Ghost in London

The McDonald’s Man: A Poltergeist in Bethnal Green

A Chilling Encounter in East London

 

It was December 1989, and the chill of winter had settled over East London. The city, always alive with movement, seemed quieter near the Bethnal Green Overground Station rail line. That night, I found myself as a guest at my friend Kasan Ali’s flat on Three Colts Lane, Bethnal Green, E1. His family was away on holiday in Sylhet, Bangladesh, and he had invited me over for the night—partly for company and partly so we could watch the Godzilla TV series together.

 

At the time, I had recently moved into my first flat on Princelet Street, London E1. It was furnished, except for one essential item—I had no television. The offer to stay at Ali’s place was appealing, and I gladly accepted.

 

Little did I know that this night would mark my first unsettling encounter with the McDonald’s Man—a restless poltergeist that haunted Ali’s flat.

 

The Night of the Storm

 

After our TV session and some late-night conversations, I was exhausted and ready for bed. I left my trousers in the living room before heading to the spare bedroom. Before I could retire for the night, Ali made an odd request.

 

“Give me all your money,” he said.

 

I laughed, thinking he was joking, but he insisted.

 

“A lodger staying here might take it,” he warned.

 

At the time, I had just become unemployed and was signing on for the dole for the first time in my life. I only had ten pounds in the back pocket of my Waxman trousers, so I shrugged it off, not too worried.

 

Ali locked the main door with a multi-lock—a key the lodger did not possess—before showing me to my room. It was a double bedroom with large windows on either side. I climbed into bed, pulled the duvet over my head to keep warm, and Ali switched off the lights before bidding me goodnight.

 

The moment the door closed behind him; the chaos began.

 

A deafening howl of wind surrounded the room as if a cyclone had materialised inside the four walls. Windows slammed violently against the walls, banging open and shut with an unnatural force. The sound of a hurricane tore through the space, growing louder and louder.

Then, came the footsteps.

 

At first, they were slow, deliberate, and heavy, echoing through the room. Then, a long pause. Seconds later, I heard the same thundering steps in the hallway outside. The storm inside the room raged on, the howling wind mingling with the terrifying stillness between the phantom footsteps.

 

I lay completely still, paralysed by fear, unwilling to lift the duvet and look. I knew what this was—poltergeist activity. Something not of this world was making its presence known, and I had no intention of acknowledging it.

 

I forced myself to sleep.

 

The Missing Money & The McDonald’s Man

 

Morning came, and I woke up in the living room, still wearing my trousers. Groggy and disoriented, I reached into my back pocket—my ten pounds were missing.

 

Before I could process this, Ali called from his room.

 

“Did you come into my room last night?” he asked.

 

“No,” I replied.

 

His voice was uneasy.

 

“Then how did I get this letter from Maizbhandari?”

 

Ali was a disciple of Syed Shafiul Bashar Maizbhandari, a spiritual figure in Chittagong, Bangladesh. A letter from Maizbhandari had mysteriously appeared in his room overnight—despite the multi-lock on the main door and the lodger being absent.

Ali then smiled knowingly.

 

“It’s the McDonald’s Man,” he said.

 

I stared at him, puzzled.

 

“Who is the McDonald’s Man?” I asked.

 

Ali chuckled. “He’s, my polygamy.”

 

I was even more confused. “Your what?”

 

“He likes to eat at McDonald’s. I find McDonald’s bags in the flat all the time—sometimes in the bin, sometimes in the room. My lodger doesn’t eat at McDonald’s, and neither do I. So, it must be him.”

 

Ali explained that this spirit shared his home, slamming doors, stomping through the passage, and occasionally cleaning the bathtub.

 

“He doesn’t harm me,” Ali assured me. “We live together like two people married to the same person—sometimes I clean the bath for him, sometimes he cleans it for me.”

 

I laughed. “Well, your McDonald’s Man stole my ten pounds. He owes me!”

 

The Poltergeist Flush

 

As we talked in the kitchen that morning, I sat on the worktop facing the passage. Ali stood nearby, both of us deep in conversation about the previous night’s events.

 

Then, suddenly, we heard the toilet flush.

 

I froze.

 

Ali and I were the only people in the flat. The lodger was away. The bathroom had a tiny window, far too small for a person to enter.

 

I rushed to the toilet.

 

The flush chain was still moving. Water poured into the bowl in continuous motion, as if someone had just pulled the chain and walked away.

 

I looked back at Ali.

 

“See?” he grinned. “The McDonald’s Man is harmless.”

 

The Phantom Typhoon in My Flat

 

That evening, I met with my friends for our usual music session at my flat. As I recounted the eerie events from Ali’s flat, one of my friends, Nazim Uddin, laughed.

 

“You should ask the McDonald’s Man to give you music!” he joked. “He already took ten pounds from you—maybe he’ll play the tabla for you too!”

 

Everyone burst into laughter.

 

That night, after my friends left, I followed my usual routine—ventilating the house by leaving a window slightly open in the kitchen and living room for fresh air circulation.

 

Then, as I lay in bed, it happened again.

 

The howling storm returned, coming through the living room window. It moved into the passage, swirling just outside my bedroom door.

 

The same cyclone sound, the same hurricane-like force—but this time, it did not enter my room.

 

I took a deep breath, and, in my mind, I addressed it.

 

“Hey, McDonald’s Man. Keep the ten pounds. I don’t want it back. Just leave me alone.”

 

At that very moment, the storm stopped.

 

I closed my eyes and slept peacefully.

 

The Ghost Who Never Left

 

Years passed, but I never forgot my encounter with the McDonald’s Man.

 

In January 2020, I visited Ali again and asked about the ghost.

 

“He’s still here,” Ali said casually. “Still slamming doors, stomping around. But he never harms me or my family.”

 

Ali had been living in that flat for over thirty years. His children were born and raised there. Some of them had even married and started their own families in the same home.

 

Through it all, the McDonald’s Man remained—a ghostly tenant trapped in time, haunting the flat on Three Colts Lane, forever craving McDonald’s.

 

Have you ever encountered a ghost who stole your money and flushed your toilet? Tell me your stories

Ghost of the Banyan Tree

The Ghost Herd of Tilkidara: A Tale of Shape-Shifting Spirits and the Banyan Tree

 

Some stories are so deeply woven into the fabric of a place that they become a part of its very identity. These tales are shared across generations, whispered on full moon nights, and passed from elder to younger like a secret that can’t be ignored. And then there are those stories that leave you with an unsettling sense of something beyond the ordinary, a lingering feeling that things aren’t always as they seem.

 

One such tale lives on in the village of West Tilak, a place where ancient legends come alive, especially during the quiet, mysterious nights of the full moon. I learned this the hard way in 1985, in an encounter that would forever change my understanding of the supernatural.

 

As I stepped out of my house, I heard the rhythmic thud of a football bouncing in the Tilak Bazar field. I thought the shopkeepers from Tilak Bazar were playing, and on my way, I decided I would join them.

 

I took the path through the paddy fields, passing by the southern side of my uncle Abdul Hannan’s house. He was from the same clan as me. As I crossed his boundary, the Tilak Bazar field came into view—but to my surprise, it was empty. No one was playing football. I wondered if the game had already ended.

 

As I neared my destination—Shahjir Bari of Muftir Chawk—just before entering the compound, I suddenly found myself surrounded by foxes. Their howls and screams pierced the night, echoing through the dense trees, whose branches were shrouded in pitch-black darkness. My torchlight was dim, its battery nearly drained, but I held it tightly in my hand, ready to defend myself if the foxes attacked.

 

At that moment, one of Turon Miah’s servants stepped out of the house on an errand. Hearing the eerie screams and howls of the foxes, he bellowed at them, sending them scattering into the night.

 

Relieved, I turned to him and said, “Thank you for saving me from those foxes.”

 

He chuckled and replied, “You’re a brave man. How come you didn’t shout at them yourself?”

 

I smiled and said, “I thought if I shouted, they might bite me. That’s why I kept quiet.

 

We had dinner later than usual, according to our village schedule, because we always waited for our elder brother to return from the pharmacy. Eating together was not just about the meal—it was our time to talk and socialise.

 

Because of this, I was late when I arrived at Shahjir Bari. All three of my friends were already there, waiting for me.

 

In the year 1985, during a holiday in my village of West Tilak, I found myself at the heart of one of these chilling legends, a ghostly encounter that would forever change my understanding of the supernatural.

 

It all began on a clear, beautiful, full moon night. The air was crisp, and the skies were pristine as my friends and I gathered for a night of card games. Black Maria was the game of choice—a card game that had become a favourite among my childhood friends, including Jamal Miah, Abdul Wadud, and Sanu Miah. As the evening wore on, laughter echoed through the Baithak Ghar, or Memaan Khana, of Abdul Wadud’s house, located in the Muftir Chawk of Shaharpara.

 

The players that night were my maternal nephew, Jamal Miah, Abdul Wadud (my uncle), and Sanu Miah (one of my cousins). All of us were of a similar age and had grown up together, sharing a bond that went beyond mere family ties. They all belonged to the Shahjir Gushti clan, descendants of the Shahjir Bari in Muftir Chawk of Shaharpara—except for Sanu Miah. Though his father was from the Shahjir Gushti, he was not a descendant by blood.

 

My own family, before moving to West Tilak, had lived in the School Bari of Shaharpara and belonged to the Baglar Gushti clan, descendants of the Baglar-Bari of Shaharpara proper.

 

After the game ended, Jamal and I decided to head home. As we made our way home, the quiet hum of the night surrounded us, the rhythmic chirping of crickets punctuated only by the soft rustling of the trees. The moon hung low, casting long, silver shadows across the fields. Jamal’s house was close, nestled comfortably near Abdul Wadud’s, but my journey stretched further—twice the distance, winding past the Muftir Chawk, across the southern fields, and through the open expanse leading to West Tilak football pitch. Beyond that lay a vast expanse of paddy fields and, finally, my home.

 

As we crossed the canal of Shahjir Bari and took a left turn, Jamal led the way along the Gupat—a pathway used by animals during the dry season for grazing or ploughing the fields, and in the flood season, a waterway for boats and canoes. This narrow path ran along the southern bank of the canal, where dense Koroch (Pongamia pinnata) trees lined the edges. Their thick, intertwining branches formed a canopy so dense that it cast everything beneath into pitch-black darkness. We moved eastward, making our way toward home.

    

The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and distant blooms. We walked in comfortable silence, our footsteps muffled against the dirt path. But just as we neared the edge of the fields, a strange sensation prickled at my skin—a shift in the air, subtle yet undeniable. The peaceful night suddenly felt heavier, as if the darkness itself was watching.

 

Then, from the shadowed depths of the trees, came a sound—faint, almost imperceptible, yet enough to send a chill down my spine. It was a peaceful night, and the moonlight illuminated the way. But our peaceful walk soon took an unsettling turn.

 

As we reached Shahjir Gushti’s field, the moonlit night bathed everything in a glow so bright it felt almost like daylight. To our right lay Shahjir Bari’s Bottiya—an open ground where the clan’s domestic animals gathered before setting off to graze in the pastures or the Haor (wetlands). During the dry season, this space doubled as a playground for the village children, while in the flood season, it was used to cultivate cattle fodder, such as water hyacinths and aquatic grasses.

 

Jamal and I noticed a herd of sheep grazing quietly in the field. Given that this area favoured goats over sheep, the sight struck us as unusual—especially at this hour. Our first thought was of the Chawk Tilakian farmers, known for keeping large flocks. But something about these animals felt… unnatural. They looked pristine—too clean, too perfect. There was an almost otherworldly allure to them, their forms bathed in the silver glow of the full moon, their eyes reflecting something unnervingly intelligent. They weren’t moving like ordinary sheep. They neither grazed nor shifted positions as livestock naturally would. Instead, they stood there, unsettlingly still, as though aware of our presence.

 

The moment we spotted the flock, a wild idea took hold of us—we would each catch a sheep and ride it to the end of the football ground, a reckless test of skill and speed. But among them, one ram stood apart, exuding an almost regal presence, as though sculpted by some unseen force. It was unmistakably the leader of the herd—its stance commanding, its aura almost otherworldly. This was no ordinary ram. It was massive, its powerful frame adorned with enormous, curling bighorns wrapped in shimmering tinsel, a weary garland draped around its neck. Streaks of unnatural hues—pink, green, and other vivid shades—gleamed eerily under the moonlight, casting an unsettling glow. It stood still, watching us with an intensity that sent a chill through my spine. It looked less like an animal of flesh and blood and more like an emissary of something ancient and unknowable, a creature prepared for a sacred ritual—or perhaps a harbinger of something far beyond our understanding.

 

The sight was so strange and captivating that I felt an irresistible pull toward it. Without a second thought, I decided that I would ride this majestic, garlanded ram. I turned to Jamal, my eyes alight with mischief. “I’ll take the big one,” I declared, pointing at the imposing bighorn ram. “I’ll ride on its back all the way to the end of West Tilak’s football ground.” The words left my mouth with reckless confidence, but even as I spoke, a shiver of unease crept up my spine. The ram’s gaze met mine—calm, knowing, almost amused. As if it understood far more than it should.

 

Jamal and I both made our attempts to catch two of the sheep—one for Jamal to ride and the massive, ornately decorated ram for me. Our goal was to ride them to the far end of the West Tilak football pitch, just before reaching the West Bank of Tilkidara. Without a second thought, we sprang into action, adrenaline surging as we lunged at the sheep. But they were faster than we had anticipated, their hooves barely making a sound as they darted through the field. However, no matter how hard we tried, we kept missing them by mere inches. It was as though the sheep were mocking us, always staying just out of reach, their movements graceful and fluid, as if they were gliding effortlessly over the ground, barely making a sound—like shadows slipping between the trees.

 

Jamal and I launched ourselves into action, each aiming to catch a sheep—one for him to ride and the massive, ornately decorated ram for me. Our goal was to race them to the far end of the West Tilak football pitch just before reaching the West Bank of Tilkidara. Adrenaline surged through us as we lunged at the animals, expecting a chaotic chase. But the moment our feet hit the ground, we realised we had underestimated them. The sheep were unnaturally fast, their hooves barely making a sound as they darted effortlessly through the field. No matter how hard we tried, we missed them by mere inches. It was as if they were toying with us, their movements too graceful, too precise. They didn’t bolt in panic like ordinary livestock—instead, they glided over the ground with an eerie fluidity, slipping through the night like shadows weaving between the trees.

 

Frustrated but exhilarated, we burst into laughter. “We’re young, strong, and footballers!” we reminded ourselves. “How can we possibly fail to catch a few sheep?” It made no sense. This should have been easy—just a playful chase, a stolen ride through the moonlit field. Yet, despite our speed and agility, the sheep remained untouchable, slipping through our grasp like whispers on the wind. What had started as a game was beginning to feel… unnatural.

 

Determined, we changed our strategy. No more scattered attempts—we would catch the bighorn ram, the king of the flock. “Let’s go after the ram together,” Jamal said, his voice brimming with both excitement and urgency. I nodded, the thrill of the chase pulsing through me, and together, we locked our sights on the majestic creature. We pursued it with every ounce of cunning we had—feinting, cutting off its path, diving when it seemed within reach. But it was always a step ahead, as if it could sense our intentions before we even moved. No matter how close we got, the ram remained untouchable—an elusive shadow in the night, leading us deeper into something we didn’t yet understand.

 

Yet, we didn’t stop. The chase was exhilarating, filling us with reckless determination. We ran, laughing and shouting, convinced that the next attempt would surely be successful. We pursued the ram all the way to the northern edge of the field, near the canal known as Tilkidara, which wound its way through the southern side of the village. But as we neared the water’s edge, something shifted. The excitement in my chest wavered, giving way to a feeling I couldn’t quite place—something just beneath the surface of my awareness, waiting to reveal itself.

 

At that moment, the flock of sheep began to move across the canal, heading toward a massive banyan tree on the east bank—an ancient, gnarled giant that had stood for centuries, silently watching over the land. Jamal and I stopped dead in our tracks, frozen by an unshakable sense of unease. The air around us felt heavier, charged with something unseen. Then, one by one, the sheep reached the base of the tree and, impossibly, vanished into thin air.

In the blink of an eye, they were gone—swallowed by the night as if they had never existed. No sound, no trace, nothing. It was as if the earth itself had devoured them whole. We stood there, paralysed, breath caught in our throats. The ram, the entire flock—they had simply disappeared. And in that dreadful silence, a chilling realisation crept over us.

 

What we had been chasing were not ordinary sheep. They were something else—something far darker, something never meant to be touched by human hands. The sheep, one by one, seemed to dissolve into the shadows as they reached the banyan tree. In an instant, they were gone, invisible—claimed by the night, as if reality itself had swallowed them whole.

 

Jamal’s home was located just south of the West Tilak football ground. As we approached his house, he turned to me with a look of apprehension and said, “I’m not going to the shop tonight, where I usually sleep, for the security of the store on the main dirt track road of Shaharpara & Tilak—not now.” The road, now known as Syedpur Road, stretched beyond the culvert bridge over Tilkidara, leading westward, where new houses were being built, including one for Jamal’s paternal uncle, Alais Miah of the Shahjir Gushti clan. His home stood just beyond the paddy fields, directly south of Jamal’s.

 

At that time, there were only two grocery shops in the area—one owned by Jamal and the other by Ala Miah of Chawk Tilak. Jamal often slept in his shop at night to ensure its safety, while Ala Miah’s store was another popular stop for the villagers.

 

Jamal turned to me, his face drained of colour, and whispered urgently, “Mama, don’t look back, whatever happens. Just go straight home.” It’s said that if a ghost calls you from behind or tries to attack, you must never answer or turn around.

 

Fear gripped me like an iron vice, tightening around my chest. We didn’t fully understand what we had just witnessed, but one thing was certain—it was no ordinary sight. The way the sheep had vanished into thin air, the unnatural stillness that followed—it all felt wrong, as if the very fabric of reality had been disturbed.

 

Jamal, his voice trembling, urged me to walk quickly. And so I did. But no matter how fast I moved, the feeling refused to leave me—a nagging, gut-wrenching certainty that something was following us. Something that had been playing with us all along.

 

I continued my walk home, alone, through the vast, open fields, sweating profusely at the mere thought of the spirits of the banyan tree. The night felt unnerving still, as if the world itself were holding its breath. The full moon above cast long, jagged shadows that seemed to shift with a life of their own, creeping closer with every step I took. Every gust of wind, every snap of a twig beneath my feet, sent a jolt of panic through me. My heartbeat pounded in my ears. I couldn’t shake the overwhelming sensation that I was being watched—hunted by something unseen, something far older than anything I could comprehend.

 

Only now, as the cold night pressed in around me, did the full weight of fear descend. The long walk home, once familiar and comforting, now felt like a passage through some haunted, forgotten realm. Unlike Jamal's, whose house was close by, mine was farther away—across the open paddy fields of West Tilak, past the southern side of my uncle Abdul Hanan’s house. And with every step, the distance between me and safety seemed to stretch endlessly, as if the road itself was conspiring to keep me trapped in the grip of the unknown.

 

The next morning, I made my way to Jamal’s shop. As I approached, I spotted a group of Chawk Tilakian boys huddled together on the wooden bench outside on the veranda—the usual gathering spot for customers chatting away. After crossing the culvert bridge over Tilkidara, I walked into the shop and was greeted by the familiar faces of the local boys from Chawk Tilak. They burst into laughter, joking, “Jamal Bhai told us about the 30 or 40 sheep you two found in the Shahjir Bari’s Bottiya last night. It wasn’t our sheep.”

 

They went on to explain that they didn’t own that many sheep and that all their animals had been securely locked away for the night, safe from the predators that roamed the countryside. With a hint of unease, they added that strange occurrences weren’t uncommon in the area—especially on full moon nights.

 

Jamal, however, had a different story to tell. His voice was low, his expression grave.

“After I left last night, something strange happened at our house,” he said. “Our family servant—the one who works for us—was possessed by a spirit. This morning, we found him under the Banyan tree—the very place where the sheep vanished. His mouth was foaming, and he was lying among broken branches and fallen leaves as if something had thrown him there. It was clear that whatever force we encountered last night… had found him next.”

 

Jamal’s father, a Hafiz, meaning he memorises the whole Quran, managed to perform a ritual and cure the servant. During the exorcism, the exorcist seeks refuge in Allah (SWT) and recites Quranic verses. When they asked the servant how he had ended up under the Banyan tree, he couldn’t explain. He had no memory of how he had gotten there. Terrified, he abandoned his job and left the village, even leaving behind his half-month’s salary. The possession, Jamal said, was a direct result of the ghostly herd we had encountered.

 

Locals referred to these spectral flocks as Hozorpal—a term for a herd of ghosts that could take the form of various animals. These spirits, they said, roamed the land at night, appearing as flocks of sheep, herds of cattle, or even entire packs of wild creatures. Their purpose was not only to frighten but to disorient those who crossed their path. More ominously, these ghosts had the power to possess anyone who strayed too close—especially near the Banyan tree, a place whispered to be their sanctuary.

 

As I listened to the elders of the village, I realised that the Hozorpal was no isolated incident. This phenomenon had haunted Shaharpara for generations. In hushed voices, people spoke of spirits that could take the form of animals, wandering the countryside to mock and terrify the living. These were not mere ghosts. They were shapeshifters, beings of the night that blended seamlessly into the natural world—until they chose to reveal themselves.

 

My encounter with the Hozorpal remains one of the most surreal experiences of my life. I had chased them, laughed and played with them, utterly unaware of their true nature. But as I walked home that night, alone in the eerie silence of the village, I couldn’t shake the feeling that their presence still lingered—watching from the shadows.

 

The Banyan tree stood as a silent sentinel to the Hozorpal, a grim reminder of the ancient forces that dwell beyond human understanding. And when I left Shaharpara years later, I carried with me the unsettling knowledge that some spirits are not bound by the laws of the living. They roam freely, hidden in plain sight, waiting for the light of a full moon to reveal their presence once more.

 

Some stories are so deeply woven into the fabric of a place that they become part of its very identity. These tales are shared across generations, whispered on full moon nights, and passed from elder to younger like a secret that can’t be ignored.

 

And then there are those stories that leave you with an unsettling sense of something beyond the ordinary—a lingering feeling that things aren’t always as they seem. These are the stories that cling to the edges of your thoughts like a shadow in the corner of your mind, persistent and unexplained. They remind you that some truths are too strange, too eerie to ever fully comprehend.

And yet… I had heard it.

 

As I stepped outside my house, the night had settled into an eerie stillness. It was long after the Isha prayer, which had begun after 7 PM, and just before 10 PM—the hour when spirits are said to roam freely under the cover of darkness. As I walked, a sound broke the silence—the rhythmic thud of a football bouncing across the Tilak Bazar field. It was unmistakable. Yet when the field came into view, there was nothing. No sign of a game. No shopkeepers indulging in a late-night match. The shopkeepers usually slept in their shops for security reasons, and though they might step out briefly at night, playing football at this hour was unheard of. By now, they would be fast asleep, resting before another long day.

 

A chill ran down my spine as I pressed forward toward Shahjir House. Just before I crossed into its compound, the silence was shattered by an otherworldly sound—a pack of foxes, or so I thought, their howls tearing through the night with an unnatural ferocity. The cries surrounded me, enclosing me in an invisible circle of unseen predators. Yet, something was profoundly wrong. These were not the sharp yips and barks of wild canines. Their voices were distorted, stretched beyond recognition, as though some unseen force had seized their howls and twisted them into a grotesque symphony of the unknown.

 

At that moment, every nerve in my body tensed, my senses sharpening, attuned to the unnatural presence that surrounded me. The night felt heavier, the air thick with an ominous weight, as if something ancient and malevolent lurked just beyond sight. I stood frozen, my breath caught in my throat, bracing for whatever horror lay ahead. And then—suddenly—the sound ceased. It was as if the creatures had never been there at all, their presence erased in an instant, leaving behind only a haunting, suffocating silence.

 

In a sudden burst of action, Turon Miah—my maternal nephew—had his servant step from the shadows and unleash a fierce shout. The creatures scattered instantly. Yet, as they vanished, an unsettling absence followed. Not a rustle. Not a footstep. The canal bank was strewn with dry leaves from the Pongamia pinnata trees, yet not a single leaf crunched beneath their retreat. Only the lingering echo of those unnatural cries remained, hanging thick in the night air.

 

Then, as abruptly as it had begun, it ceased. The night fell into an eerie, suffocating silence. The air felt heavier, as though the world itself had paused, holding its breath. I strained my eyes, searching the shadows, but I didn’t see a single fox. Not even the faintest flicker of movement. A chilling realisation crept over me—had there ever been foxes at all? Or had I been listening to something else entirely? Something unseen. Something not of this world.

 

It was not the sight of the foxes that haunted me, but the disquieting resonance of their howls. It wasn’t until much later that I grasped the unsettling truth: those were no ordinary cries. They were the spectral calls of jinns—a ghostly chorus attempting to breach the veil between our world and something far darker. Their voices, disembodied and menacing, had washed over me in a chilling wave, leaving me both terrified and inexplicably exhilarated.

 

On that fateful night, I counted myself fortunate to have escaped their intangible clutches. Yet, the memory lingers—a stark reminder that in the quietest hours, the familiar can dissolve into the inexplicable. Sometimes, the true horrors of the night are not what we see but what we hear—lurking in the silence between heartbeats.

 

This encounter has since become one of those whispered tales, passed down in hushed voices with wide-eyed wonder—a testament to the unseen forces that roam our world. So, dear reader, if you ever find yourself beneath a full moon, wandering through a lonely field, and hear a chorus of cries that seem too strange, too chilling to belong to any earthly creature, remember this: some ghosts are not of flesh and blood, but of something far more elusive—and far more terrifying.

Ghost in Bangladesh

The Ghostly Longboat of Shaharpara: A Journey That Haunts the Living

 

Some stories are so chilling, so surreal, that they refuse to be forgotten. They seep into the very fabric of your mind like shadows creeping through the cracks of reality. The story of the ghostly longboat of Shaharpara, Bangladesh, is one such tale—a story that keeps the village awake at night, haunted by a spirit that refuses to rest. If you dare to listen, you might just hear its eerie journey through the floodwaters—and feel the cold shiver of its touch.

 

The Abandoned School of Shaharpara: A Hollow Memory

 

In the historical village of Shaharpara, nestled in the Syedpur Shaharpara Union Parishad of 

Jagannathpur Upazila in the Sunamganj District, there once stood a school. It wasn’t just any school—it was the primary model school. A one-storey building with four classrooms, one of which was partitioned into two, the school was alive with children’s laughter, the clatter of wooden benches, and the rhythmic hum of teachers’ lessons.

 

But like all things in life, the school was eventually left behind, abandoned. The place that once thrived with youthful energy became a hollow shell, devoid of furniture, wooden windows, doors, or any trace of life. By the early ’90s, it had deteriorated into little more than a decaying structure. The old primary school had been transformed into a high school in the early ’80s, but when a new primary school was built to the west and a new high school erected nearby, the once-vibrant building succumbed to neglect and ruin.

 

What happened to the school after that? It was left to rot in silence. The village moved on. But the school… the school never forgot.

 

A Midnight Walk Into Darkness

 

In 1993, during the midst of the flood season when the rains began to retreat and the land soaked in its heavyweight, I found myself walking home along the main dirt road of Shaharpara—a now-paved road that runs through the village, past the desolate remains of the abandoned high school. It was around midnight, the moon hanging full and heavy in the sky, casting its silver glow over the land. The air was still, the kind of stillness that made everything feel too quiet. No sounds of voices, no distant chatter—just the echo of my footsteps in the night.

 

The school was on my left, an empty shell of a building. I had walked past it countless times, but tonight… tonight was different. Tonight, I saw something that would forever change the way I viewed the supernatural.

 

The Longboat of Terror

 

Beneath the sprawling canopy of an ancient jujube tree (Boroi Gach), my gaze settled on something intriguing—a longboat anchored nearby. But this was no ordinary boat. It was a traditional Fatami Nauw, an imposing vessel once relied upon by locals to ferry heavy loads—goods, livestock, and all manner of animal feed, including water hyacinth. Its dark, hulking form lay in eerie stillness, steeped in quiet mystery as if holding the secrets of many journeys past.

As I drew closer, I noticed something that made my heart race. The boat was loaded—loaded with school furniture. Benches, tables, and chairs—all the furniture that had once filled the abandoned school. How could they have gotten there? Where had they come from? Who had brought them?

 

But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was what stood on the boat.

 

A figure—a ghostly apparition—stood at the northern fore of the boat, a place unanchored to the ground, while the southern fore remained firmly tethered. A man? No, not quite. The figure transcended humanity, beyond flesh and bone. It was unnatural, a silhouette, holding a long bamboo rowing stick in hand, standing motionless, staring southward at me while I faced north, exactly opposite. The ghostly figure lingered at the edge of the harboured boat, its presence unnerving, as if waiting for something—or someone.

 

My breath caught in my throat. I was alone. No one was around. The boat should have been still—no one was there to push it, and neither was the ghost steering the boat with the bamboo pole. But still, the figure stood. Unmoving. In stillness.

 

The Ghost’s Silent Task

 

The scene was like something out of a nightmare, and yet, I knew I wasn’t dreaming. I was awake. And I couldn’t look away. The boat, despite being laden with heavy school furniture, remained stuck under the jujube tree. The main dirt road of Shaharpara was obstructed on its southern course, leaving it with no option but to turn back northward and then veer either east or west.

 

The figure stood there, waiting. Silent. Eternal.

 

My heart pounded in my chest, and a cold shiver ran down my spine. I wanted to scream. To turn and run. But I was rooted to the spot, paralysed by the overwhelming sense of terror that gripped me.

 

The ghost didn’t speak, didn’t move. It seemed locked in time, carrying out an unfinished task—something that could never be completed. Why? What was it waiting for? Why had the school furniture been loaded onto the boat? Why was the ghost there, standing at the helm, unable to move forward or back? What was its purpose?

Was the ghost waiting for another ghost to come and unload the furniture that had long been missing from the school, or was it waiting for another spirit to come and turn the boat in the northern direction, toward the west Tilak football pitch or Shahjir Bari Bottiya—the empty ground where children play in the dry season and where livestock gather before going to pastureland? Had the furniture somehow been meant to leave the school but was trapped, forever caught in a limbo of unfinished business?

 

The Local Legend: A Journey of Unfinished Business

 

Over the years, I learned from the villagers that this was not a one-time occurrence. The ghost of Shaharpara had appeared to many others before me and to many after me. Locals spoke of ghostly voices and strange lights flickering inside the abandoned school. Some even reported hearing strange noises—echoes of the past, unwilling to fade.

 

The most chilling part of it all was the belief that the ghost was tethered to the furniture it carried. The school furniture, the benches, the desks, the chairs—these were not just objects. They were symbols of an unfinished journey, a task that had never been completed. The ghost, some said, was that of a teacher, whose life had been tragically cut short, or perhaps it was the spirit of a student, interrupted by an untimely death.

 

Some even whispered that the spirit was bound to the school itself, cursed to carry out an eternal task. The furniture was never meant to be abandoned. The school, though it seemed forgotten by all and still held a presence, still required something—some act to be completed, some closure to be achieved. And until that was done, the ghost would remain, forever trying to finish what it had started.

 

The Spirit of Revenge or Vengeance?

 

Many cultures around the world speak of restless spirits—souls who cannot move on until they have avenged a wrong, completed a task, or fulfilled a mission. Could this ghost be seeking revenge? Was it trying to avenge the abandonment of the school, the death of a teacher or student, or perhaps the destruction of a once-thriving institution?

 

The villagers’ tales suggest that the ghost didn’t just haunt. It roamed. It travelled. During the flood season, it embarked on a journey, crossing the canals and waterways, carrying the school furniture in its boat. And in the dry season, strange voices would drift on the wind—voices that didn’t belong to anyone alive.

 

A Restless Spirit, Forever Bound

 

I have never forgotten that night. The moonlight, the boat, the ghost. The figure on the boat never moved. It was frozen in time, just as the school was. Stuck. Trapped. Bound to the past. I could only guess what it was waiting for, but I knew one thing for sure: the ghost of Shaharpara would never find peace.

 

Maybe, just maybe, when the last piece of school furniture is finally returned to the abandoned building, the spirit will rest. But until then, the ghostly longboat of Shaharpara will continue its eternal journey—a journey of revenge, of unfinished business, and of a spirit that can never let go.

 

And if you ever find yourself walking the road past that old school, with the moon high above and the chill of the night settling in, beware. For you may just see the ghost of Shaharpara, standing silently on its boat, waiting to complete its final voyage. 

Brick Lane

Dilly's ''Making of Music''

The Making of Music: A Fusion of Worlds, a Symphony of Souls 

 

Music, the most powerful of human expressions, transcends boundaries, defies definitions, and transforms lives. It is the universal language that binds us together, bridging gaps between cultures, traditions, and histories. The "Making of Music" concept is an exploration into this dynamic, ever-evolving realm—an artistic venture fuelled by a collective passion for blending the old with the new, the East with the West, and the local with the global. 

 

The concept was not born in isolation but rather through a shared vision, nourished by the wisdom of renowned maestros, musicologists, musicians, friends, and appreciators of all things melodic. A patchwork of influences, rich in history and diversity, woven together in a tapestry of sound. This project, which we have affectionately named the "fusion process," is not just about the merging of musical styles but the very synthesis of life itself—of tradition and innovation, of cultures and communities.

 

The concept of fusion music is a curious and exciting one, not merely an aesthetic choice but an evolution—a natural consequence of the interaction between different musical traditions. For as long as human civilisation has existed, so too has the exchange of ideas, sounds, and rhythms. These exchanges, often born out of necessity, conflict, or curiosity, have paved the way for the emergence of entirely new forms of musical expression. From the ancient Silk Road to the bustling urban landscapes of today's world, music has been a silent yet unifying force, transcending geographical borders and cultural constraints.

What we see today in the world of fusion music is not only the harmonious marriage of East and West but a broader, more intricate weaving together of the diverse threads of global musical traditions. From the intricate raga structures of North Indian classical music, steeped in the ancient wisdom of Indian spirituality, to the electrifying grooves of modern dance music, born from the heart of Western club culture, fusion music has come to represent the very heartbeat of contemporary musical expression.

 

The notion of "Global Fusion Music" is uniquely exciting, as it represents the collective voices of the entire planet. It is a blend of sounds, ideas, and philosophies drawn from every corner of the globe, creating a melange that is both diverse and cohesive. It is an affirmation of the world's interconnectedness, where different musical forms are no longer isolated but rather embraced, shared, and celebrated. While East-West fusion often dominates discussions in the Western world, a rich and equally compelling tapestry of East-East fusion is also unfolding—where the traditions of one Eastern culture interact with and inspire another.

 

In an increasingly globalised world, where cultures, societies, and economies are intertwining at an unprecedented rate, music stands as a beacon of hope for unity. It is the ultimate metaphor for the interconnectedness of humanity. Music doesn't ask for borders; it doesn't recognise the lines we draw in the sand. It is inherently egalitarian, speaking a language that transcends class, race, religion, and nationality. In this way, it serves as a powerful tool for fostering togetherness in a fragmented world.

The sounds and rhythms that make up our project reflect this belief—this philosophy of interconnectedness. We have drawn upon the North Indian scale notations, such as the majestic Raga Darbari, inherited from the musical traditions of Turkey, Persia, the Arab world, and Africa. These ancient scales carry with them centuries of wisdom, emotion, and spirit. From this, we have woven together the infectious grooves of modern dance music—a genre that speaks to the contemporary world and its pulse. The song Guru, with its lyricism and tabla twists, is a product of this blend. It is a meeting point of worlds, a sonic journey guided by the hands of those who have studied, practised, and lived this music. 

 

The legendary Dilly Meah, whose soul-stirring voice and brilliant musicianship illuminate the track, has been an invaluable collaborator. His influence is evident in every note, every twist of melody. Alongside him is the prodigious Yoshisuke Suga, whose sound design, bass playing, and drum programming add a modern, electronic edge to the work. Yoshisuke and I first met at the LMS London Music School, where we studied together and began to forge a lasting musical bond that transcended the classroom.

 

The flute sections, crafted by the virtuoso Paul Cheneour, bring a breath of life to the soundscape. Paul, a maestro whose flute has captured the spirit of Sufi music for decades, has been a partner in both music and philosophy since 1997. It was through our mutual friend, filmmaker Anam Hoque, that we first crossed paths. Since then, we have recorded together on several projects, including This Being Human and Dance in the Fire—albums that are both deeply spiritual and sonically adventurous.

 

Equally indispensable in this creative journey has been Margosagov, whose guitar and choral contributions elevate the track to a level of brilliance. We first met at the Baul film show organised by the esteemed musicologist Valentine Harding, whose passion for preserving and celebrating music from all traditions inspired both of us. Valentine’s deep knowledge of music, combined with her courage and compassion—having served as a nurse during the Bangladesh Liberation War in 1971—has enriched our collaboration in ways beyond music alone.

This project owes its shape to the legacy of women in music—particularly the untold contributions of women like Valentine Harding, whose resilience and intellect continue to influence generations of musicians and listeners alike.

 

As we enter the technical realm of music production, we find ourselves guided by the tools that connect the physical and virtual worlds of sound: the MBox 2, Pro Tools, MIDI keyboards, Genelec monitors, and a trusty Macintosh computer. These are our instruments, our canvases, through which we craft and sculpt the sonic vision that brings our diverse world together.

 

In this process, there is no hierarchy of musical traditions, no sense of "one better than the other." It is about finding harmony and resonance in the meeting points, those rare and beautiful spaces where cultures and sounds converge to create something wholly new and extraordinary.

 

Finally, as we celebrate this fusion of music, I dedicate this work to the memory of George Harrison, whose song Bangladesh remains a timeless reminder of the power of music to heal, unite, and inspire. In this world of increasingly divided identities, his music continues to echo as a beacon of hope and solidarity. Through the making of music, we find not only expression but connection, the threads that bind us together in a world that often seeks to pull us apart.

 

Music is not just an art form—it is a force. It is a journey. And in this journey, we are all bound together. Bangladesh Liberation War.

http://dillymeah.blogspot.co.uk/2012/0dillys-works.html

http://dillymeah.blogspot.co.uk/2012/03/dillys-family-legacy.html

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Dilly's works

(01) Composed original music for the award-winning short film Brick Lane (Movie Zone Awards), directed by Paul Makkar and produced by Sonia Makkar in 2002–2003. Collaborated with the esteemed composer Dominik Scherrer. 

http://film.britishcouncil.org/brick-lane                                    

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UeVBLNVD3l0/

(02) Composed the original score and performed as an actor in the short film Bangla Lane, produced and directed by Anam Hoque in 1995.

 

(03) Featured in a BBC production for the Royal Navy recruitment advertisement in 2004.

 

(04) Contributed to the musical score and performed in On the East Side, directed by Charlie Sen and produced by Betar Bangla (1503 AM Radio).  http://e-vibe.net/play/uk/340.htm

(05) Featured as a principal cast member in Location of Hason Raja, filmed in Sunamganj, Bangladesh, in 2002, directed by Ruhul Amin. Ruhul Amin is one of Britain’s most prolific Asian filmmakers, with a repertoire of 13 films for the BBC and Channel 4, primarily consisting of documentaries and experimental dramas. At the time, he was working on an epic Bengali film portraying the life of the legendary rural folk poet Hason Raja (1854–1922).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MfI0vDNTiwI

(06) Night in Bengal is a fusion album conceptualised, predominantly written, composed, produced, and independently released by me in 2002. Each track is an original composition, with the title piece, Night in Bengal, serving as a testament to universal and egalitarian music. This track exemplifies an eclectic blend of Bengali musical traditions and Western instrumentation, creating a harmonious synthesis of diverse influences.

 

The creative vision behind two standout tracks—Nishiraat (lyrics) and Dim-ta-nana Nana (musical theme)—was shaped by a deeply personal and otherworldly experience: an encounter with an extraterrestrial light in 1993. This mysterious phenomenon appeared as a U-shaped radiance, resembling an arch or a pair of rounded-top double doors, and enveloped me in its luminous embrace, leaving a lasting impression that profoundly influenced the album’s sonic landscape.”

 

CD Liner Notes Version

 

Night in Bengal

A fusion of soul and sound, Night in Bengal is an album born from vision and deep resonance. Written, composed, produced, and released by Dilly Meah in 2002, it blends the rhythms of Bengali musical heritage with the textures of Western instrumentation, creating a soundscape that is both intimate and expansive.

 

The title track, Night in Bengal, stands as a celebration of music’s power to transcend borders and speak a universal language. Two standout pieces—Nishiraat and Dim-ta-nana Nana—were inspired by a profound and personal experience: a luminous, U-shaped extraterrestrial light witnessed in 1993. This encounter left an indelible mark, shaping the emotional and sonic core of the album.

 

Promotional Write-Up Version

 

Night in Bengal (2002) is a groundbreaking fusion album by Dilly Meah, blending the ancient pulse of Bengali traditions with the textures of modern Western instrumentation. Conceptualised, composed, and produced by Meah, the album presents a rich and universal musical language rooted in mysticism, rhythm, and transcultural harmony.

 

The title track exemplifies this vision, while Nishiraat and Dim-ta-nana Nana reflect a more intimate source of inspiration: a personal encounter with a radiant, otherworldly light in 1993. Shaped like an arch or rounded-top double doors, the light enveloped the artist in its glow—an experience that continues to echo throughout the album’s soundscape.

The launch party for Night In Bengal took place in 2002 at the Brady Arts and Community Centre, Hanbury Street, E1. It was a memorable evening celebrating the fusion-based album, which I had the privilege of creating, composing, and producing at the Brady Centre.

 

I extend my heartfelt gratitude to Mr. Jerry Deeks, the manager of Brady Arts and Community Centre, for his generosity in providing me with space in kind for practising, teaching, and developing Night in Bengal. His unwavering support played a crucial role in bringing this project to life.

The event was graced by esteemed guests, including:

            •           Ali Mehdi Zaidi, director of Motiroti Theatre

            •           Shakeel Mohammed, sound engineer at On the One Community Music Studio, St. George’s Town Hall, 236 Cable Street, London

            •           GM Najim Chowdhury, CEO of Betar Bangla Radio 1503 AM

            •           Shamim Azad, renowned poet

            •           Abdul Jabbar, the legendary Bangladeshi singer and recipient of numerous prestigious awards:

            •           Bangabandhu Padak (1973)

            •           Ekushey Padak (1980)

            •           Shadhinota Padak (1996)

            •           Citycell-Channel I Music Awards – Lifetime Achievement Award (2011)

My mentor and maestro, Khondoker Emdadul Haque Manna, played a pivotal role in shaping my musical journey.

I was also fortunate to learn from Professor Dr Syed Shariful Islam, the younger son of the national leader Syed Nazrul Islam and the youngest brother of Syed Ashraful Islam, the former LGRD Minister of Bangladesh. Professor Islam is a distinguished academic, currently serving as the Head of the Public Health Department at PG Hospital (now known as Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujib Medical University—BSMMU in Dhaka, Bangladesh). He also holds the esteemed position of Dean of the Faculty of Medicine in Public Health and Informatics at BSMMU.

 

For over a decade, Flat 8, Basil House, Henriques Street, London, E1, served as a second home to me. Under the guidance of Professor Islam, I spent countless hours perfecting my Tabla skills while also engaging in deep discussions about literature, history, and philosophy. This intellectual and cultural exchange profoundly influenced my creative and academic outlook.

 

This residence also holds historical significance, as it was the birthplace of Betar Bangla Community Radio 1503 AM, where Professor Islam was a director.

 

During this period, I had the privilege of forming connections with some of the most brilliant minds in literature, academia, and the arts, including:

            •           Professor Syed Manzural Islam, his elder brother, a celebrated novelist, and the creator of the first literary map of Brick Lane; also, a professor of literature at the University of Gloucestershire

            •           Dr. Moniruz Zaman Monir, a key figure in social services at Tower Hamlets

            •           Cllr Doros Ullah, a respected community leader

            •           Bishwo Shahitto Kendro, London, and its many esteemed members

            •           Mozibul Hoque Moni, an actor and writer

          •          Dr. Hemel Muksed (Farhan Muksed Hemel), a physician and singer, known in the album as Dr. Pop; though he was in Bangladesh at the time, his sister—who was a secondary school teacher—graciously attended the album launch

            •           Many more community friends whose contributions enriched my artistic and intellectual pursuits

 

(07) Sound Radio 1503 AM, London (2005–2007)

 

Served as Head of Music, where I played a key role in shaping the station’s artistic direction. My responsibilities included:

            •           Composing original jingles for the station

            •           Curating playlists and discovering emerging musical talents

         •           Organising a recital of Indian Raga-based music at Queen Mary Hall, featuring distinguished artists such as Asif Akbar and Kaniz Shuborna

 

This period was an enriching experience, allowing me to merge my passion for music with the dynamic world of radio broadcasting, fostering both traditional and contemporary artistic expressions.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Syed_Nazrul_Islam

http://www.betarbangla.org.uk/about_us_2.html

(08) Television Appearances and Literary Collaborations

 

I had the privilege of performing music on Channel 5 at the launch of Mr. Q’s novel, Dead Meat. Additionally, my work has been featured on various satellite TV channels, showcasing my musical contributions to diverse audiences.

 

(09) Lewisham Academy of Music (1997–Present)

 

At the Lewisham Academy of Music, I have been actively involved in teaching fusion music, blending traditional South Asian rhythms with contemporary Western influences. Alongside my teaching role, I have also performed on stage, sharing my passion for cross-cultural musical expressions.

 

(10) Boishakhi Mela Performance (1997)

 

I had the honour of performing a solo Tabla recital at the Boishakhi Mela (Bengali: Pohela Baishakh) in 1997. My performance slot was arranged by Shadhin Khasru, the coordinator of the Kobi Nazrul Centre, who is now a prominent figure in the Bangladeshi film and drama industry.

 

The first-ever Boishakhi Mela in London took place in front of Pauline House, Hanbury Street, E1, in July 1984. The chief guest of this inaugural event was none other than Kabori Sarwar, the legendary Bangladeshi film actress.

 

Kabori Sarwar was awarded the Bangladesh National Film Award for her remarkable performance in Sareng Bou (The Captain’s Wife). She later transitioned into politics, being elected as a Member of Parliament (MP) for Narayanganj District No. 4 on 29th December 2008 under the Awami League.

 

Beyond her cinematic and political career, Kabori Sarwar played a vital role in the Bangladesh Liberation War of 1971, actively participating from India. She holds the distinction of being the first Bangladeshi woman to be broadcast on All India Radio during the war, using her voice as a beacon of hope and resistance for the people of Bangladesh.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lewisham_Academy_of_Music

(11) Dance in the Fire (1997)

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dance-Fire-Paul-Cheneour-Dilly/dp/B004SGTX1E/ref=sr_1_4?s=music&ie=UTF8&qid=1338397307&sr=1-4

An ambient audio album, Dance in the Fire, was a collaborative composition between Paul Cheneour and me. The album was produced and marketed by Red Gold Music, which blended ethereal soundscapes with intricate rhythms.

http://www.redgoldmusic.com/ http://www.justflutes.com/dance-fire-product959339.html

(12) Album This Being Human 

An evocative musical and poetic project, This Being Human is an album inspired by the 13th-century Sufi poet Rumi. The compositions blend music, poetry, and storytelling, creating a deeply spiritual and artistic experience.

 

Musicians:

            •           Paul Cheneour – Flute

            •           George Hadjineophytou – Oud & Saz

            •           Dilly Meah – Tabla

            •           Olly Blanchflower – Double Bass

 

Storytellers:

            •           Ashley Ramsden & Duncan Mackintosh – Voices

 

This project was honoured with an A4E (Arts Council of England) grant, recognising its artistic and cultural significance.

 

About Rumi:

 

Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Balkhi, commonly known as Rumi, was a 13th-century Persian Sufi poet, philosopher, and mystic whose works have profoundly influenced poetry and spirituality worldwide. His verses explore themes of love, divine union, and the human journey into the depths of the soul.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rumi http://www.justflutes.com/being-human-product959322.html

(13) London International Festival of Theatre (LIFT) – Music Teaching & Composition (1995–1997)

 

All teaching and composition roles were facilitated through the London International Festival of Theatre (LIFT) under short-term contracts ranging from 12 to 18 months. My role involved:

            • Teaching music theory and composition in a classroom setting.

            • Working with groups of around twenty students, fostering creativity and musical expression.

            •           Encouraging students to listen intuitively, understanding note and chord changes through aural perception and recitation rather than traditional notation alone.

 

Teaching Roles in London Schools

 

(14) Thomas Buxton Primary School (1996–1997)

 

I had the opportunity to teach and mentor students at Thomas Buxton Primary School, contributing to their musical education.

 

(15) Harbinger Primary School (1995–1996)

 

At Harbinger Primary School, I introduced young learners to the fundamentals of rhythm, melody, and composition, helping them develop a music appreciation.

 

(16) Central Foundation Girls’ School (1995–1996)

 

During my tenure at Central Foundation Girls’ School, I worked with students to enhance their musical skills, particularly focusing on fusion music, bridging Eastern and Western musical traditions.

http://www.itowerhamlets.co.uk/profile/schools-local-authority/43753/Thomas-Buxton-Junior-School.html http://www.harbingerschool.co.uk/ 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Central_Foundation_Girls'_School                       

17) Composer, London International Festival of Theatre (LIFT), London (1995–1996)

 

I served as a composer for the London International Festival of Theatre (LIFT), a prominent arts festival founded by Rose Fenton and Lucy Neal in 1981. LIFT has been pivotal in introducing international theatre to London’s audiences, showcasing a variety of innovative productions.

            •           LIFT’s Mission: The festival aimed to bring the best of global theatre to British audiences, with a focus on innovative and international performances.

            •           In 2003, leadership was passed to Angharad Wynne-Jones, who remained Artistic Director until 2008, when Mark Ball took over.

            •           LIFT’s Impact: In its early years, it drew impressive crowds, with 35,000 attendees in its first year and 92,500 in 1993.

 

(18) Celebrating India’s 50th Anniversary (Music & Drama)

 

To mark the 50th Anniversary of India, I had the privilege of teaching music and drama to students preparing for a stage performance celebrating this historic milestone. I was responsible for creating all the background music for the songs and drama scenes within the production.

            •           The festival aimed to expose British audiences to a broader spectrum of international theatre, with a rich array of performances from across the globe.

 

(19) Composer for “The Seed, The Root” alongside Akram Khan MBE

 

I worked as a composer for the production of “The Seed, The Root” alongside the renowned choreographer and performer Akram Khan MBE, whose groundbreaking work has earned him numerous accolades. Notably, in 2004, Akram Khan received an Honorary Doctorate of Arts from De Montfort University for his outstanding contributions to the UK arts community.

            •           Akram Khan’s Legacy: Akram Khan is celebrated for his unique blend of contemporary dance and classical Indian dance, and his work has had a lasting impact on the international arts scene.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/London_International_Festival_of_Theatre

http://www.towerhamletsarts.org.uk/?cat=29&cid=29276&guide=Organisations 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Akram_Khan_(dancer)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Motiroti

(20) Wave Dancing Company (1997–1998)

 

I collaborated with Dr. Mukid Chowdhury as part of the Wave Dancing Company, a collective dedicated to the fusion of music and dance. This creative partnership explored interdisciplinary performance art, combining rhythm, movement, and visual storytelling. Their work was showcased at the Edinburgh International Festival and on various stages across London, earning recognition for its innovative approach to cultural expression.

 

(21) International Tours (1997–1998 and 2004)

 

As a Tabla accompanist alongside flautist Paul Cheneour and the London Music School, I participated in a series of international tours that included performances in Istanbul, Calcutta, Dhaka, Sylhet, and Mumbai. These tours served as platforms for intercultural dialogue and artistic exchange, allowing the ensemble to present their music to diverse audiences while engaging with local musical traditions.

 

(22) Tales of the Flute (1999)

 

In 1999, I composed the music for Tales of the Flute in collaboration with Paul Cheneour. The production was captured by Arun Halder and was brought to life through the efforts of Red Gold Music. The post-production was carried out by Paul Cheneour and Eric Massey, resulting in an evocative piece that blended traditional and contemporary elements.

 

(23) Versatile Knowledge of Music

 

Although my primary expertise lies in Indian music, I have a broad understanding of all types of music and their cultural origins. This versatility allows me to engage with and appreciate a wide range of musical genres, enhancing my ability to compose, perform, and teach music with a deep and inclusive perspective.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bPbZgfWb-XY

(24) Instrumental Proficiency

 

I am proficient in playing a range of Indian and other instruments, including the Tabla, Dhol, Khol, Dufkey (also spelt Dupki), Keyboard, Ek-Tara, Tanpura, Manjira, and Harmonium. This diverse skill set enables me to bring a unique blend of sounds and rhythms to my compositions and performances.

 

(25) Technical Knowledge

 

I possess a basic knowledge of PA systems and mixing consoles, which allows me to manage sound effectively during performances and recordings, ensuring the optimal presentation of music.

 

(26) Arakana Studio, London (2008-2009)

 

During my time at Arakana Studio in London from 2008 to 2009, I worked as a composer, creating original music in collaboration with a small production team. The work produced during this period was promoted on MySpace, providing a platform for wider recognition and feedback.

(27) Secondary Education

 

I completed my secondary education at Robert Montefiore Secondary School in East London from 1978 to 1980, where I spent my third-year honing both academic and extracurricular skills. Robert Montefiore Secondary School

(28) 1978-1980: Film Workshops and Mentorship

 

From 1978 to 1980, I attended film workshops at the Montefiore Centre’s top floor on Hanbury Street, where I met Khondoker Aminul Haque Badsha, a distinguished Sitar practitioner trained under the legendary Ustad Khurshid Khan and the maternal grandson of Ustad Allauddin Khan Sahib. Badsha was also a freedom fighter, actor, journalist, and the deputy press secretary to Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, the Father of the Nation and founder of Bangladesh. At the time, he was working for the Inner London Education Authority(ILEA), with his office located at the Montefiore Centre in Hanbury Street, London E1.

I had the privilege of meeting a youth worker at the Montefiore Centre on Hanbury Street, E1 5HZ, by the name of Sayed Ashraful Islam. He worked for the Inner London Education Authority (ILEA) and, in time, may have served as the Centre’s director. Syed Ashraful Islam was not only a distinguished community leader but also a resident of what was formerly Berner Street—now known as Henriques Street—where he lived at Bernard Baron House in E1. I frequently visited this area with Aroj Ali, who shared his dedication to uniting the Bengali community against the racial attacks that plagued East London. 

It was during these visits that I encountered the passionate cultural activist and journalist Shahab Uddin Belal Ahmed. He had a unique obsession with cutting fonts and words from Bangladeshi newspapers to create newsletters. Under Sayed Islam’s guidance, he would meticulously cut and paste these words onto A4-sized sheets, photocopying both the front and back to produce four pages of Bengali newsletters. These newsletters were dedicated to raising awareness of the racist attacks and highlighting news within the Bengali community of East London.

 

Shahab Uddin Belal Ahmed was also a prominent presenter, hosting numerous Bengali cultural shows across the UK. I recall one time when he asked me to purchase some kebab puris from the Sweet & Spice restaurant in Brick Lane. When I asked for money, he replied, “You don’t have money. Why do you work?” So, I went ahead and bought the kebab puris for him and his friends. His apartment, filled with anti-racist campaign boards and sleeping bags, often served as a haven for many of his comrades, who spent their nights there.

 

Ahmed’s background was nothing short of remarkable. He had been a successful freedom fighter during the 1971 Bangladesh Liberation War. As the elder son of Syed Nazrul Islam, one of Bangladesh’s foremost independence leaders, he carried forward the legacy of his father, who was also an advocate, professor, and vice president of the country. Syed Nazrul Islam had tragically died in captivity at the Old Dhaka Central Jail, along with the national leader Tajuddin Ahmad, the first Prime Minister of Bangladesh.

 

In the same vein, other prominent figures, such as Muhammad Mansur Ali, the Finance Minister of the Mujibnagar Government, and Abul Hasnat Muhammad Qamaruzzaman, a key member of the Awami League, also played pivotal roles in the fight for independence. Syed Nazrul Islam, in particular, was the acting President of Bangladesh in 1971 and the first Bangladeshi to take the Oath of Office as Acting President.

 

Sayed Ashraful Islam, Syed Nazrul Islam’s son, went on to become the General Secretary of the Awami League and the LGRD Minister, later serving as the MOPA in the government of Bangladesh. He passed away on January 3rd, 2019, leaving behind a lasting legacy of public service and dedication to his country and people.

 

(29) In 1978, I had the honour of serving as the captain of the Royal Bengal football team, a role I held until 1980. During this time, we travelled to Birmingham in 1980 to play against a Pakistani team. John Newbigin is a multifaceted individual whose impact has spanned across various sectors. A cultural entrepreneur and writer, he has held significant roles in multiple organisations, including serving as the Chairman of both Culture24 and Cinema Arts Network, cultural web publishers that support the arts. He also contributes his expertise as a member of the boards for Battersea Arts Centre, First Light, and the British Council’s Advisory Board for Arts and Creative Economy.

 

Beyond his leadership in the cultural space, Mr. Newbigin played a key role in shaping UK government policy on creative industries, serving as the Special Advisor to the Minister of Culture. His career truly took off when he became Head of Corporate Relations for Channel 4 Television and later executive assistant to Lord David Terence Puttnam. Additionally, John was the policy advisor to the Leader of the UK Labour Party, where he focused on environmental and cultural issues, among others.

 

Before making his mark in the corporate world, John Newbigin dedicated six years as a youth worker in East London and also served as a writer-in-residence for Common Stock Theatre. His diverse experiences have allowed him to bridge the worlds of culture, politics, and media, creating a lasting legacy in each field.

In the late 1970s and early 1980s, I had the privilege of being part of an extraordinary network of individuals, and it was under the guidance of my late friend Caroline Adams, a renowned author, youth worker, cultural activist, and co-producer of Hason Raja, that we found the strength to push through challenges. Caroline, alongside her partner John Newbigin, supported our Royal Bengal football team with immense dedication. With their encouragement, we triumphed in a 2-1 victory during a match in Birmingham, a celebration of which included a delightful mutton chap prepared by our manager, Amalendu Chakraborty. We all gathered in Birmingham to share a meal in celebration.

 

During our football practices at Buxton Street Park, we had no proper goalposts, so we would use our coats as makeshift goals. Later, John and Caroline gifted us a small, bamboo-sized, mobile aluminium goalpost, which became an essential part of our training. Caroline Adams loved us like her own children, and I have vivid memories of her nurturing presence. One of my fondest memories from 1978 was sitting on her lap in East London, a gesture that felt like a second motherly embrace, aside from my own mum.

 

Caroline had an inspiring background. After graduating in politics from the University of Kent, she volunteered with the Cathedral Relief Service in Calcutta, where she was deeply involved in the care of refugees during the Bangladesh Liberation War of 1971. She also set up play facilities for children and, after the conflict, visited many families in the newly independent Bangladesh. Her humanitarian work, especially during the creation of Bangladesh, was extraordinary. Caroline was also a close friend of Ms. Valentine Harding, whom I had the privilege of accompanying while she pursued her PhD in music at Goldsmiths University of London. Valentine Harding, a nurse during the Bangladesh Liberation War, also became an influential figure in my life.

 

Between 1978 and 1980, under the management of Amalendu Chakraborty, the Royal Bengal football team included players such as Shundor Miah or Shundor Ali, Yeor Ali, Muhib Rahman, Ana Miah (1), Ana Miah (2), Abdul Shubahan, Debu Chakraborty, Abdul Kadir (1), Abdul Kadir (2), Abdul Korim, and many others, all of whom shared in the spirit of unity and activism during a challenging time.

 

(30) In the years 1982 to 1985, I rejoined the Overseas Youth Organisation (OYO), where Amalendu Chakraborty continued as manager, and I served as captain. The team included Aroj Ali, Motin Bhai, Islam Bhai, Amir Hussain, Turon Miah, Sunahwar Ali (a student at Robert Montefiore Secondary School), and many of our Royal Bengal teammates. Sunahwar Ali’s flat on Scott Street near Brady Street was a gathering point for our group, where we often met with Amalendu Chakraborty and his younger brother, Debu Chakraborty. Additionally, we gathered in Amir Hussain’s flat at Celia Blairman House on Folgate Street.

 

(31) From 1985 to 1986, a new team called Algate United was formed by our friends. We hired local professional league grounds for practice, paying £26 per hour for two hours every Sunday at Weaver Field, Bethnal Green Road.

 

(32) From 1986 to 1990, I became deeply involved with the Weaver Youth Forum (WYF), a local organisation where I joined the team and helped form a new one. I initially served as the team captain, later moving into leadership as an executive member and eventually becoming Vice-chairman. It was an incredibly rewarding period, working alongside Abdul Mukit Chunu MBE and many other dedicated individuals.

 

(33) In 1978, I became a founding member of the Spitalfields Housing Association, which was officially registered in 1979. Originally conceived as a Co-operative by the visionary activist Fakruddin Ahmed, it was a bold initiative supported by the resilient Bengali community of Tower Hamlets. My cousin, Yousuf Ali, also a founding member, graciously covered my membership fee. With unwavering dedication, he served as the association’s secretary for nearly three decades before rising to the roles of treasurer and, ultimately, chairman—leaving an indelible mark on the community through his tireless service and leadership. Their first properties were acquired on Princelet Street and Hanbury Street, gradually expanding one after another. Today, it stands as the largest Bengali housing association in Britain, a testament to the community’s resilience and determination.

(34) In 1982, I had the honour of becoming a founding member of the Bengali Arts Centre, located at 30 Hanbury Street, E1, which was also known as the Kobi Nazrul Centre. This cultural hub was named after the legendary Kazi Nazrul Islam, the national poet of Bangladesh, whose revolutionary poems and songs ignited the spirit of resistance against colonial oppression. Often referred to as the Bidrohi Kobi (Rebel Poet), Nazrul hailed from a family deeply rooted in justice, and his literary works continue to inspire generations. The Centre was inaugurated by the esteemed Lord Fenner Brockway, a passionate advocate for social justice and equality.

 

(35) Between 1981 and 1983, I embarked on my professional journey as an apprentice at a clothing factory under the mentorship of the renowned promoter Aroj Ali. During this time, I not only refined my skills in the clothing industry but also nurtured my love for music, studying part-time with several distinguished artists from Bangladesh. This period marked a defining phase in my life, where the demands of work seamlessly intertwined with the joy of musical exploration.

 

(36) From 1983 to 1990, I continued my work at the clothing factory, which had been sold to the Greek brothers, Mr. Andrew and Mr. Peter, and rebranded as Duran of London Ltd. While fulfilling my responsibilities at the factory, I dedicated myself further to my musical studies, practising regularly and experimenting with various styles. This balance between my job and my musical passion was vital for my personal growth, not only as a worker but also as a musician, deepening my connection to both my craft and my cultural heritage.

On the 4th of May, 1978, a horrific act of racism claimed the life of 25-year-old textile worker Altab Ali. He was brutally murdered and robbed by three youths near the corner of Adler Street, at the edge of St. Mary’s Park, off Whitechapel Road. Despite his efforts to seek help, calling an ambulance from the Whitechapel High Street telephone booth at the corner of St. Mary’s Park and White Church Lane, Altab Ali tragically collapsed and succumbed to his injuries.

The murder sparked the largest Bengali demonstration ever witnessed in East London, a powerful movement that we, the Royal Bengal football team, along with friends and family, were honoured to attend. Today, the park where Altab Ali fell is known as Altab Ali Park, a lasting tribute to his memory. Originally named St. Mary’s Park, the area was historically associated with St. Mary’s Church, a 14th-century white church from which the local area, Whitechapel, derives its name. This tragic event became an awakening call for the Bengali community in the UK, leading to the formation of numerous organisations at that time.

Remembering Altab Ali: A Symbol of Resilience in the Face of Racist Violence

On May 4th, 1978, tragedy struck when Altab Ali, a young Bangladeshi garment worker, became the victim of a brutal act of racist violence in London’s East End. Robbed and killed by attackers motivated by hatred and bigotry, Altab Ali’s senseless death reverberated through the community, igniting a movement against racism that still resonates today.

At just 25 years old, Altab Ali was a hardworking immigrant striving to build a better life for himself and his family in the United Kingdom. His death was not only a devastating loss to his loved ones but also a wake-up call for society to confront the pervasive racism and xenophobia that plagued immigrant communities at the time.

The events surrounding Altab Ali’s murder were rooted in the escalating tensions and hostility toward immigrants in East London. In the 1970s, the area was grappling with economic hardship and social unrest, intensified by political rhetoric that scapegoated immigrants for the city’s problems.

However, Altab Ali’s murder did not go unnoticed or unchallenged. His death galvanised the Bangladeshi community and their allies to take a stand against racism and demand justice for this senseless loss of life. This tragedy sparked a wave of activism and solidarity, bringing people from all walks of life together to denounce racism and support the victims of hate crimes.

One of the most enduring legacies of Altab Ali’s death is the annual Altab Ali Day, observed every 4th of May to commemorate his life and legacy. Each year, people gather in Altab Ali Park in East London to pay tribute to his memory and renew their commitment to fighting racism and prejudice in all its forms.

The significance of Altab Ali’s story extends far beyond the borders of London. His murder became a catalyst for broader conversations about racism, immigration, and social justice in the United Kingdom and beyond. His name has become synonymous with resilience, courage, and the ongoing struggle for equality and human rights.

As we reflect on Altab Ali’s life and legacy, we are reminded of the urgent need to confront racism and xenophobia wherever it exists. His memory serves as a powerful reminder of the human cost of hatred and bigotry, and the importance of standing up for justice and equality for all.

Though Altab Ali’s life was tragically cut short, his spirit endures in the ongoing fight against racism and discrimination. As we honour his memory, let us recommit ourselves to building a world where every person is treated with dignity, respect, and compassion, regardless of their race, ethnicity, or background.

(37) Between 1986 and 1994, I received Tabla training at the Varanasi School in London under the esteemed maestro Deboo Chowdhury (also spelt Deboo Chowdhury). He was trained by the legendary Pandit Radhakanta Nandi, a prominent figure in Indian classical music. During this period, I was fortunate to also be mentored by the late Khondker Emdadul Hoque Manna, who was a key figure at the Swadhin Bangla Betar Kendra (Free Bengal Radio Station) during the Bangladesh Liberation War of 1971. Manna, an accomplished radio program producer, singer, and composer, trained under the maestro Shaymal Mitra. His guidance played a pivotal role in shaping my musical journey.

 

(38) In 2004-2005, I completed a Diploma in Music Technology at the London Music School (LMS), located on Osborn Street, Brick Lane. During my time there, I achieved a Distinction in Sound Engineering and Merits in Harmony Theory, MIDI Computers, and Vocal Studies. The skills I gained through this program have had a lasting impact on my musical career, particularly in the realm of sound engineering and technology. [Website: www.tlms.co.uk]

 

(39) In 2010, I completed business training through the East London Small Business Centre, further equipping myself with the tools to navigate the entrepreneurial landscape. This experience gave me the skills and confidence to manage business operations and pursue my professional goals. [Website: www.towerhamlets.gov.uk]

 

(40) In 2011, I worked for KOTO RONGO Theatre and Zen Bicycle, collaborating alongside maestros such as Paul Cheneour. This experience allowed me to explore new creative avenues, both in theatre and the arts, while working with talented individuals who shared a passion for innovation and artistic expression.

http://www.towerhamlets.gov.uk/content_pages/a_to_z/a_to_z_pages/e/east_london_small_business_cen.aspx http://www.zenbicycleband.co.uk/video_clips.htm

(41) In 2013, I had the privilege of co-producing Ek Khana Megh alongside Yoshisuke Suga under the banner of Earthy Music. This project represented a profound exploration of fusion music, seamlessly blending traditional and contemporary sounds to craft a distinctive and captivating sonic experience.

 

(42) In 2012, I devoted my time to teaching the Tabla, while simultaneously composing music for a Sufi Baul fusion album. This endeavour sought to harmonise the spiritual essence of Sufi music with the folk traditions of the Baul, weaving a rich and intricate fusion of melodies and rhythms.

 

(43) In 2013, I contributed to the album Flames of Love, an instrumental composition deeply rooted in the Sufi Baul fusion genre. In collaboration with Paul Cheneour, the renowned flute maestro, this album resonated with the profound emotional depth and mystical beauty inherent in both Sufi and Baul traditions.

 

(44) That same year, I embarked on the creation of Heart of Gold, another instrumental album within the realm of Sufi Baul fusion music. This work, a continued creative exploration with Paul Cheneour, further delved into the soulful and transcendent qualities of this distinctive musical style.

 

(45) In 2013, I also began work on an untitled album, once again rooted in Sufi Baul fusion music. This project, a collaborative effort between myself, Paul Cheneour, and Margo Sagov, was slated for release in 2014 and aimed to push the boundaries of the fusion genre further.

 

(46) In 2014, I embarked on a groundbreaking fusion album that featured one of Bengal’s oldest songs alongside several new compositions. This project was profoundly inspired by the history of Sufi saints, particularly Hazrat Shah Jalal (RA) of Sylhet. The album also included a medieval Bengali song, composed by the poet Kavindra Parameshwar, which poetically evoked the historical grandeur of Sultan Ala-ud-Din Husain Shah and his general, Paragal Khan, during the golden age of Hussain Shah. Through this work, I sought to bring the spiritual and historical richness of Bengal to the forefront through music, offering a reverent tribute to its enduring cultural legacy.

The chronicles of Tripura, notably the Rajmala, paint an extraordinary portrait of the fierce but often thwarted ambitions of Sultan Hussain Shah during his reign in Bengal. His four successive invasions of Tripura, though ambitious, faltered in their ultimate goals, highlighting the resilience and tactical ingenuity of the Tripura forces. The first of these invasions ended in utter failure, a testament to the unforeseen challenges of conquest in an unfamiliar land.

 

The second invasion, although more aggressive, saw Hussain Shah’s forces conquer Comilla and advance deeper into Tripura. However, as the invaders crossed the Gomati River, a brilliant stratagem by the Tripura general, Rai Chai Chan, turned the tide. Rai Chai Chan had cleverly dammed the river upstream, creating a deceptive dry riverbed that enticed the invaders to cross on foot. At the moment the Bengal army attempted to cross, he ordered the dyke cut, unleashing a flood that swept away both soldiers and horses, rendering the invasion a catastrophic failure.

 

Despite these setbacks, Hussain Shah’s ambitions persisted, with hints of success mentioned in the Sonargaon inscription of 1513, where Khwas Khan is described as the “Sar-i-Lashkar” (commander of forces) in Tripura. The Rajmala, too, recounts multiple instances where Tripura’s defense relied on strategic wit, frustrating the invaders’ plans. However, the third expedition, like its predecessors, proved unsuccessful, with Hussain Shah’s forces unable to fully subdue Tripura.

 

The final invasion, while resulting in a battle won at Kali Fort, marked only a partial victory for Hussain Shah. The defeat of King Dhanja Manikya’s forces at Kali Fort enabled Hussain Shah to secure control over the approaches to Chittagong. Yet, his overall goal of conquering Tripura remained unachieved. Though the Sonargaon inscription hints at some form of annexation, Tripura’s resilience held firm. With the Kingdom of Arakan siding with Tripura in the later stages of the conflict, Hussain Shah’s war with Tripura inevitably led to an engagement with Arakan, one that would stretch over several years.

 

The Arakanese, initially occupying Chittagong, found themselves pushed back by Hussain Shah’s forces. In 1513, Paragal Khan led the Bengal army along the Feni River to expel the Arakanese, though the campaign extended into a prolonged struggle. After Paragal’s death, his son, Chhutti Khan, took charge and finally succeeded in recapturing Chittagong around 1516. This victory, though significant, was short-lived as Arakan briefly became a vassal state of Bengal. However, this period of vassalage was fleeting, and by 1519, Hussain Shah’s reign had come to an end.

 

Hussain Shah’s legacy is defined by his restoration of peace to a land long fractured by chaos, consolidating the traditional boundaries of Bengal while extending them into new territories. Though his reign was marked by almost continuous warfare with neighbouring kingdoms, the internal peace within Bengal allowed for prosperity and cultural development. Hussain Shah’s rule was remarkable for its inclusivity, treating both Muslim and Hindu subjects with equal respect. Like the Mughal Emperor Akbar, he sought to forge a unified monarchy that transcended religious divisions, fostering loyalty among all sections of his people.

 

Hindus like Roop and Sanatan—who later became disciples of Chaitanya—were appointed to high offices, including the wazirship. A Vaishnava poet even lauded Hussain Shah as an incarnation of Lord Krishna, illustrating the deep devotion he inspired among his Hindu subjects. Some historians, however, have sought to downplay the secular nature of Hussain Shah’s rule, citing his destruction of Orissa, a common practice among medieval generals during invasions. But Hussain Shah’s involvement was minimal, and his reign should be remembered for the flourishing of culture rather than destruction.

 

Under his rule, Bengal witnessed the rise of a profound Vaishnavism movement led by the saint Chaitanya, who preached love and devotion to God through bhakti. This movement had far-reaching effects, attracting followers from various religious backgrounds, including Muslims. Hussain Shah’s reign also marked the first golden age of Bengali literature. Poets and scholars flourished under his patronage, producing remarkable works in the Bengali language. While some local qazis objected to public chanting and idol processions, the general atmosphere was one of tolerance and encouragement for the arts, even by Muslim officials who sometimes participated in such cultural practices.

 

The legacy of Hussain Shah’s reign can be seen in the vibrant cultural and literary renaissance that blossomed in Bengal during his rule. His efforts to create a unified and peaceful state laid the groundwork for a cultural awakening that reverberated through the region for generations. His reign, though marked by warfare, also ushered in a period of creativity, religious tolerance, and intellectual growth. Parameshwar’s Mahabharata, with its glowing references to Hussain Shah, is a testimony to the reverence in which he was held by contemporary Hindus.

 

In the grand tapestry of Bengal’s history, Hussain Shah’s reign stands as a beacon of cultural achievement and religious harmony, a time when the seeds of Bengali identity were sown and began to flourish into the distinct and rich heritage we recognise today. The following verse from Parameshwar’s Mahabharata is a self-evident testimony to contemporary Hindu attitudes to Hussain Shah: 

Nripati Hussain Shah hai mahamati

Pancham Gaurete jar parama sukhyati

Ashtra shastre supandit mahima apar

Kalikale habu jeno Krishna avatar

Nripati Hussain Shah Gaurer Ishwar

Tar hok senapati Hasanta Laskar 

Laskar Paragal Khan mahamati

Suvarna basan paila ashwa bayugati

Laskari bishaya pai aibanta chalia

Chatigrame chali gela harashita baiya

Putra pautre rajya kare Khan mahamati

Puran shunante niti harashita mati

(King Hussain Shah is of a noble mind.

His great fame spreads all over Gaur.

Well-versed in weaponry, his achievements are infinite.

He is the incarnation of Krishna in the kali era.

King Husain is the Lord of Gaur.

His commander, Hasant Lashkar Paragal Khan, has a great mind.

He has gifted a golden dress, and his horse was as fast as the wind's speed.

Lashkar, having recovered his possession, moved on and arrived at Chittagong in a cheerful mood. 

The great Khan ruled the kingdom with his sons and grandsons listening gladly to the Puranas). 

Kavindra Parameshwar, a renowned lyricist and poet, is known for his abridged version of the Mahabharata, a monumental work that condensed the vast and intricate epic into a more accessible form. While he is not the original author of the Mahabharata, his version is significant for its unique approach and historical context. Written between 1515 and 1519, this abridged rendition of the epic was specifically created under the patronage of Paragal Khan, a prominent figure of the time. Paragal Khan, recognising the grandeur of the Mahabharata, requested Parameshwar to shorten the original text to a more manageable length, one that could be read in a single day.

 

As a result, Parameshwar’s version of the Mahabharata consists of 18 chapters, distilling the essence of the epic while retaining its core themes and moral lessons. This condensation made the work more accessible to a wider audience, ensuring that the profound wisdom of the Mahabharata could be experienced in a more concise form without losing the integrity of its narrative. The timing of this version’s creation, during the reign of Hussain Shah in Bengal, further reflects the cultural and intellectual climate of the period, marked by a flourishing of literature, art, and philosophical thought. Parameshwar’s Mahabharata thus stands as a testament to the adaptability of ancient texts shaped by the historical and cultural needs of its time.

(47) Watch the video showcasing the “Sufi-Baul Fusion” genre, created by two master explorers: Paul Cheneour and me.

Sufi Baul Fusion — with Paul Cheneour and Dilly Meah.

The ‘Sufi-Baul-Fusion’ is an extraordinary musical blend that draws from the spiritual and devotional traditions of Bengal. At its core, it marries the soulful Kirtan music of Bengal, which is deeply rooted in the region’s culture, with the mystical Sufi ‘Sama’ dervish music. This Sufi music, which traces its origins to the Persian, Yemeni Arab, and Turkish traditions, made its way into the Indian subcontinent through Sufi saints of the Quraysh clan and the descendants of the children of Ibrahim Khalilullah (alaihi wa sallam).

 

The fusion began from the first meeting between me, as a tabla player, and Paul Cheneour, a gifted flautist. Over the years, we have developed a unique and evolving musical language, blending our distinct styles into something entirely new. Notably, the Baul music of Bengal, with its deep spiritual undertones, shares common roots with African rhythms—specifically, the rhythmic patterns that form the foundation of Reggae music, a style that, in turn, owes much to Sufi traditions.

 

The tabla, a traditional membranophone percussion instrument, plays a central role in this fusion. Its origins can be traced back to the Arabic word ‘tabl’, meaning “drum”. Traditionally, the tabla is attributed to the great Amīr Khusrau, an iconic figure in Sufi music. Khusrau, regarded as the “father of qawwali” and a founding figure of Hindustani classical music, was instrumental in blending Persian, Indian, and Sufi musical traditions. His devotion to his spiritual mentor, Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya (RA), and his legacy continue to influence modern Sufi music.

 

The fascinating connection between Sufi music and the tabla lies in the teachings and journeys of Hazrat Amir Khusrow (RA), who not only shaped classical music but also shared a profound bond with the Sufi saints of the time. In Delhi, Khusrow met numerous Sufi saints who were connected to Hazrat Shahjalal (RA) of Sylhet, a key figure in the spread of Sufism in Bengal. This mystical lineage, including Hazrat Khwaja Shah Burhanuddin Qattan (RA), forms an important part of the musical and spiritual heritage that I am connected to, both personally and musically.

 

Through this fusion, we not only celebrate the rich traditions of Sufi and Baul music but also forge new paths for spiritual expression in the modern world, drawing from a deep well of historical, cultural, and mystical influences. The journey from tabla rhythms to the soulful notes of the flute is a testament to the timelessness of Sufi-Baul fusion and its ability to transcend time and borders.

http://dillymeah.blogspot.co.uk/2012_03_01_archive.html

http://dillymeah.blogspot.co.uk/2012/03/dillys-family-legacy.html

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