Tilak: A Village of Music, Memory, and Legacy
Tilak also spelt Tilok, is a name deeply rooted in history, carrying meanings that resonate beyond time. Derived from Tilaka, a sacred mark placed on the forehead, it symbolises blessings, honour, and distinction. Another interpretation of Tilak is the mark of kings, an emblem of sovereignty and cultural significance.
But Tilak is more than just a name—it is a place where traditions, music, and history intertwine, forming a rich tapestry of life passed down through generations.
The Rhythm of Devotion
In Tilak, music is not just an art; it is devotion, a form of prayer that rises with the sun and sets with the twilight. The villagers do not merely play instruments; they pour their hearts into melodies that blend with the winds, whispering through the trees and across the fields. Whether at sunrise, sunset, or on special occasions, their harmonic voices and rhythmic beats serve a purpose beyond mere entertainment—they connect the past with the present, the earthly with the divine.
As a child, I rose up on her lap—the lap of my village—listening to the enchanting symphony of life. The air carried the sounds of flutes, drums, and strings, filling my soul with an unspoken understanding that music, in its purest form, was a language of prayer, regardless of faith or background.
The Sriramshi Massacre: A Nightmarish Memory
But not all sounds were in harmony. Some were echoes of despair, cries swallowed by time yet never forgotten.
On 31st August 1971, during the Bangladesh Liberation War, the village of Sriramshi aka Siramishi bore witness to a horror beyond words. The massacre left the land soaked in sorrow, with bodies drifting in the Duwalabon—the Paddy Field of the Prince—situated to the northwest of Shaharpara. The stench of death was indescribable, a silent testimony to the brutality that had unfolded.
On that fateful day, very few survived the massacre of Siramishi. One of them was a guest at my neighbour’s house, Kal Bari, located in the northeast corner of my home. He had come to visit his sister, who was married there. Because he was wearing trousers and was smartly dressed, the Pakistani army assumed he was an educated man and lined him up with others before opening fire.
The Pakistani army had arrived in Siramishi under the guise of forming a “Peace Committee,” claiming they wanted to build a peaceful community by gathering the region’s educated individuals to lead it. Trusting their words, the people of Siramishi extended their hands in goodwill. But the army’s true intention was far more sinister—they sought to eliminate the area’s intellectuals as part of their broader strategy to cripple the country by targeting its brightest minds.
Once everyone had gathered, the soldiers tied their hands behind their backs with rope and executed them in cold blood. However, my neighbour’s guest miraculously survived the gunfire. Wounded and left for dead, he was later found by a fisherman in the Duwalabon paddy fields, barely clinging to life. They carried him back to Kal Bari, where he arrived in a critical state—his left shoulder had been torn apart by a gunshot, leaving the bone exposed and the flesh missing.
Yet, time does not stop for grief. The same paddy fields, once a graveyard of the innocent, soon turned golden with ripened rice after the war. Life reclaimed its space, and the villagers returned to what they knew best—harvesting, living, and singing their songs of resilience.
Harvest Nights and the Songs of the People
By 1972, the verandas of my home, as well as the courtyards, overflowed with rice crops from Buraiya, the paddy field to the south of Shaharpara. The nights were alive with the rustling of grains and the rhythmic movements of the harvesters. But what made those nights truly magical was the storytelling—songs sung without instruments, narratives woven into melodies, recounting histories, legends, and dreams.
Threshing, separating stalks, sorting grains—each task was accompanied by voices that carried the weight of tradition. Even without drums or strings, their music echoed across the fields, blending with the whispering breeze. It was their way of keeping the past alive, honouring the land that bore both tragedy and renewal.
A Lesson from My Father
One evening in 1973, after Maghrib prayers, I walked home with my Babasab (revered father). As we passed through the village, the sound of Hindu devotional music filled the air, mingling with the echoes of our own prayers. Curious, I asked my father, “Why do the Hindu people play their musical instruments during our prayers?”
His response was simple, yet profound:
“They are doing their prayers too.”
At that moment, I understood something greater than words could express. Faith may take different forms, but devotion, in its essence, is universal. Whether through spoken prayers or the language of music, every soul seeks the divine in its own way.
Tilak’s Legacy: A Harmony That Endures
Tilak is not just a village; it is a testament to resilience, unity, and the power of artistic devotion. It has witnessed both the darkest of days and the brightest of nights, yet through it all, its people have held onto what defines them—music, faith, and an unyielding connection to the land.
The echoes of the past still resonate, not as ghosts of sorrow, but as melodies of survival. And so, the music continues, rising with the sun and setting with the twilight, carrying with it the spirit of those who came before.
Some stories stay with us, their meanings unfolding in layers over time. My father often told me tales filled with wisdom, and among them, The Three Modest Men remains one of the most profound. It speaks of skill, humility, and the eternal legacy of true artistry.
The Meeting at the Crossroads
Three men, unknown to one another, met at a three-way dirt track. Each carried little but hope in their hearts and dreams of a better future. They asked each other where they were headed, and though their paths differed, their purpose was the same—to seek work and a life of meaning.
Under the relentless sun, they journeyed together, walking until their feet ached. In the distance, they spotted a lone tree standing tall against the barren land. Its shade was a silent invitation, and they gratefully accepted, resting beneath its branches. Sharing their humble meals, they soon fell into a deep sleep.
The Hands of Creation
The first man awoke while the others were still asleep. As he stretched, his eyes fell upon a fallen branch nearby. His hands, skilled in their craft, began to carve. The simple twig transformed under his touch, shaped into the graceful form of a woman—elegant and lifelike. Satisfied, he placed the sculpture under the tree, inscribed his name at its base, and quietly left to continue his journey toward destiny.
The second man stirred sometime later. He noticed the beautifully sculpted figure resting beneath the tree. Moved by its craftsmanship, he decided to contribute to its beauty. Using leaves from the tree, he wove a delicate dress and draped it over the statue. With care, he embroidered his name onto the fabric before departing to seek his own fate.
The third man awoke last. His gaze fell upon the enchanting figure, now clothed in a handmade dress. Inspired, he gathered tree bark and twigs, skilfully shaping them into intricate jewellery. He adorned the figure with earrings, bracelets, and a crown, adding the final touch to its splendour. Before leaving, he etched his name into his creation and vanished into the horizon, following his own path.
A Timeless Lesson
By the time the sun had shifted, the three men were gone, leaving behind a masterpiece—a silent testament to their craftsmanship and modesty. They did not seek praise, nor did they compete. Each simply did what they knew best, confident in their abilities yet humble in their deeds.
When my father told me this story, his words carried the weight of a truth I would come to understand more deeply over time:
Judge people not by their faces but by their actions.
Knowledge never ends. Hope never fades. Creativity is eternal.
A true artist never dies, for their work lives on, woven into history—silent, yet speaking through time.
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