History of Kamaly or Kamali

The Birth of the Title Kamaly in Shaharpara: A Legacy Forged in Unity and Tradition

 

The journey of the surname "Kamaly," a title that would eventually echo through generations, traces its roots back to the heart of Shaharpara—a quiet yet historically rich locality nestled in Rasulpur Mouza. Its birth, much like the title itself, carries the weight of both personal ambition and cultural unification. The origins of the surname are deeply tied to my father, Mohammad Akbar Ali—affectionately known to many as Akbar Ali Master—a man whose vision transcended the ordinary.

 

Born on 30th September 1902 in Shaharpara proper, Baglar Bari, Akbar Ali Master lived a life that not only shaped his family’s legacy but also impacted the region’s collective identity. His path was one of both learning and teaching, contributing profoundly to the educational landscape of his time. From his early life in the tranquil surroundings of School Bari, a land predominantly owned by his clan, to the formal creation of the Kamaly title, the journey to this monumental achievement was nothing short of extraordinary.

 

The Early Years: A Thinker and Educator

 

Akbar Ali’s academic journey began not in the bustling towns of British India but in the tranquil heart of Kailashahar—a place of deep historical roots, once the capital of the ancient Tripuri Kingdom. Though his formal schooling reached only the 9th standard, the classroom could not contain the restless fire of his intellectual curiosity. Driven by a passion for learning and community betterment, Akbar Ali did what few teenagers of his time dared—he became a teacher.

 

By 1918, at just sixteen years of age, he began teaching as a primary school teacher in Nitaiganj, a role that would mark the beginning of a life devoted to education and social service. But this was only the prologue.

 

In the following year, his youngest uncle, Mohammad Jahir Master, became the catalyst for something far greater. With the financial support of Akbar Ali’s father and other family members, a new school was established—not in the heart of a city, but in the heart of Shaharpara, on the very grounds of their ancestral land known as School Bari.

 

This modest institution would go on to shape generations.

 

In 1918, the school was officially registered as the Shaharpara Government Primary Model School. It was not merely a place of instruction—it was a declaration of community vision, unity, and upliftment. For the villagers of Shaharpara, it signified hope. For Akbar Ali, it embodied the ideals he held most sacred: education, empowerment, and collective progress.

 

Over a century later, the legacy of that school—and the hands that built it—continues to echo in the lives it transformed.

 

But it wasn’t just about imparting knowledge. Akbar Ali’s vision was far grander—he sought to unite his people, particularly those tied to the legacy of Hazrat Shah Kamal Quhafah (RA), under a common banner. This endeavour would culminate in the coining of a title that would carry forward for generations—the title Kamaly.

 

The Vision of Unity: The Birth of Kamaly

 

Around 1916, Akbar Ali began working towards a unification of the tribes associated with Hazrat Shah Kamal Quhafah (RA). He felt a deep spiritual calling to bring together the scattered descendants of Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA), and it was through this vision that the surname Kamaly—also spelt Kamali—was born. It was not just a name; it was a beacon of unity, identity, and respect, rooted in spiritual heritage and the cultural legacy of the region.

 

At this time, Shaharpara, like many parts of the subcontinent, did not typically use surnames or titles. Instead, people were identified by their clan names, each representing their family’s lineage and heritage. Akbar Ali sought to change this, and through his efforts, the title Kamaly became synonymous with respect, leadership, and a profound connection to the legacy of Hazrat Shah Kamal Quhafah (RA).

 

But this title was more than just a personal or familial distinction—it was a symbol of collective pride for the entire community. It embodied the values of unity and strength that Akbar Ali worked tirelessly to instil in his people. Through his efforts, Kamaly became a name carried by descendants of Hazrat Shah Kamal’s (RA) legacy, and it would soon spread far beyond the borders of Shaharpara.

 

A Historical Feast: The Legacy of Sarang Bari

 

One of the most defining moments in the history of Shaharpara came during the 40th-day death anniversary of Mohammad Danis Sarang, an event that remains etched in the memories of many. This was not just a simple memorial; it was a cultural and communal event that exemplified the spirit of togetherness that Akbar Ali hoped to foster. Held during the Shinni Mandali congregation, which gathered one of the largest crowds of its time, the event was marked by a grand feast. Thirteen bulls were slaughtered, a culinary feat that involved marinating the meat with curd—a tradition that had never been attempted before in the region.

 

This feast was not merely a celebration of food; it was a testament to the unity and collective spirit of the village. Villagers from surrounding areas contributed to the preparation of the curd, showing an unparalleled sense of cooperation and shared responsibility. The village gathered in Sarang Bari, a place named after the title of Sarang, the second mate of a ship, symbolising leadership and guidance. This event highlighted the spirit of charity and remembrance, in line with Islamic traditions, where the 40th day after a death marks the conclusion of the mourning period, and acts of kindness and charity are encouraged.

 

Kamaly’s Legacy Beyond Shaharpara

 

The title Kamaly did not stay confined to Shaharpara; it spread far beyond the borders of the village, carried by those who embraced its significance. Among those who bore this title was Atiqul Hussain Kamaly, also known as Atiqul Haq Kamali, affectionately referred to as Thakur. Born in the early 1930s, he was the son of School Bari and an early settler of Sylhet city. A prominent figure, Atiqul Haq, became a retired bureaucrat who contributed significantly to both the East Pakistan and Bangladesh governments. His life was a testament to the impact of the Kamaly legacy, and his journey from Dhaka University to Jagannath University in the early years of East Pakistan added a layer of academic and professional excellence to the Kamaly name.

 

Before the introduction of this title, no one in Shaharpara had used surnames in the manner we understand them today. It was Akbar Ali’s vision that changed this, cementing the Kamaly surname as a mark of distinction, pride, and legacy.

 

A Name, A Legacy, A Vision

 

The story of the Kamaly surname is more than just a chronicle of a name—it is a story of cultural identity, communal unity, and the vision of one man to unite and uplift his people. Akbar Ali Master’s vision of creating a lasting legacy through the Kamaly title not only connected the descendants of Hazrat Shah Kamal Quhafah (RA) but also laid the foundation for a legacy that would echo for generations. Today, the Kamaly name stands as a reminder of the power of vision, unity, and heritage—a name that carries the weight of history and the promise of the future.

 

In Shaharpara, the birth of Kamaly is more than a historical event; it is a living legacy that continues to resonate within the hearts and minds of those who carry it. It is a symbol of connection to each other, to history, and to the values that bind us all together in the journey of life.

 

The Genealogical Bloodline: The Clans of Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA)

 

The genealogical bloodline family branches of Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA) spread across several prestigious clans in Shaharpara, each bearing its unique name. These clans, such as Baglar Gushti, Mullar Gushti, Shahjir Gushti, Sadardi Gushti, Sheikhbadi Gushti, Sheikh Farid Gushti, and Khadim Gushti, trace their lineage back to Hazrat Shah Kamal Quhafah (RA). These family branches, which bear the Kamaly surname, hold a deep connection to the legacy of their ancestor.

 

Moreover, several matrilineal branches within these clans also adopted the Kamaly title, passing it down as their mother’s maiden name. This further expanded the reach and depth of the Kamaly name, intertwining it with the familial and cultural fabric of Shaharpara.

 

This is the story of Kamaly—a surname, a legacy, and a community united by faith, culture, and the vision of one remarkable man.

 

Bismillah Hir Rahman-nir-Raheem

In the name of Allah (SWT), the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful

 

The genealogical lineage of Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA) is enriched by many revered ancestors, as recorded in Shahji Gushti's family genealogy book, which traces the noble heritage of our family. According to the elders of the family, the original genealogy manuscript, which originated from the father of Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA), was tragically lost or damaged due to natural calamities. Some believe that a concubine from our family, who was not treated with the same regard as the others, took the family history book with her when she left the village and never returned. Fortunately, another surviving genealogical record of Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA) was preserved by Maulvi Abdul Heleem, a direct descendant of Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA).

 

Later, my grandfather's younger brother, Mohammad Jahir Master, reconstructed the family genealogy from his memory, drawing on the accounts passed down by generations of elders. The genealogy presented here is based on my father's meticulously researched files. In ancient times, people cherished the memory of their ancestors, passing their names down through storytelling. One such remarkable family narrative is that of Shah Shukur Uddin. The genealogy provided by my family has been consistently updated to reflect the current generations.

 

In the name of Allah (Subhanahu wa Ta'ala), the Most Compassionate, the Most Forgiving, I now embark on the sacred task of documenting our family genealogy. Originally recorded in a Bengali manuscript, I have translated this valuable record into English. Ya Rabbul-Alamin, “O Lord of the Worlds,” Creator and Sustainer of all, I beseech You to forgive the sins of my beloved parents and all my ancestors and grant them a place in Your Paradise. I seek forgiveness for my own sins as well. The birth and death details of my ancestors, initially recorded in a small notebook by my late grandfather’s younger brother, Mohammad Jahir alias Zaheer Ali (Master), were later copied by my father.

 

In the late 19th century, the birth and death dates of family members were carefully documented in the genealogical bloodline book of Hazrat Shah Kamal's (RA) branch family. This family eventually branched out into several distinguished clans, including Baglar Gushti, Mullar Gushti, Shahjir Gushti, Sadardi Gushti, Sheikhbadi Gushti, Sheikh Farid Gushti, and Khadim Gushti within Shaharpara. Additionally, there are Qureshi Gushti in Patli and Mufti Gushti in Dargah Mahalla, Sylhet, alongside numerous matrilineal branches.

 

After my grandfather passed away, my late father, Akbar Ali (Master), faithfully transcribed his notebook into a new writing pad, which he titled "Heredity in Bloodline." This remarkable work was later continued by my elder brother, Mohammad Arbab Hussain Kamaly, who introduced a new approach by documenting the family members and including their marriage dates in the updated edition.

 

As the pages of this small writing pad began to run out, my brother began anew in a fresh notebook, starting with our ancestor Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA), the Sufi saint of the fourteenth century, and his father, Hazrat Shah Burhan Uddin (RA). The shrine of Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA) still stands in Shaharpara, a testament to the widespread acceptance of Islam in the region, alongside the tombs of his children.  

Although the manuscripts of my grandfather and father do not contain the complete lineage from Hazrat Shah Kamal Uddin’s (RA) father, Hazrat Shah Burhan Uddin (RA), to Shah Noor Uddin, and there are gaps in the ancestral record, the lineage of Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA) and his sons has been well preserved. Their tombs still stand in Shaharpara as enduring testaments to their legacy.

 

While the tombs of their grandchildren do not have headstones, they are buried within the graveyard in the precincts of the Dargah of Hazrat Shah Kamal Quhafah (RA). After considerable effort, on May 16, 1995, my elder brother, Arbab Hussain Kamaly, with the assistance of our cousin, Shah Zillur Rahman Kamali, a descendant of Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA), successfully documented the family lineage.

 

This book, detailing the bloodline of Hazrat Shah Kamal Quhafah (RA), a descendant of Hazrat Abu Bakr (Radi Allahu Anhu), the first Caliph of Islam, will serve as a lasting legacy for future generations. I hope that the rightful successor will continue to preserve this invaluable document with great care, as it chronicles the rich heritage of our family.

 

The genealogical book, traditionally referred to as "Kristi," should more appropriately be called the "Kulji" genealogy book, also known as Kristi Bahi, which means the "genealogical book of hereditary bloodlines." This book concludes with a wish for its eternal continuation within the family, preserving the noble legacy of Hazrat Shah Kamal Quhafah (RA). May Allah (subhanahu wa ta'ala) shower His blessings upon our family of Shaharpara and may the legacy of Hazrat Shah Kamal Quhafah (RA) endure with undiminished dignity.

 

This remarkable genealogy began with my grandfather’s younger brother, Mohammad Jahir Ali Master, and was continued by my father. After dedicating years of effort to this genealogical endeavour, Shah Zillur Rahman Kamali, with his ancestral knowledge, greatly assisted my brother, Al-Hajj Arbab Hussain Kamaly, in the preservation of our family history. This lineage was passed down through generations, preserved by Maulvi Abdul Heleem, who translated the Nachab Nama (Kristi) from Arabic into Persian. In 1993, Shah Zillur Rahman Kamali further translated it from Persian into Bengali, and the genealogy was eventually translated into Urdu and Bengali by various family members and experts.

 

I express my deepest gratitude to our cousin, Shah Zillur Kamali, for his unwavering dedication in preserving this important family record. May Allah (SWT) reward him and his ancestors for safeguarding this treasure. Without their invaluable contributions, the history of Shaharpara and our family’s legacy would not have been preserved. May Allah shower His mercy upon all of them on the Day of Judgement.

 

The genealogy of my family traces its lineage to Hazrat Abu Bakr (Radi Allahu Anhu), the first Caliph of Islam, and further back through Adnan to Prophet Hazrat Ismail (AS), the eldest son of Prophet Hazrat Ibrahim (AS). Hazrat Shah Kamal Quhafah (RA) was a direct descendant of Hazrat Abu Bakr (Radi Allahu Anhu) through his son, Hazrat Abd al-Rahman ibn Abi Bakr (Radi Allahu Anhu).

The family lineage, meticulously documented in the Nachab Nama (an Arabic term meaning “lineage”), begins with Khwaja Burhan Uddin Ketan (RA), the father of Hazrat Shah Kamal Quhafah (RA), and continues as follows:

 

1. Hazrat Shah Burhan Uddin (RA), revered as Shah Kat’tal, Qat’tal Shah, and Qazi Kadal Khan. Born around 1230 AD, he was a prominent Sufi saint whose shrines are in Katalganj, Chittagong, and Faringajuri.

  

2. Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA), born in 1291, Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA) lived to the age of approximately 91, passing away in 1385. He was a direct descendant of Hazrat Abu Bakr (RA).

 

3. Hazrat Shah Jamal Uddin (RA), the second son of Hazrat Shah Kamal Quḥāfah (RA), occupies a distinguished station within the sacred genealogical tapestry of our family. As recorded in the Nachab Nama—a vital genealogical manuscript chronicling the descendants of the Kamalian line—Hazrat Shah Jamal Uddin (RA) inherited not only the noble blood of his father, a revered Sufi missionary and spiritual reformer, but also the moral duty to uphold the ethical, intellectual, and agrarian foundations laid in Shaharpara.

 

While his elder brother, Hazrat Shah Jalaluddin Qureshi (RA), established a stronghold of spiritual authority rooted in Islamic scholarship and dawah, Shah Jamal Uddin (RA) contributed significantly to the consolidation and expansion of the Kamalian legacy through land stewardship, religious education, and local arbitration. His lineage gave rise to several respected gushtis (clan lines) within greater Shaharpara—some of whom would emerge as prominent talukdars, imams, and teachers, helping shape the spiritual and social fabric of Sylhet’s Muslim society.

 

The memory of Hazrat Shah Jamal Uddin (RA) endures with quiet reverence—preserved in oral tradition, in the calligraphy of ancestral manuscripts, and in the collective consciousness of those who trace their roots to the sacred House of Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA).

 

4. Shah Jahangir Uddin (RA), also recorded in the Nachab Nama.

 

5. Shah Sulaiman Uddin (RA), another distinguished figure from the Nachab Nama.

 

6. Shah Zamin Uddin, also pronounced as Shah Zamin-ud-Din or Ad-Din, as documented in the Nachab Nama.

 

7. Shah Razzak Uddin, also pronounced as Shah Razzak-ud-Din or Ad-Din, according to the Nachab Nama.

 

8. Shah Zaman Uddin, also pronounced as Shah Zaman-ud-Din or Ad-Din, according to the Nachab Nama.

 

9. Shah Jabir Uddin, also pronounced as Shah Zabir-ud-Din or Ad-Din, as recorded in the Nachab Nama.

 

10. Shah Amir Uddin, also pronounced as Shah Amir-ud-Din or Ad-Din, according to the Nachab Nama.

 

11. Shah Anwar Uddin, also pronounced as Shah Anwar-ud-Din or Ad-Din, according to the Nachab Nama.

 

12. Shah Shafi Uddin, also pronounced as Shah Shafi-ud-Din or Ad-Din, as per the Nachab Nama.

 

13. Shah Sulaiman Uddin, also pronounced as Shah Sulaiman-ud-Din or Ad-Din, according to the Nachab Nama.

 

14. Shah Irfan Uddin, also pronounced as Shah Irfan-ud-Din or Ad-Din, according to the Nachab Nama.

 

15. Shah Sofir Uddin, also pronounced as Shah Ṣofir-ud-Dīn or Ad-Dīn, according to the Nachab Nama, was a notable figure in the line of descendants from Hazrat Shah Jamal Uddin (RA)—the second son of Hazrat Shah Kamal Quḥāfah (RA). He belonged to a generation that upheld the spiritual, scholarly, and agrarian legacy of Shaharpara during a time of political transformation across Bengal. With firm roots in the Kamalian tradition, Shah Sofir Uddin embodied the values of religious learning, social justice, and quiet leadership in rural Sylhet.

 

His younger brother, Shah Shamsher Uddin—known in historical records as Hamid Qureshi Khan, and remembered by the martial honourific Shamsher Khan—emerged as a prominent military and administrative figure in the waning days of Mughal influence in eastern Bengal. According to historians, Shah Shamsher Uddin was the last indigenous ruler of Muazzamabad, the medieval administrative and spiritual heart of the Sylhet region.

 

His fate became entwined with the broader currents of Bengal’s political upheaval when he perished in 1740 during the Battle of Giria, fighting beside Nawab Sarfaraz Khan of Bengal against the advancing forces of Alivardi Khan. This battle marked a pivotal turning point in Bengal’s history—the decline of Mughal authority and the symbolic fall of Muazzamabad’s sovereignty.

 

Shah Shamsher Uddin’s martyrdom on the battlefield is preserved in family genealogies and regional memory as an enduring emblem of loyalty, valour, and the final stand of a Qureshi lineage that had once governed with both spiritual wisdom and temporal command. His legacy, along with that of Shah Sofir Uddin, remains a vital part of the ancestral consciousness in Shaharpara, where history, faith, and identity converge across generations.

16. Shah Noor Uddin, also pronounced as Shah Nur-ud-Din or Ad-Din, according to the Nachab Nama.

 

17. Shah Nijam Uddin, also pronounced as Shah Nizamud-Din or Ad-Din, as per the Nachab Nama.

 

18. Shah Jorif Uddin, also pronounced as Shah Zarif-ud-Din or Ad-Din, as recorded in the Nachab Nama.

 

19. Shah Shukur Uddin, also pronounced as Shah Shukr-ud-Din or Ad-Din, according to the Nachab Nama. Family tradition suggests he was born around 1780 or later, possibly as a child or pre-teen when Lord Cornwallis instituted the permanent settlement (the zamindari system) in 1793.

 

20. Shah Moniur Uddin, also pronounced as Shah Moniur-ud-Din or Ad-Din, according to the Nachab Nama.

 

21. Shah Fazil, according to the Nachab Nama.

 

22. Shah Hajir Mohammad, as per the Nachab Nama.

 

23. Shah Mohammad Ashim, also spelt Asim, was born on an unknown date and passed away in Falgun 1350 of the Bengali calendar (February- March 1944 AD), according to the Nachab Nama. According to family accounts shared by my esteemed elder brother, Mohammad Abul Hussain Kamaly, who grew up alongside our grandfather, Shah Mohammad Asim, lived to an advanced age and was quite elderly at his passing. Our grandfather, too, was nearly a century old when he passed, estimated to have been born between 1860 and 1870, according to both my brother's and my own observations.

 

24. Mohammad Akbar Ali, formally known as Shah Mohammad Akbar Ali Qureshi (Kamaly), as recorded in the Nachab Nama, was born on 30th September 1902 and passed away on Sunday morning, 24th November 1985, at 8:45 AM, at the age of 83.

 

25. Mohammad Muazzam Hussain Kamaly, also known as Dilai Meah or commonly referred to as Dilly Meah, was born on 8th March 1965.

 

26. Mohammed Al-Hamim Hussein Kamaly (Hamim), born on 6th April 2006.

The Early Journey of Mohammad Akbar Ali

 

Mohammad Akbar Ali’s teaching career is believed to have begun at the tender age of sixteen, in a modest primary school nestled in Nitaiganj, East Bengal. Though strikingly young by today’s standards, it was not unusual in those days for bright, disciplined students—especially those who had shown early academic promise—to step into the role of teacher. In the face of limited resources and an evolving colonial education system, his early appointment reflected both his intellectual aptitude and the trust placed in him by his community.

 

During this period, he lodged with a farming family near his high school in Kailashahar. His meals were simple and humble, often featuring the inner core of banana stems—a staple in rural Bengali diets. Known as banana pith, this pale, starchy, and crisp vegetable was not only nutritious but also emblematic of a life shaped by austerity and resilience.

 

When the school closed for holidays, he would undertake a long and arduous journey home to Shaharpara, a walk that took two full days. To return to school, he had to walk another two days. En route, he often had to rely on the kindness of strangers, seeking shelter for the night in homes of generous villagers. On one occasion, unable to find a place to stay, he spent the night in a thatched structure used to store cattle feed—rice straw, stacked for the monsoon season. The shelter had no door or walls and was a known refuge for snakes and wild animals. Yet, he endured the night with quiet courage.

 

The long walks would sometimes leave his legs swollen, but such trials became the stuff of adventure and resilience. Along the way, he encountered wild animals, including a spot known for monkey attacks. To pass safely, he and fellow travellers would form small groups and carry sand, which they would throw to deter the monkeys if needed.

 

On one such journey, he reportedly came face to face with a Royal Bengal tiger. Frozen in fear, he stood still as the majestic animal paused—and, by some miracle, passed him by. He would later call himself “the luckiest person in the world” for surviving such a moment.

 

After completing Class IX, Akbar Ali decided to leave school permanently. On his way home, he came across a British tea garden manager on horseback, speaking with a Bengali man. When the two shared a laugh, Akbar Ali, amused by the scene, laughed as well. The manager noticed and asked him, “Why are you laughing?” He replied, “Because you were laughing, I laughed too.” The manager, intrigued, struck up a conversation.

 

Upon hearing about Akbar Ali’s long walks to school from Shaharpara to Kailashahar, the British manager—struck by his determination and candour—invited the young student to stay overnight at his bungalow. That evening, over a simple dinner and measured conversation—partially interpreted by the assistant manager—the British gentleman extended an unexpected offer: a position as an assistant manager in the tea garden.

The role involved overseeing the plucking of tea leaves, ensuring both quality and discipline among the workers. The salary was substantial—reportedly between ₹60 and ₹120 per month—an amount roughly six to twelve times greater than the monthly earnings of a primary schoolteacher in Bengal at the time, whose wages ranged from ₹10–₹15 in government-aided schools and as little as ₹5–₹10 in unaided village institutions.

 

Akbar Ali was deeply moved by the offer and the hospitality he had received, luxuries he had never known. Nevertheless, he insisted on consulting his mother before accepting. Upon hearing of the opportunity, his mother immediately refused. She feared the tea gardens, located in hilly areas known for leopards, and worried that her son might fall prey to wild beasts.

 

Days later, a letter arrived from the tea garden confirming the job offer. Yet despite the generous salary and promising prospects, Akbar Ali chose a different path—one shaped by devotion to education and a sense of purpose grounded in his roots.

 

Thus began Mohammad Akbar Ali’s long and devoted teaching career. Over the decades, he served in numerous schools across Sylhet, earning widespread respect as a committed and principled educator. From 1918 until his retirement in 1967, his journey spanned nearly five decades of tireless service, marked by perseverance, humility, and an enduring passion for the pursuit of knowledge.

 

During British India, the currency system was based on the rupee, which was subdivided as follows:

            •           1 Rupee = 16 Annas

            •           1 Anna = 4 Pice (also spelt Pisa or Paisa)

            •           1 Pice = 3 Pies

 

So, to summarise:

 

Currency Breakdown in British India:

            •           1 Rupee = 16 Annas

            •           1 Anna = 4 Pice (Paisa/Pisa)

            •           1 Pice = 3 Pies

            •           Thus, 1 Rupee = 16 x 4 = 64 Pice

            •           And 1 Rupee = 192 Pies

 

One Anna = 4 Pisa (Pice/Paisa)

 

In 1918, the Assistant Manager of a tea garden in Sylhet—then part of the Assam tea frontier under British India—earned significantly more than the labourers, reflecting the colonial racial and class hierarchies of the time.

 

💼 Estimated Monthly Wage of an Assistant Manager (1918, Sylhet Tea Estate):

            •           British/European Assistant Manager:

Rs. 150 to Rs. 300 per month

            •           Indian Assistant Manager (rare at the time):

Possibly Rs. 60 to Rs. 120 per month, depending on experience and estate size

 

📜 Historical Context:

            1.         British Planter Hierarchy:

            •           Superintendent/Manager: ₹300–₹500+ monthly

            •           Assistant Manager (European): ₹150–₹300 monthly

            •           Tea garden clerks (Indian): ₹20–₹50 monthly

            •           Sardars (labour supervisors): ₹5–₹10 monthly, plus rations

            2.         Perks Often Included:

            •           Rent-free bungalow or quarters

            •           Rations, tea, and servants (at estate cost)

            •           Occasional travel allowance and horse upkeep

            3.         Indianisation was minimal in 1918. Most assistant managers were British, often recruited through agencies in London and trained in Assam or Darjeeling.

 

Wage Comparison (Approximate, 1918):

 

Role    Monthly Wage (Rs)  Notes

Tea Garden Labourer          ₹1–₹3 Plus in-kind rations

Sardar (Labour Overseer)    ₹5–₹10           Often promoted from labour ranks

Indian Clerk   ₹20–₹50        Literate staff, paid poorly

Indian Asst. Manager          ₹60–₹120      Very rare in 1918

British Asst. Manager          ₹150–₹300    With housing and food

British Manager        ₹300–₹500+  Top of estate hierarchy

 

In 1917-18, a primary school teacher’s salary in Sylhet (then part of Assam Province under British India) was very modest, reflecting both the limited government investment in rural education and the subordinate status of teachers in the colonial hierarchy.

 

📚 Estimated Monthly Salary of a Primary School Teacher in Sylhet, 1918:

 

Type of School          Monthly Salary (Rs)

Village (vernacular) school Rs. 5 – Rs. 10

Government-aided primary school            Rs. 10 – Rs. 15

Town/Municipal primary school      Rs. 15 – Rs. 20

 

📜 Historical Context:

            1.         Vernacular Teachers (Guruji / Moulvi):

            •           In rural Sylhet, many primary teachers were appointed in vernacular (Bengali or Urdu) schools or maktabs and were often not formally trained.

            •           Their salaries were often as low as Rs. 5 to Rs. 8, paid partly by the village community, local zamindars, or through minimal government grants.

            2.         Trained or Government-Aided Teachers:

            •           Teachers with a normal school qualification (teacher training) and posted at government-aided primary schools could earn up to Rs. 15–20 per month.

            •           Even in such cases, promotions were slow and raises were rare. Many supplemented their incomes with private tuition.

            3.         Religious Teachers (Moulvis or Purohits):

            •           In maktabs and pathshalas, salaries were even lower, often supplemented by food, clothes, or gifts from the community.

            4.         Comparison with Other Roles (1918):

In stark contrast to the modest earnings of rural educators, positions in the tea industry offered significantly more lucrative compensation. An Indian assistant supervisor in a tea garden—tasked with managing labourers and overseeing tea leaf plucking—could earn between Rs. 30 and Rs. 60 per month. Their European counterparts commanded between Rs. 60 and Rs. 120, a salary six to twelve times greater than that of a village primary school teacher. Even junior clerical roles in British-run institutions or private firms typically fetched Rs. 25 to Rs. 40 per month, while a European junior clerk, if posted, might earn Rs. 60 to Rs. 80.

 

Against this economic backdrop, Akbar Ali Master’s decision to pursue a life of teaching—particularly within vernacular and religious education systems—speaks not only to his idealism and deep sense of social responsibility but also to the significant financial sacrifice he was willing to make in service of his community. For nearly half a century, he dedicated himself to educating children across the rural expanse of greater Sylhet, becoming a quiet yet enduring force in the region’s educational awakening.

 

🧭 Interpretive Significance

 

This wage data not only sheds light on colonial-era economics but also illustrates how race, class, and access to education shaped livelihoods. It explains why early educators like Akbar Ali, who began teaching in 1918, were seen as moral leaders in the village, not for their income, but for their vision and commitment to uplift a marginalised community.

Final examinations for Class IX were typically held between November and February, varying with the regional academic calendar. In 1918, Akbar Ali completed his Class IX final exams at Kailashahar High School, a respected institution in a town steeped in the legacy of the ancient Tripuri Kingdom. Although he did not advance to the matriculation exam, his deep engagement with the curriculum and unrelenting passion for knowledge would leave a lasting imprint, not only on his own life but on the many lives he would later shape through the cause of education.

His memories of student life were a blend of quiet struggle and youthful resilience. He often recalled, with a touch of humour and distaste, the monotonous meals at the school lodging house—especially the inner core of banana stems cooked into a bland vegetable dish he could never bring himself to like. What burdened him even more were the long, bone-weary journeys back home during holidays: two full days of walking from Kailashahar to Shaharpara, across forests, ferry crossings, and sun-drenched paths. Yet, in these trials, the character of the young Akbar Ali was forged—a character marked by endurance, curiosity, and an unwavering will to serve through knowledge.

Night In Bengal

A Night to Remember: The Launch of Night In Bengal at the Brady Arts & Community Centre

 

On a remarkable evening at the Brady Arts & Community Centre in the heart of London, the world was introduced to a musical masterpiece—Night In Bengal. A harmonious fusion of tradition and innovation, this album transcends borders, celebrating the soul of Bangladesh and its profound cultural heritage. The event, held at 192-196 Hanbury St, London E1 5HU, was more than just an album launch—it was a tribute to music, freedom, and the indelible legacy of Khondker Emdadul Hoque Manna.

 

A Star-Studded Gathering

 

The launch of Night In Bengal was graced by an illustrious assembly of distinguished guests, dignitaries, and luminaries from the Bangladeshi and British communities. Among them was the legendary Abdul Jabbar, one of Bangladesh’s most revered singers, whose voice has echoed across generations. His presence symbolised the deep-rooted legacy of Bengali music that this album seeks to honour.

 

But perhaps the most poignant presence of all was that of the late Khondker Emdadul Hoque Manna—my beloved teacher, mentor, and guiding light. Manna Sir was more than an instructor; he was a visionary, a torchbearer of musical excellence who shaped my journey and that of countless others. His passion for music was unparalleled—he never sought compensation for his teachings, believing instead that knowledge was to be shared freely. For him, music was a mission, not a profession.

 

Remembering Khondker Emdadul Hoque Manna

 

Manna Sir was not just a teacher—he was a distinguished composer, singer, and radio program producer, deeply involved in the cultural resistance during the Bangladesh Liberation War. A key figure at Swadhin Bangla Betar Kendra, the independent Bengali radio station that played a pivotal role in the fight for freedom, he was a patriot in the truest sense.

 

His training under the legendary Shyamal Mitra, one of the greatest music maestros of the Indian subcontinent, shaped his artistry. This legacy continued through his own teachings, where he instilled in us the rich traditions of Bengali music while embracing global influences—an ethos that ultimately inspired the creation of Night In Bengal.

 

Beyond his contributions to the arts, Manna Sir was also an educator at Stewart Headlam School in East London, where he nurtured young talent and instilled a deep appreciation for Bangladesh’s cultural and historical significance. His lessons were not just about music; they were about identity, resilience, and the unbreakable spirit of the Bengali people.

 

A Tribute to Khondker Aminul Haq Badsha

 

As we gathered to celebrate this momentous occasion, we also paid tribute to the enduring legacy of Khondker Aminul Haq Badsha, the beloved elder brother of Manna Sir. Affectionately known as Badsha Bhai, he was a towering figure within the community—an esteemed journalist and Deputy Press Secretary to Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman. His unwavering dedication to Bangladesh’s liberation struggle and his lifelong commitment to truth and justice cemented his place in history. Yet, his influence extended far beyond the realm of politics; his presence was profoundly felt within the Bengali diaspora in London, where he worked tirelessly to uplift and unite his people.

 

Much like his elder brother, the accomplished actor Raju Ahmed, Badsha Bhai was a performer in his own right, with a deep and abiding love for the arts. His passion for music was so profound that, in an extraordinary gesture, he chose to feature his own photograph alongside a review of an album he named Banglar Raat. Fittingly, Night In Bengal 

includes a hauntingly beautiful track titled Nishi Raat, echoing his deep emotional connection to music and its evocative power.

 

Beyond his role as a critic, Badsha Bhai was also a gifted sitar player and a devoted disciple of Ustad Khurshid Khan, who was both a student and the maternal grandson of the legendary Ustad Allauddin Khan Sahib. This extraordinary lineage, combined with Badsha Bhai’s passion and mastery of the instrument, ensured that his influence on the world of music would endure long after his passing.

 

His departure in February left an irreplaceable void in the hearts of many, yet his legacy remains indelible. His insightful critique of Night In Bengal stands as a poignant reminder of the power of artistic expression—not merely as entertainment but as a vital force in preserving cultural heritage and shaping collective memory.

 

The Legend of Hindustani Classical Music

 

Another distinguished figure whose profound influence shaped my musical journey was Ustad Fida Hussain Khan, a revered master of Hindustani Classical Music. I had the rare privilege of learning from him regularly in the intimate setting of my own flat, where he imparted his invaluable wisdom not only to me but also to my bandmate from Jalali, Babul Rahman, along with many other eager students. His teachings were not merely lessons in music but a gateway into the soul of the classical tradition, where discipline, devotion, and artistry converged to create something truly timeless.

 

Renowned for his masterful command of the harmonium, Ustad Fida Hussain Khan shared the stage with legendary tabla virtuosos—Ustad Alla Rakha Qureshi and his son, the incomparable Tabla god, Ustad Zakir Hussain Khan. His ability to weave intricate melodies with effortless grace was nothing short of mesmerising, elevating every performance into a transcendent experience. His teachings were a revelation, leaving an indelible imprint on my understanding of classical music, deepening my appreciation for its nuances, and inspiring a lifelong devotion to its timeless beauty.

 

A Journey of Sound: Night In Bengal

 

Night In Bengal is more than just an album—it is a musical odyssey, blending traditional Bengali sounds with modern influences and transporting listeners to the heart of Bengal.

 

Among the gifted musicians who brought this project to life were members of the renowned Jalali Band, alongside a distinguished ensemble of independent Western artists:

            •           Keneth Joy (Ken), James Jackson, Paul Cheneour, Nick Ditmas, Dominik Scherrer

            •           Jalali Band members & Western musicians: Abdul Rob, Mennon Rahman, Abdul Mannan, Manik Miah, Suja Miah, Muzahid Ali, Lolita, Dina Romario, Babul Rahman, and Dr. Farhan Muksed Hemel, credited in the album as Dr. Pop.

 

Their masterful performances, seamlessly interwoven with the soulful vocals of Dr. Farhan Muksed Hemel, Babul Rahman, Sarwar-E-Alam, and the mesmerising Italian singer Dina Romario, create a rich, immersive soundscape—one that lingers in the hearts of listeners long after the final note fades.

 

The album was meticulously recorded across multiple studios in London:

            •           Tracks 1, 2, 3, and 4: Recorded and mixed by Dominik Scherrer at Crimson Noise

            •           Tracks 1 and 3: Additional recordings by Shakeel Mohammed at On the One Studios

            •           Tracks 5, 6, 7, and 8: Recorded at Deptford Studios by Nick Ditmas

            •           Mastering: Roland Clarke at CRS Studios, Hastings

 

This meticulous production ensures that every note, every rhythm, and every lyric is presented with the highest artistic and technical precision.

 

A Heartfelt Thank You

 

This journey would not have been possible without the unwavering support of Mr. Jerry Deeks, manager of the Brady Arts & Community Centre. His generosity in offering space for rehearsals, teaching, and creating this fusion-based album played a pivotal role in making Night In Bengal a reality.

 

The Brady Arts & Community Centre, with its rich history and commitment to fostering creativity, was the perfect venue for this launch—a place where music was not just performed but felt, shared, and celebrated.

 

The Legacy Lives On

 

As I reflect on this journey, I am overwhelmed with gratitude—for my mentors, my community, and the music that unites us all.

 

The launch of Night In Bengal was not merely an event—it was a celebration of life, music, and freedom. As we continue to sing and dance to its rhythms, we honour the legacies of those who fought for the freedom we cherish and those who, like Manna Sir, dedicated their lives to preserving and sharing the beauty of our culture.

 

Night In Bengal is more than just an album—it is a living testament to the power of music to transcend time, space, and borders.

The ghost took on the face of my nieghbour

The Man Who Wasn’t There: A Midnight Encounter in West Tilak

 

Hey there, folks. Let me take you on a journey—a story that has haunted me for years. It’s a tale of mystery, fear, and something far darker than what we can comprehend. I want to tell you about the night I met someone who wasn't there. A shadow wearing a familiar face, a ghost in the moonlight, and a presence that still sends chills down my spine to this very day. Buckle up, because this story takes us deep into the heart of the unknown.

The air was crisp, laced with the damp scent of earth, and the world around me stretched into an infinite, all-consuming silence. The village lay in deep slumber, yet the hush that enveloped me felt oppressive—thick with an unspoken presence lurking just beyond perception. The only sounds that punctuated the quiet were the whispering rustle of rice straws swaying in the night breeze and the steady rhythm of my footsteps pressing against the earth.

 

As I approached my home, just before reaching the main entrance on my right from where I stood to the west, my eyes caught a shadowy figure standing at the southeastern corner of my property, near a dense cluster of rattan palms. He faced south, the tangled mass of rattan looming behind him to the north, his presence unnervingly still against the moonlit backdrop.

 

It was my neighbour, Kadir—Bhai “Bhai” meaning brother in Bengali.

 

In his hands, he cradled a bamboo flute, its polished surface catching the moonlight with a spectral gleam. Beside him, a small fire smouldered, its embers pulsing like the breath of some unseen force, while flickering flames cast restless, shifting shadows across his face. He was wrapped in a silvery Pashmina Kashmiri woollen shawl, which shimmered under the moon’s ethereal glow, clinging tightly to his form as though shielding himself from an invisible chill. His gaze remained fixed upon the fire, lost in depths beyond mortal reach, while his fingers absently traced the flute’s contours as if attuned to a melody only he could hear.

 

Kadir Bhai was no stranger to the night; an amateur flautist, he often played long into the late hours, filling the darkness with the mournful strains of his music. Yet, on this night, something about him felt profoundly… wrong. An unnatural stillness clung to his posture, an eerie detachment that sent a whisper of unease through me. The familiar presence of my neighbour seemed distant, his essence veiled, as though he stood on the threshold of another world—neither here nor there, neither wholly man nor wholly shadow.

 

A mischievous thought crossed my mind—a harmless prank.

 

It was the perfect opportunity to scare him. As I had planned, I would take on the role of a ghost, intending to frighten him out of his wits. A mischievous grin tugged at my lips as I pulled my shirt over my face, obscuring my identity in the dim moonlight. With deliberate stealth, I switched on my torchlight, its cold beam cutting through the darkness like a blade. Step by step, I crept toward him, anticipation thrumming in my chest, eager to shatter his eerie stillness with a sudden, blinding flash.

 

But then, something strange happened.

 

Kadir Bhai did not react.

 

No startled jump. No flinch. Nothing.

 

Instead, he simply turned to the north—and, without hesitation, walked straight into the dense tangle of rattan palms. No startle, no hesitation—just a slow, deliberate movement, as though he were being pulled by an unseen force.

 

The firelight flickered behind him, casting his retreating form into an eerie silhouette before he disappeared into the shadows. A chill prickled down my spine. The night, once filled with the hum of insects and the rustling of leaves, now felt unnaturally silent.

 

Something was terribly wrong.

 

The Impossible Path

 

A shiver crawled up my spine.

 

I knew this land. Behind the rattan grove lay only a narrow, dead-end space—a small canal and an old toilet nestled beside the bank of our front pond. No one could navigate that tangled thicket so effortlessly; the rattan palms, thick with merciless thorns, interwove to form an almost impenetrable barrier.

 

And yet, Kadir Bhai moved as if the undergrowth were nothing more than a figment of my imagination, gliding through the dense jungle with an ease that defied logic. His movements were impossibly smooth, unnaturally fluid.

 

Then, in the blink of an eye, he was gone.

 

A chill snaked through my bones.

 

This wasn’t right. Something was profoundly amiss.

 

I called out, my voice quivering against the heavy silence.

“Kadir Bhai! Kadir Bhai! Where are you going?”

 

Only the whisper of the wind through the leaves answered my plea.

 

I shouted again, louder this time, my heart hammering in my chest—still, no response.

 

The prank I had set out to play no longer felt playful. The very air around me had shifted—thick, heavy, laden with an unshakable dread that pressed down upon my chest like a living weight. A cold shiver cascaded down my spine as my pulse thundered in my ears, each beat drumming a frantic rhythm of fear. Without a second thought, I turned and bolted toward the Bangla Ghor courtyard, my feet barely touching the ground, desperate to escape the suffocating unease that clung to me like unseen, spectral hands.

 

But when I reached the courtyard—breathless, my limbs trembling—my blood ran cold.

 

The Man in the Courtyard

 

Seeing Kadir’s brother made my blood run cold. I stood a short distance from the wide pathway—or perhaps the driveway—that stretched through the centre of the front yard, leading from the vast pond to the grand entrance of the main estate, where all the large houses stood.

 

He was there, in the middle of the courtyard, waiting for me—as if no time had passed.

 

It was humanly impossible for him to have arrived before me. The path through the rattan palms was far longer than mine, winding through dense, thorny vines. I had just seen him vanish into the grove mere seconds ago.

 

Hadn’t I?

 

A creeping horror coiled in my chest, tightening with each passing moment. I tried to speak, but my throat was dry, strangled by an overwhelming sense of dread. Every instinct screamed at me to run—to put as much distance as possible between myself and the thing standing before me.

 

Because deep down, I knew.

 

That was not Kadir Bhai.

 

Yet the night around us remained unnervingly still. My heart pounded in my chest. My breath hitched.

 

Something had been lurking in the darkness, drawing me in. And I had barely escaped.

 

The realisation crashed over me like a tidal wave, leaving me breathless.

 

This was no ordinary man.

 

It was the ghost.

 

A chill gripped my soul as I gasped, my voice barely above a whisper.

 

Before I could even ask, What do you want from me? he spoke first.

 

“There you are! I’ve been waiting for you for so long—I was about to leave. Where were you in the hour of the late night?”

 

His voice was warm, casual—just as it had always been. Soothing. Familiar. Unassuming.

 

Oh Lord of the Universe, Sustainer of all worlds, I bow in gratitude—thank You for saving me.

 

The words echoed in my mind as I stared at the real Kadir Brother.

 

He was here standing in front of Bangla Ghor, where I slept at night. Just as he so often did for our late evening chats. His presence was steady, unwavering. His expression was calm, familiar. He stood in the courtyard, bathed in the pale glow of the night, an ordinary man in an all-too-familiar place.

 

And yet, my soul refused to be at ease.

 

Because I knew—the figure I had seen moments ago was not him.

 

The flute was gone. The shawl had vanished.

 

But the smile remained.

 

A slow, creeping terror took hold of me. The prank I had played on my neighbour—meant to be harmless mischief—had unwittingly drawn something far darker into my world.

 

Something that should not be here.

 

A phantom, unbound by the laws of the living, had been watching me all along. Not just watching. Studying. Waiting.

 

This entity, untethered by the rules of time and space, had slipped through the veil—donning Kadir Bhai’s face like a mask, a guise meant to deceive and ensnare. Its presence had carried an aura of unspeakable dread, a distortion itself.

 

At that moment, I understood with bone-deep certainty: I had come face to face with something ancient. Something that did not belong in this world.

 

And I had barely escaped its grasp.

 

I stood frozen, my mind spiralling between the real and the unreal, haunted by the truth:

 

Something had reached out from the shadows, wearing the face of my neighbour.

 

And deep in my bones, I knew—it was not done with me yet.

 

The Jungle That Awakens at Night

 

The rattan palm (Calamus genus) is no ordinary plant. By day, its thorn-covered vines are harvested and put to practical use. But as night falls, the jungle transforms.

 

Superstitions whisper that these vines awaken in the darkness, shedding their mundane nature to become something else—something sentient.

 

Something that watches.

 

Something that waits.

 

Something that mimics.

 

Something that lures.

 

A spectral sentinel lurking in the shadows, the rattan grove has long been feared—a place where the living dares do not tread after dusk. And now, standing in the courtyard, staring into the eerily familiar face of my neighbour, I understood why.

 

No human could have done what I had just witnessed.

 

The realisation sank deep into my bones.

 

I had seen something that was not Kadir Brother.

 

Something that had worn his face.

 

The Morning After

 

At sunrise, I forced myself to return to the place where I had seen the fire burning the night before. My feet felt heavy as if the weight of the night still clung to them.

 

But when I arrived, there was nothing.

 

No ashes. No smouldering embers. Not even the faintest trace of burnt grass.

 

The ground was undisturbed, untouched, as though nothing had ever been there at all.

 

Had I imagined it? Had my mind woven shadows where there had been none?

 

No.

 

I knew what I had seen.

 

I knew what had seen me.

 

And I knew, deep in my soul, that something had tried to lead me into the unknown. Something that had taken the form of a man I thought I knew, drawing me toward the darkness—toward the place where reality blurs and the night holds sway.

 

I may never fully understand what happened that night, but one truth is clear: it wasn’t Kadir Bhai. It was something else, something far older and more sinister, wearing his face. As the sun rose over West Tilak, I understood that I had come too close to something that was never meant to be seen.

 

The Haunting Question

 

I never spoke to Kadir Bhai about that night. Never mentioned the fire, the shawl, or the way I had watched him slip into the impenetrable rattan palms as though the thorns and tangled vines did not exist.

 

What would he have said?

 

Would he have laughed it off? Would he have denied ever being there?

 

Or would he have simply smiled—that same eerie smile I had glimpsed in the courtyard—and asked me the same chilling question?

 

“Where were you?”

 

Even now, the memory lingers, a shadow trailing my every step. The thought of that dark figure, wearing the face of someone I trusted, still sends a shiver down my spine. And I wonder—how many times has it done this before?

 

How many times has it worn the face of a friend, a neighbour, or a loved one?

 

How many unsuspecting souls has it lured into the darkness, pretending to be someone they know?

 

And how many never returned?

 

I have never told anyone about that night, but it haunts me still. Even now, I avoid that patch of rattan palms once the sun sets. I don’t know what it was I saw in the shadows, but I know one thing for certain: it was not Kadir Bhai. And I have never been the same since that moonlit night in West Tilak.

 

I often wonder if the figure I encountered that night still lingers in the rattan groves, waiting, watching, searching for its next victim. Perhaps one day, someone else will hear the soft, hypnotic strains of a flute drifting through the night air and, like me, will be drawn toward the figure that isn’t quite real.

 

And if they do—if they follow that spectral presence into the dark—I fear they may never return.

 

And if they do… I do not wish to know what they become.