last thing you loose before sinking into oblivion.

However, Telugus are not the only non-Bangla community in Dhaka. There are many more. Together, they not only help Dhaka wear its cosmopolitan look, but also dispel the myth that all the non-Muslim communities in Bangladesh have been either prosecuted or expelled. Seetha Shankari is an elderly member from the 50,000-strong Shankari community from Karnataka. These extraordinary jewellers of Dhaka came with the entourage of Ballal Sen in the late 17th century. The latter was a Bengal ruler whose ancestors were Kannadiga kings. Since centuries, families like those of Seetha have worked as jewellers. “Bengalis were not accustomed to conch shell jewelleries. We introduced these to youngsters here and now it is a rage,” smiled Seetha. Unlike Telugus in Dhaka, the Shankaris are mostly well to do middleclass families. It is therefore easier for them to maintain their distinct culture.

Pirated DVDs of Kannada potboilers jostle for space with Bangla and Hindi hits in Shankari Bazaar shops. Hotels in the locality serve tasty Kannada cuisines. Hearing that an Indian journalist has come, a small crowd gathers around Seetha’s shop. Some elders try unsuccessfully to converse with me in Kannada. Seeing me helpless they laugh, and switch to Bangla. Seetha offers to pack some conch-shell jewelry for my wife. I politely decline and bid them adieu.

With the Banarasis in Dhaka, I didn’t face any language barriers. They are fluent in Awadhi lashed Hindi. Most of them live in Mirpur Benarasi Palli. Impressed by their finesse, Nawab Salimullah settled 5,000 sari weavers in the late 19th century. Today, they number around 1,00,000. When you hear the sounds of the handlooms from afar, you know you are approaching the Benarasi neighbourhood.

Israel Jolaha’s home is at the end of the road. Unlike Telugus and Shankaris, Israel isn’t much amused seeing an Indian scribe. However, few sentences in Awadhi broke into his scepticism. What followed was a stupendous Awadhi meal, and yes, paan. Drowned by readymade salwaar-kameez, Benarasis are finding it difficult to sell their fine pieces of art. But today, with an Awadhi speaking stranger around, Israel doesn’t want to discuss “depressing” things. He poses several questions, most of which I answered, much to his satisfaction. “My son Ishmael doesn’t want to learn this traditional skill. He works at a readymade garment factory at Adamjee EPZ. But I am happy, at least he took weaving as his career,” says Israel with a nervous smile. There were other non-Bengali communities in the locality too. Kanpuris and Jabbalpuris were prominent among them. Israel brings a few of them to me. They looked much the same, but speak a slightly different tongue. There are less than 10,000 of them, living in Tikatuli locality. Most of them are businessmen and have small shops.

Khwaja Atique Alam’s living room is old world grandeur… chandeliers, Itradans and mirrors of all types and makes, a truly Nawabi ambience. Atique’s ancestors migrated from Kashmir during the reign of lesser-Moguls. While many settled in the Kashmiri Tola, Atique’s great-grandfather Khwaja Allimullah settled at the celebrated Ahsan Manzil. One of his great-grandfathers, Nawab Salimullah was co-founder of Muslim League in pre-Independence India.

A suave young man of 28, Atique is a fashion designer. His family has painstakingly waters its Kashmir roots. Offering me a cup of Kahwa, the Kashmiri drink, Atique says, “It is very hard to get it here. A friend who stays in London buys it from a Kashmiri migrant at an astronomical price and sends it.” He talks about Kashmir and issues surrounding it. As a 12th generation migrant, he has surprisingly good knowledge about the place of his forefathers. I compliment him on that. “The cup of Kahwa we just drunk cost me 300 Taka,” he added for good measure.

But that’s a small price to pay for preserving a culture.

TSI