Urdu-Wala in Dhaka: "Wah! Wah! Wah! Wah!"

Surprisingly enough, I recently found myself reading books! For someone like me, whose academic history with literature was mostly marked by red ink and total confusion, this is a plot twist of strange proportions.

I was reading “The Bengal Diaspora: Rethinking Muslim Migration” by Claire Alexander, Joya Chatterji, and Annu Jalais. As I turned the pages of Chapter 6, co-authored by Claire Alexander and Annu Jalais, I read a passage that hit me as almost comical, yet had rarely been stated so elegantly in academic prose:

"Yet if this ''Bihari'' population in Pakistani East Bengal was neither exclusively 'Bihari', it must be emphasized, nor was it uniformly 'Urdu-speaking'... given the association of Urdu with the Lucknow court and the professional services groups of the United Provinces, and its distinctive development as a literary language separate from bazaar Hindustani, it was hardly a demotic tongue."

Reading those lines felt like a flash of lightning. Popular imagination often painted Geneva camp dwellers as a monolith of Urdu fluency, but Alexander and Jalais revealed what any local knows naturally that formal, official Urdu was never the everyday language of the working masses. The streets spoke something much more pragmatic, colourful, and delightfully unrefined.

Academic and literary Urdu has historically been reserved for professionals, scholars, and the elite. But if you look at the people in Bangladesh’s Bihari camps, a wonderfully down-to-earth picture emerges. When I look back at my own circle, specifically the professions of my father and my childhood friends' fathers, they weren't intellectuals or scholars. They were shopkeepers, fish vendors, security guards, drivers, and tailors. They were resilient, working-class people who laboured hard to put food on the table. Literature was certainly not their bowl of soup!

Even so, a few people lived in our neighborhood, whom I call self-appointed language supervisors. It was always charmingly funny to see how they playfully supervised everyday speech. If a working man used the street word "hajar" for thousand, a local supervisor would gasp softly: "hajar nahi, hazaar kahiye!" (Don't say ''hajar,'' say ''hazaar''!). And if any of us dropped a common local phrase like "ek tho" (meaning "one"), it brought out lighthearted chuckles and a gentle correction: "Ek tho nahi, ek adad kahiye!" (Don''t say ''ek tho,'' say ''ek adad''!)

It was a harmless, colourful game of social gatekeeping, a cheeky effort to maintain the soft boundary between the refined elite (Ashraf) and us common folk (Atraf).

I never thought I would ever become a regular participant in the elite Urdu cultural arena. Out of nowhere, I got an opportunity to work at Al-Falah, a community-based NGO working to improve life of the camp-based Bihari community. My encounter with this universe peaked between 2004 and 2007 while working there.

Al-Falah had deep ties with local writers and poets, allowing me to cross paths with figures like Shamim Bhai, Zainu Bhai (from Jang-Karachi), Jalal Azimabadi, Talib Kabir of Geneva Camp, Babu Bhai and Majid Bhai from Saidpur, Sabir Ali Sabir, and Arman Shamshi.

Among them, the most prominent was Ahmed Ilias, the boss of Al-Falah and a renowned subcontinental poet published in both Dhaka and Karachi. I remember seeing one of his poetry collections, Aina Rejey, though I never actually read it. Sadly, most of these figures have now passed away.

During my days at Al-Falah, I heard the name "Naushad Noori" thousands of times on many occasions. I never met him personally, but I heard his poetry often. He was a prominent figure in Bangladesh with great connections to Bengali poets. His literary works were widely praised because of his activism, he wrote poems in support of the 1952 Language Movement and the 1971 War of Liberation.

Lines from one of his poems echoed at almost every ''mushaira'' (poetry gathering). Even without fully understanding the underlying meaning, I remembered them because the cadence was so amazingly catchy:
"Nasl-o-Tarikh Tamaddun ki sipah salaron, hifjo izza ki janukhej ghari aa pahunchi, Ye dharti jo tera paon dhare baithi hai isme sajde ki dilawez ghari aa pauhnchi..." ("The era of history’s guardians of civilization, the agonizing hour to protect our honour has arrived. This land, which sits grasping your feet, the beautiful hour of prostration upon it has arrived...)"

I also vividly remember the date of Naushad Noori''s death anniversary because my father passed away on that very same date ten years later.
Me and them

During those meets, I got to know Shabana Apa and Haikel Bhai, the daughter and son of Naushad Noori. Shabana Apa was one of the core organisers who provided host spaces and delicious food; I would often find her carefully inspecting every detail of a ''mushaira'' event held at her home. Haikel Bhai was a bit shy when reciting his poems, but he wrote extensively. His most significant work was translating Urdu poetry and prose into Bangla, which was regularly published in daily newspapers.

Neither Shabana Apa nor Haikel Bhai lived in the camps, but they held deep sympathy for the community, and it was comforting that they never pretended to be the "language supervisors”.

To appreciate the irony of my presence in these circles, you must know my background: I failed school Urdu miserably! Yet somehow, I retained a basic grasp of the language over time. When seasoned poets recited complex verses filled with intricate metaphors, most of it sailed right over my head.

And yet, at every ''mushaira,'' I sat in the crowd shouting "wah! wah!" louder than anyone else. My enthusiasm wasn't fueled by a deep literary understanding, but by the catering! Major gatherings served mouth-watering biryani and spiced kebabs. Loving the food was my core motivation, and trading loud cheers for a plate of biryani was easily the best deal in town.

Observing these gatherings led me to develop my own informal classification of the Urdu poets I met. Broadly, they fell into two main groups: camp-based poets and poets living outside the camps. Only a small number of camp-based Urdu poets attended these events from Dhaka and Saidpur, while a much larger number lived outside the camps and belonged to well-off backgrounds.

Within these gatherings, I categorised them into three distinct types:
• The Wealthy Sponsors: Their poetry was often long-winded, but because they funded the events and sponsored the delicious feasts, I held them in the highest regard. They may not have mastered the ghazal, but they certainly had mastered hospitality!
• The Crowd-Pleasers: They didn''t hide behind obscure vocabulary. Instead, they wrote, accessible verses that made the whole room erupt.
• The Respected Masters: These were humble scholars who carried themselves with immaculate dignity and earned everyone’s genuine affection.

I used to think Urdu poetry was an exclusive club, but that view changed when I met Asad Chowdhury, the Ekushey Padak-winning Bengali poet and journalist. He held profound respect for Urdu culture, actively seeking out street poets and organising ''mushaira'' events through the Urdu-Bangla Literary Association to bridge two vibrant linguistic worlds.

Through his presence in the Urdu arena, I met many Bengali literary figures. Among the most notable regular contenders was Jahidul Haque (Jahid Bhai), who recited with intense passion. Though few people knew of his Urdu poetry, his signature claim to fame at these events was dramatically delivering his favorite line:

"Tum ne mujhe ek qalam diya tha, Hai..." (You gave me a pen—I still have it...)

I also met one of the most unique poets there: Afsan Chowdhury, an English-scripted, Urdu-poet! He wrote his Urdu verses using the English alphabet, focusing on the shadows of life, post-war illusions, and his reflections on the people around him. Interestingly, in almost all of his poems, the central character turned out to be a barking street dog or a ghost that appeared in his dream to tell him something.

Lines I remember from his collection “Alvida Pal Ki Shayari”, recited dramatically at a ''mushaira,'' built up to a passionate climax ending with:
"...Magar kutte ki talash mein koi nehi ata!"
Hearing a dramatic verse in Roman English script build up to a passionate shout of "kutte!" was pure entertainment. This was in 2007. So I have been with ''mushaira'' for two decades now.

Looking back, those years were remarkably joyful. A guy who failed school Urdu and showed up mostly for the biryani at poetry sessions somehow found a welcoming home among legendary poets and eccentric geniuses.
Eventually, my journey with the group came to an odd end. I used to be a regular attendee and contributor, but one day the group gently nudged me aside by sending a strange notice through Mukhtar Bhai, the peon at Al-Falah. The notice was signed by a gentleman who has also since passed away (I can no longer recall his name).

Since then, I’ve lost connection with the scene, and almost all the figures I admired have passed away. Poor me! But at least I got to cheer loud "wahs!", enjoy eccentric poetry, and savour the biryani and kebabs while the grand show lasted.

* Noor Islam Pappu is a freelance researcher and coordination for international universities. Writing real-life stories is his interest.