'From childhood to multi-talented artist'

Did you spend your childhood in Old Dhaka?

Rafiqun Nabi: My father had a transferable job. Because of that, we eventually settled in Old Dhaka around mid-1952. At that time, the city was still in a state of unrest following the Language Movement. We arrived from outside during that period—around August or September. Once we arrived in Dhaka, that became our permanent home.

Do you remember which districts you lived in?

Rafiqun Nabi: Yes, I was first in Rajshahi at the beginning of my father’s job. I was born around that time as well. We lived near Paba Police Station, close to Rajshahi. I remember it a little bit. Then we went to Singra Police Station, which was near the Chalan Beel. There were huge fish in the Chalan Beel. I saw the landscape near the station and the local people. The wildlife, big pythons—what can I say? Whatever was around the station, I was there. Later, my father was transferred, and we moved to Fatulla. When I was in Fatulla, the country was going through partition.

After that, when you came to Old Dhaka, which class did you enroll in?

Rafiqun Nabi: I enrolled in class four.

Which school, sir?

Rafiqun Nabi: Pogoz High School. It used to be called Pogoz English High School.

So was your medium of instruction English?

Rafiqun Nabi: No.

So your grandfather was also a police officer?

Rafiqun Nabi: Yes, my grandfather was also in the police. Our house was even called the “Daroga Bari” (Police Inspector’s house). Many became SPs and later retired as high-ranking officers, but the name “Daroga Bari” never changed. Despite everything, my father kept painting. He painted beautifully.

When I started school, my father was living in Fatulla. There was a small primary school there, which I attended. He bought me a slate and pencil and gave me an Adarsha Lipi textbook. While sitting with the slate and pencil, he would draw a python next to the vowel ‘অ’ and say, “Look, this is a python; it’s a snake.” I was more interested in the drawings than the letter ‘অ’. Gradually, through his work... I hadn’t seen any other artist’s work then. I think from around sixth or seventh grade, I began to understand the world and art. I learned what art and painting were worth—about everything—from around fifth grade.

At that time, I was living in Dhaka. There was an All Pakistan Art Exhibition held at Bardhaman House, organised by the Art Council. The present-day Bangla Academy used to be called Nurul Amin’s house—the Chief Minister’s house.

After the Language Movement, he moved away, and the house became empty. At that time, the Writers’ Guild and other small cultural organisations started. The Bangla Academy hadn’t been established yet. A huge art exhibition was held then. My father took me to see it.

You were in class four or five then?

Rafiqun Nabi: I was in class five. I was amazed—“What is this? How did they paint these? How did they make such big pictures?” It was a big event. You know, people talk about inspirations, but I think even small things, sometimes unconsciously, can influence us. I don’t think I made a promise that day, “I will be an artist.” But I liked it. I went home and tried to draw again. The catalog of that exhibition was with me for some time. I don’t see it anymore, but that was a milestone for me.

My father’s teaching me to write and draw on the slate was a milestone. From there, gradually... then school. In school, I joined scouting and took responsibility for the wall magazine. Later, the neighborhood had a wall magazine, and I took charge of that too.

Was there anyone among your school teachers?

Rafiqun Nabi: The most interesting part was that our drawing class was taken by Maulvi Sir. He used to teach Arabic and Urdu. And then he’d also take the drawing class. He would draw on the board himself and say, “Now draw this.” He always encouraged us... He was a short, modest man—just like the typical image you get when you hear “Maulvi Sir”—a small beard, not too old.

Did he encourage you?

Rafiqun Nabi: Yes, he did. He used to say, “What are you planning to do? Will you apply to the art college?” But at that time, I didn’t even know what art college was or what it meant. It was all a mix of different experiences. I feel like each of those little things played a role. Later on, it became clear that my father’s desire was even stronger than mine. He said, “Just pass your matriculation exam, and I’ll get you into the art college.” I was secretly thrilled.

A father trying to fulfill his own unrealised dreams through his son. That’s something common to many of our parents—what they couldn’t do themselves...

Rafiqun Nabi: Absolutely true. Even after I got into art college, he kept a close eye on me. At that time, getting into art college meant the whole extended family was watching—like, “So this is the path he’s taking...” Because all my friends were going to Notre Dame, or Dhaka College, or Jagannath. I was expected to do the same. Everyone assumed I would. But instead, I took a path that, for most people, was completely unexpected.

To make sure the boy didn’t get “derailed,” so to speak.

Rafiqun Nabi: People already thought I was on a derailed track! That was the general perception: “What is this supposed to be? No job, no future—nothing!”

Absolutely, sir. When I was a child, my father was the superintendent at the PTI (Primary Teachers’ Institute). In one of their magazines, there was a piece describing an artist as someone who wears a dirty, long panjabi, pajama, probably an aging man with greying hair, worn-out sandals, and a cloth bag—basically, a very chaotic life. So when I used to draw as a kid, even though my father encouraged me, my mother always tried to stop me, saying, “If you go down this path, that’s what you’ll become!”

Rafiqun Nabi: Exactly. That was a common idea back then—and I had it too. It’s not surprising. That’s just how society viewed artists. I used to imagine an artist wearing a panjabi, with thick-rimmed glasses, dreamy eyes staring off into space… a strange kind of person. A bit shabby, messy hair. But once I got into art college, I realized—artists are actually incredibly smart and sharp.

And you were taught by some of the greatest masters of our time.

Rafiqun Nabi: Absolutely. That was one of the greatest blessings of my life. From Shilpacharya Zainul Abedin to Mustafa Monwar, the most junior among them—I was fortunate to be taught by all of them. That includes Safiuddin Ahmed, Qamrul Hassan, Aminul Islam, and Mohammad Kibria—everyone. That’s a huge part of my life. Anyway, I think we were talking about the time just before I got into art college.

Yes, indeed.

Rafiqun Nabi: So, about that wall magazine at school—there were two things I really liked about it. One was the writing aspect. Even well-known writers contributed to that wall magazine—especially the one in our neighborhood. The area where I lived was, well…

Which neighborhood was it back then?

Rafiqun Nabi: Narinda. It was home to many prominent people. Tofazzal Hossain Manik Miah lived there. So did Anwar Hossain Manju. Nasir Uddin Sahib and Nurjahan Begum—she was Nasir Uddin’s daughter, and both were editors of Saugat and Begum magazines—their house was there. ‘Dadabhai’ (Rokunuzzaman Khan), their son-in-law, also lived there. Then there was Al-Muti Sharafuddin—their house was just adjacent to ours. It was a very distinguished and cultured neighborhood. I had the opportunity to be around such people and interact with them.

You were able to collect writings from them?

Rafiqun Nabi: Yes, they were all advisors to our wall magazine. The magazine was called Abhijatrik. I used to do illustrations, a bit of graphic design, lay out the magazine—and because I was in charge of all of that, it was, in a way, preparing me internally from a young age. Later, when I entered art college, I realized it was a vast world. But that earlier experience helped me step into it.

Of course.

Rafiqun Nabi: I always say—it was like arriving through a very interesting journey.

You dropped to second position?

Rafiqun Nabi: Yes, I came second. But I didn’t stop working. After that, I got even more involved. When I moved into third year, I started drawing cartoons.

You started publishing cartoons in newspapers?

Rafiqun Nabi: Not really newspapers... I mean—

Maybe the technology wasn’t there yet?

Rafiqun Nabi: Right. But I got caught up in rallies and political processions. Now, I had never actually participated in rallies—never chanted slogans or anything. But I was involved in designing those rallies. I would draw nearly a hundred to 150 cartoons that were turned into placards—pasted onto mats, and people would carry them in their hands during protests. That’s what I used to do. So, during that second to third year period, my sense of patriotism really started to grow.

What about in fourth year, the final year?

Rafiqun Nabi: In fourth year, my father said, “What’s going on with you? Everyone’s moving up, and you’re falling behind! Don’t ruin your name. We worked hard to get you into art college—do something worthwhile.”

Even the teachers were concerned—wondering what had happened to me. They tried to discipline me, to bring me back on track. So in fourth year, I got serious. In the final year, I was focused. And then my results improved again. In the fourth year, I climbed back up to second position. In the final year, I again secured second place—with First Class.

First Class!

Rafiqun Nabi: Yes. In our class, only one person got First Class—so that was both the first and the last!

You had Shilpacharya Zainul Abedin as your teacher, didn’t you?

Rafiqun Nabi: Yes, though he couldn’t hold regular classes due to his busy schedule. Whenever he could, he would suddenly appear and take a class—often stepping in when a teacher was on leave for a week or so.

Do you have any special memories of teachers like Zainul Abedin or Quamrul Hassan?

Rafiqun Nabi: Absolutely—my strongest memory is of Quamrul Hassan. At the time, I knew no other artists by name—only Quamrul Hassan.

In eighth grade, we unexpectedly received a book—part of a government “gift” or “grant.” It was full of black-and-white illustrations, and each image was credited to Quamrul. My teacher emphasised: “These illustrations are by Quamrul Hassan—he’s a great artist.” That was how I first learned his name.

There was the Kochikachar Mela, run by Dadahbhai (Rokunuzzaman Khan), who happened to be my neighbour. I had never been involved with Kochikachar Mela before. But one day, Dadabhai said, “Submit a drawing.” I was in eighth grade at the time. He said, “Submit something—we’re having an art competition.” So I did, and the artwork ended up winning a prize.

A date was set for the award ceremony. I heard that the artist Qamrul Hassan would be attending. Naturally, I was thrilled! In my mind, I had a very fixed image of what an artist looked like—thick glasses, a wrinkled panjabi, thin and frail.

So I was sitting inside this hall. It was just one small room at The Daily Ittefaq office—used by the Kochikachar Mela group. Dadabhai was rushing about, saying, “The chief guest will be here any minute!” Then he ran out.

A little while later, he returned with a man who looked exactly how I had imagined—frail and bony. They seated him on the stage as the chief guest. I looked at him in amazement, thinking, “So this is the great artist?”

About five minutes later, a stocky man with a flat nose walked in. Everyone immediately stood up. So did I—just like I had earlier. Then I saw that he was taken up to the stage and seated next to the man who had arrived earlier.

Then Dadabhai stood up and announced, “Everyone, please welcome our chief guest today—Quamrul Bhai, Quamrul Hassan, our renowned artist,” and so on.

I was shocked—this incredibly smart and confident-looking man was Quamrul Hassan!

So who was the first person who arrived?

Rafiqun Nabi: That was Sardar Joyen Uddin—he looked just as I had imagined.

Quamrul Hassan's arrival totally shattered my stereotypes. Later, when I got into art college and met Zainul Abedin, I found him to be exceptionally refined. And then there was Aminul Islam, returning from abroad wearing artist’s jackets and jeans—he looked incredibly stylish at the time.

When we used to think of artists as kids...

Rafiqun Nabi: He was a man of few words. Anyway, each of these was a unique experience.

At that time, covers were made using blocks, right?

Rafiqun Nabi: Yes, blocks. There were quite a few block-making companies back then. They had two or three different methods. One was the plate method—where acid was used on metal plates to etch the image. They’d transfer the artwork using a camera, then develop it onto the plate—this was one process.

Another method involved directly mounting drawings, then separating and printing in parts. This was done on wood. They would fix the block using pins or glue.

And another technique used wooden blocks—cutting the wood to make the design. The way we do woodcuts—that’s basically it. The headings were large—really large headings, like eight columns wide, around two inches tall per letter sometimes.

So, they’d carve out the letters from wood, arrange them, and then print. That was the most common method.

The paintings from that time—your works from 1967 and 1968—are they still in your collection now?

Rafiqun Nabi: Back then, we mostly did watercolour paintings. Starting from Abedin Sir—everyone, really.

Was there a bit of inspiration from Zainul Abedin Sir in your watercolour works from that time?

Rafiqun Nabi: I don’t claim that specifically—but whenever anyone thinks of watercolour from that period, Abedin Sir’s work naturally comes to mind. It still does. There’s no way to escape that influence. Besides, the other teachers we had back then—they were all students of Abedin Sir and became our teachers—so his influence was present in them too. Later, when Mustafa Monwar Sir came from Kolkata after graduating, he started taking watercolour classes, which was another fascinating development. There was a bit of contrast between his style and Abedin Sir’s—especially in the use of colours and such.

And did you start drawing Tokai after Bangladesh became independent?

Rafiqun Nabi: Tokai—that began in the magazine Bichitra.

Which newspaper did you work for?

Rafiqun Nabi: I worked for The Sangbad. But those weren’t really standalone cartoons, not exactly in that sense. They were more like illustrations, used in that way. That work really began with Purbodesh. Purbodesh was a weekly publication back then, and its editor was Kazi Idris.

When was Tokai first published?

Rafiqun Nabi: In 1977.

At that time, you were...?

Rafiqun Nabi: I had just returned from abroad. I had no income. And when I got back, I found that I didn’t even have a job anymore.

Where did you go to study printmaking? Greece?

Rafiqun Nabi: Yes, Greece.

How long were you there, sir?

Rafiqun Nabi: Three years.

After those three years, a lot had happened back home—like the events of 1975. Then, Abedin Sir passed away in 1976. The country was going through such uncertainty. I kept wondering: what’s happening? Are my parents, siblings, relatives, friends—all going through upheaval? I thought, “I’ll go back now, maybe return again later.” But once I came back, I never went back.

Oh, so you didn’t finish your studies there?

Rafiqun Nabi: No, I completed everything. It was a postgraduate programme. The scholarship I received was for postgraduate study under a professor—more like a research fellowship.

Was woodcut your main area of interest there?

Rafiqun Nabi: Yes, I chose woodcut because the choice was mine. Since I had the scholarship, I could pick any subject in Fine Arts. After I got there and visited the institute, I found that the painting department was very rich, very good. But when I went to the printmaking department, I was amazed. From the professors to the senior students—some of them were doing massive woodcuts. I had never seen anything like that before. Imagine—huge boards, like 4 feet by 8 feet!

 It was incredible. I kept wondering: where did they even get paper that size? And how did they carve those? How did they print them?

Did it include woodcuts?

Rafiqun Nabi: Yes, there were woodcuts, paintings, and watercolours.

So you earned some valuable foreign currency!

Rafiqun Nabi: Not that much. But the local currency—called drachma—was manageable. I used to receive a scholarship of 11,000 drachmas. With that, I paid rent. I didn’t stay in a hostel, because the hostel room was too small—hardly any space to work. So later, I rented an apartment. That 11,000 drachmas was just enough to cover rent and buy a few art supplies—brushes, paints, and so on. And with food expenses, it would all be gone. There were no savings at all.

 But one day, I showed some of my illustrated books to my professor. He used to do illustrations himself. You know, here in our country, artists would be criticised for doing illustration work. But over there, I found out that he was internationally renowned for it. When he saw my work, I said, “I draw too—used to do this back home.”

You had brought your books with you?

Rafiqun Nabi: Yes, just some typical illustration work. I showed him a few books. For some reason, he suddenly praised them very highly. He said something like, “This is incredible! There’s a certain rawness to your work…” He used some fancy words and said, “I want to bring someone to your place.”

 The very next day, he brought his publisher to my apartment. That publisher also had a gallery and was a major collector of paintings.

 Now, my apartment was basic—a student’s bed, a fabric folding chair—that was all I had. This gentleman couldn’t even sit on the chair, so he sat on the bed instead. Then he said, “Where are the books? Show me the books.”

 After looking through them, he said, “I want you to illustrate a series of books for me.”

 I ended up doing four books in that series. To put it in perspective: my monthly scholarship was 11,000 drachmas, and for each of those 16-page books, I was paid nearly 90,000 drachmas.

You were paid 90,000 drachmas for each book?

Rafiqun Nabi: Yes. For a 16-page book. When I showed it to some of my other friends, they asked, “How much did you get paid?” They were also working in the same field, but they stayed quiet. I said, “I got 90,000.”

 They said, “Oh, they cheated you! With your standard, you should’ve been paid 150,000 or even 200,000. If we had done it, we’d have gotten more.”

 But honestly, I didn’t know any better. I was happy with what I got. I did those four books. And whenever I received the payment, I’d buy a ticket—to Egypt, Rome, Florence... Like that, I travelled all over Europe.

Didn’t you go to Paris?

Rafiqun Nabi: I went from Athens to Paris by bus. Stopped in Rome, stayed there for four days. Then caught the next bus. It was part of a package tour. From there to Florence, then Venice, then Milan—kept going like that through Turin and Geneva, and finally reached Paris.

 That was a big experience for me.

Visiting galleries, seeing the artworks...

Rafiqun Nabi: Yes, going from gallery to gallery, seeing all the artworks.

Among the world’s artists, who is your favourite?

Rafiqun Nabi: That’s very hard to say—choosing a favourite artist. Every artist has their own kind of work, their own style. Each has a different sense of perception, a unique technique, a distinct approach. It’s a vast world.

Unless someone truly dives into it—really studies it—they won’t experience that sense of wonder. But once you do, it’s astonishing.

Picasso had a big influence on Quamrul Hassan…

Rafiqun Nabi: I wouldn't call it “influence.” I would say—if Quamrul Hasan had been born in Europe, Picasso would’ve had some serious competition.

Even though his roots were so deeply embedded in Bangladeshi folk art...

Rafiqun Nabi: Absolutely! But what’s incredible is how he broke down the forms of folk art and blended them with modern elements. That fusion was extraordinary.

But this isn’t just about Quamrul Hassan. Zainul Abedin too—his early work in the 1950s, with folk influences, started with a bit of a Jamini Roy touch. But later, he moved on and developed a completely original style.

Both of them were working side by side—on one hand, Abedin Sir, on the other, Quamrul Hassan. Both drew from folk traditions, but they followed two very different paths.

In your case, Sir, your paintings feel very much like you.

Rafiqun Nabi: I...

You came from an illustration background. Still, I feel that in your printmaking—especially the childhood stories you’ve told—like catching big fish, the Chalan Beel, lots of water in Louhajang, floods, fishing, water...

Rafiqun Nabi: During floods, it would fill up completely.

That influence probably remains...

Rafiqun Nabi: Yes, I used to live near the Padma River.

Even now, your paintings often have many people in them—many faces. And I’m fascinated by one particular large blue painting on the platform—it has a crowd of people sitting. When I look closely at each face, every one of them has a distinct expression.

 Some of them look like Tokai children—or just teenagers or kids. There’s one child in particular, with a gaze directed toward the world—not sad, not angry—but something else.

 It feels like through that child’s eyes, everything has been said: this world is not based on justice. That’s the impression I got. I even wrote about it:

 “Maybe we haven’t truly recognised you. But 10, 20, 25 years from now, your work will have international value.” That’s what I believe.

Rafiqun Nabi: When I paint, of course, I want people to like it.

But there’s a trend I’ve noticed among many artists: they’re doing amazing work, creating wonderful pieces, but they don’t share them with the world. No exhibitions, no public viewing.

They keep experimenting in isolation—and those works stay hidden. That’s a loss.

If I paint only for myself, keep it for my own joy—that doesn’t complete the journey.

Because when I finish a painting, I wonder—When will I show this to someone? What will they say? Will they spot mistakes? Will they praise it or criticize it?

There’s a constant restlessness around that.

But are there even “mistakes” in art, Sir?

Rafiqun Nabi: Of course there are!

And we keep working our whole lives trying to correct them—thinking, next time I’ll fix this... maybe that will be the masterpiece.

That’s how I bring my work to people. I always say—I work with reality.

People often talk about “reality,” but I don’t claim that strongly, because capturing reality isn’t easy. And even if you manage to recreate something exactly—say, a perfectly juicy bunch of grapes—what’s the point?

Instead, there's something interesting in reinterpreting reality—presenting it in different ways.

If you just put a real buffalo on a canvas, there’s no fun in that.

But if I paint a buffalo in a particular style, using specific forms and colours—so that even when placed next to a real buffalo, people wouldn’t call it a “buffalo”—but I say, “This is my buffalo.”

When people look at a buffalo like that—something they wouldn’t normally even notice in the field—they pause and look. Then they say, “Yeah, that’s a buffalo—a Rafiqun Nabi buffalo.”

And I say too, “Yes, that’s Rafiqun Nabi’s buffalo.”

Your goat painting is also beautiful, Sir.

Rafiqun Nabi: The goat. And there’s something fun about goats too—their form, and...

Picasso painted goats. Marc Chagall painted many goats.

Rafiqun Nabi: Yes, we used to see Chagall’s signature and always pronounced it “chagol” (goat in Bengali).

Our own Rashid Chowdhury also began by following Chagall when he was in Spain.

Sir, what about Van Gogh, Salvador Dalí...

Rafiqun Nabi: As I said earlier—each artist is different. It’s astonishing.

Take Van Gogh—the thickness of his brushstrokes, the way he used colour... The way he brought texture into his work.

To someone who doesn't paint, it might seem like just colour. But to those of us who do, we feel it. We ask: How is this even possible? The way he maintained tones, tonal variations, brought in the feeling of wind—it’s all about the choices he made.

And his composition, positioning—none of it was conventional.

Sir, when you stand in front of a blank canvas, do you already know what you're going to paint? Or does it develop as you go?

Rafiqun Nabi: No, paintings always evolve. I might start with one idea...

So when the canvas is empty and you’re about to begin, do you already think—“Today I’ll paint something like this”? Or do your hands just start moving and it unfolds?

Rafiqun Nabi: I usually have a general idea.

At the beginning, there’s a concept—“I’ll start like this.”

But then, the painting starts changing. Often, what I initially imagined doesn’t even remain in the final piece.

What’s the longest you’ve worked on a single oil painting?

Rafiqun Nabi: Even with acrylics—which dry faster—it can take one and a half to two months for a single painting.

That must be physically exhausting.

Rafiqun Nabi: Absolutely—physical strain, mental strain, eye strain, back pain... And since we’re talking about the “blank canvas”—

There’s a great quote from Picasso.

Someone asked him this exact question: “When you sit in front of a blank canvas, what do you think? How do you start? How do you know where to end?”

And he said:

“Whether it’s a tiny canvas or a huge one, it’s the same experience. When I sit in front of it, it feels like I’m sitting in front of the ocean—about to float a boat. The moment I touch the brush to the canvas—the boat is afloat. And sometimes, I find I’ve arrived at an unexpected shore.”

This is something I read in a book somewhere.

And I think it applies to all artists. Some start from the top of the canvas and work downward. Some from the bottom up. Some from right to left. And others just dive in and create chaos—there’s fun in all of it.

Fun indeed! Now, Sir, let’s talk about Tokai—that really made you famous.

Rafiqun Nabi: Yes, Tokai. I’ve unknowingly split myself into three or four parts over time. Circumstances shaped that.

When I’m a painter or artist—when I’m working on a painting—then I’m fully immersed in that role. With all the knowledge, the depth of art, I’m in that world. When I sit in front of a canvas, that’s where I exist. Or when I’m doing a drawing on paper—I’m in that space.

But when I shift to cartooning, I have to think about the reader, about people: Who am I portraying? What am I saying? Why? For whom?

There’s a lot to consider.

Then there’s the joy of choosing a subject—finding enjoyment in the process is essential.

As I kept doing it, the joy became part of my being—it turned into a kind of “double joy.”

And then there’s your teaching career…

Rafiqun Nabi: Yes, teaching is yet another separate chapter.

As a writer, I personally really enjoy your rhymes.

Rafiqun Nabi: But to be called a writer—well, I didn’t really become one to be a writer…

Your humourous essays are very good—we’ve published them. Your travel writing is also excellent.

Rafiqun Nabi: That developed slowly from working on wall magazines. What made it fun was that I was doing illustration and cover design for major writers. Back then, there were no computers. Everything was handwritten. I’d receive the manuscript first for illustration.

Yes.

Rafiqun Nabi: Even the editors hadn’t read it yet. But it came to me first for illustration—so I was the first reader from start to finish.

 Often, especially at Bichitra magazine, I’d say, “Yes, this one’s good.”

Sir, I have three more questions. One is—artists need inspiration. In the biographies of great artists, especially Western artists like Pablo Picasso, the topic of women keeps recurring. Your thoughts on that?

Rafiqun Nabi: Women are certainly a subject—especially between the two types of creative beings: one is poets, and the other…

Artists...

Rafiqun Nabi: Yes, visual artists. And painters are a bit more extreme—they’ll draw nudes; there are all sorts of stories like that.

 But if we go all the way back to the beginning—to cave paintings—those were incredible drawings!

 No matter what we do today—depicting human or animal figures—their proportions, the variety of lines—they were masters of it. That’s where a lot of our visual knowledge evolved from.

 In the beginning, women weren’t often drawn. Hunters were drawn; those figures were of a different kind.

 But the bison—they were painted with incredible realism.

 The humans, on the other hand, were identified more symbolically. A certain stylistic approach.

Symbols.

Rafiqun Nabi: Yes, gradually people started realizing—"Wait, the women around us could be subjects too."

Then came the Greeks. They elevated women to goddess status—

No, but has a woman ever been a source of inspiration in your life?

Rafiqun Nabi: Well, for people like us—one-track, one-timer types—the answer is no. In my case, you can’t really say “a woman,” you’d have to say “my wife.” It’s a very straightforward life, entirely centered around her. So, in that sense, calling it “inspiration” from a romantic or creative point of view would be overstating it.

But yes, the time and support she gave me to focus on painting, to think through my work—that in itself is meaningful.

However, in the sense your question implies, no, that didn’t happen.

It didn’t? I see. Alright, my second question is—

You've lived 82 years. You paint. You’re renowned. Everyone in the country knows you—especially during the days when Bichitra and your cartoons were very popular, you had a more “celebrity” image. Now perhaps your image as an artist is taking precedence.

Students, the general public—through newspapers and media—everyone knows you by name. So, do you consider yourself a successful artist, or do you sometimes wonder, “What did I really achieve?”

Rafiqun Nabi: The latter, more often. I don’t think any true artist ever really feels, “Ah, now I’m fully satisfied.” There’s no end to it. You never feel like, “This painting finishes it all.” That kind of mindset doesn’t occur—because if it did, you wouldn’t feel the urge to do the next painting. You wouldn’t keep going, creating one after another.

Yes, it’s like for me—when I begin writing a big novel, I feel: “This is the novel. This will be it. This will define me.”

But then, when it’s done and published, a few days later I realise—it’s half-hearted. It feels like a failure.

Rafiqun Nabi: Exactly.

So what to do? I start writing the next one.

Rafiqun Nabi: That’s exactly how it should be. If that feeling doesn’t come, then the journey just ends right there. That hunger must exist. Otherwise, how did Rabindranath write so much?

He had this enormous storehouse within him, and so many windows—birds flying in from here, light pouring in from there—it was just this magical chaos.

When I look at Tagore, I’m always astonished. You can’t even imagine how he did it.

 And even he said, in the end: “It wasn’t enough.”

Yes. Now, my final question: You were born in 1943—that means during British rule. Then you witnessed the Partition. You must remember it at least a little. You remember 1952. You were involved in the movements of the 1960s. You took part in the movements leading up to 1971. Later, you returned from abroad. You've witnessed many changes in Bangladesh. What do you think about the country?

Rafiqun Nabi: When I look at it as an artist, I don’t think there is any country more beautiful than ours. I’ve traveled to many countries around the world—whenever I had the chance, I went—and I’ve even been to remote regions. We have everything: the sea, so many rivers, mountains and hills, so much greenery; and in some places, it’s dry too—whatever one prefers, it's here! We have it all. That means, even in terms of fruits and crops, this country should be incredibly rich. In such a small country... if it were governed well all the time—then yes, I truly believe, “There’s no other country as beautiful as ours.”

Now it’s time for a rapid-fire round—just one question, and you answer with yes or no: If you had to choose—Old Dhaka or Chapainawabganj—which one would you pick?

Rafiqun Nabi: I’d choose Chapainawabganj. I’d go there because—Old Dhaka is fine, of course. But the essence of both these places—whether it’s the colours, the lines, the composition, the subjects, the themes—all of it has come either from here or from there. Tokai was shaped by Old Dhaka, while my paintings were shaped by Chapainawabganj. The two, together—with all their pluses and minuses—have made me who I am.

Tokai is full of a sense of humour. I feel like your Old Dhaka background might have something to do with that—so much wit and humour. I feel...

Rafiqun Nabi: The people of Chapainawabganj are very witty too.

They’re witty too. Sir, do you speak both dialects—Chapainawabganj’s and Old Dhaka’s?

Rafiqun Nabi: Yes. That’s because… My mother—she’s no longer alive—she was completely from Chapai; she never left the place. My father too. But because of his job, he got mixed exposure to different places. And my relatives who still live in Chapainawabganj—well, they speak the pure, original dialect. As for me… the Old Dhaka dialect—that’s actually where Tokai comes from.

I still remember some of Tokai’s dialogues. I was quite young—probably in class eight. One of them said, “I used to buy mangoes by weight... now I have to count them one by one.”

And then, “Soon I’ll have to buy them by the inch.”

Another one went, “They’ve built a watchtower on the border...”

Rafiqun Nabi: Yes.

And, “We’re eating hilsa, eh...”

Rafiqun Nabi: That one was even discussed in Kolkata—it was a hot topic at the time. They were quite taken by it—“You’ve sunk us”—there was a cartoon like that.

Certainly, they can.

Rafiqun Nabi: That was the essence of Tokai.

We've had a long and engaging conversation with our revered art teacher, Rafiqun Nabi, and although we may have taken up some of his valuable time, it has been a great gain for us. We’ve had the chance to hear many stories from his life.

Dear viewers, this brings us to the end of today’s episode of In the Light of Experience. Wishing you all the very best.

Sir, thank you so much.

Rafiqun Nabi: Thank you, everyone.