Poet Nirmalendu Goon: Independence Award, and as I knew him

Poet Nirmalendu Goon, or Goonda as we called him, was already famous before 1971. His poem "Hulia" which he read out at a poetry evening organised by the National Book Centre made him instantly recognised in the cultural and literary circles of Bangladesh. Like all his poems, it had a strong theme but was also intensely lyrical and relatable to everyday life. His demeanour, his hair and beard, both unkempt, his clothes and lifestyle added to the imagination of the "poet" in those simpler days. He came from Netrakona but conquered Dhaka quickly.

"Hulia" was about the many paths that stood before us as a people in 1970. It was also about his Leftist beliefs and the challenge that Sheikh Mujib and his politics had thrown to the rest of the politicians and ideas including socialism. But it was a narrative of how much rested on Sheikh Mujib's shoulders too. The poem reads like an autobiography mixing the personal with the political – the narrator who has a warrant on his head, returned to the sanctuary of his rural home.

As a poem it was a brilliant success. In 1971, he went to India and his poems were heard on radio too. By the time I met him in 1972, he was known to all in the campus zone and many wannabe poets wanted to be like him. He was very suited for the world that descended after liberation – restless, militant, increasingly decadent, money with some and no money for most, uncertain, zero options, and hope mingling with fear to create an explosion in arts and literature.

The world of "Hulia" had got a life extension and many paths lay once more before us.

With another poet of that era – late Safdar Siddiqui – he would sometimes visit our Dilu Road house, now no more. Our home was a safe zone for my friends, as my rather tolerant parents accepted them all including the ganja fumes, pill popping, and cheap liquor.

We were not rich at all, living on my dad's single salary, but tea was possible with "toast biscuit", the savior of the hosts. My parents liked Goon-da because he was so polite and polished and called my mother "Khala amma", and even chatted with my dad. Goonda would scold Safdar bhai who would behave wildly even in our drawing room once in a while.

My parents thought much of him and my father said that he was so well-behaved, he must have been from a "high family" – probably landlords. This is how "sharafat" cuts across socio-religious lines.

The most popular "pill" at that time was a downer "Mandrex" which was also affectionately called "Mandy" by many. Once, when his birthday rolled around, it was celebrated with a "poetry party" at TSC. He called to invite me, saying that Bhashon, Professor Munier Chowdhury's son and noted drama performer, and himself would recite poems to the crowd. I understand that as a proper host, guests were treated to a Mandy each.  My parents would have been suitably impressed. Such a "shareef" host!

He even wrote a poem on Mandrex. " Aj Robbar, aj holiday, aj Mandrex, aha Mandrex, agey janley, agey janley tor bhanga noukai chortam na…" ( It's Sunday, it's a holiday, it's Mandrex,  oh Mandrex, If I knew before, I would never ride your creaking boat, oh Mandrex.. .)

It was a lovely, fun but also a dark poem. It was so much like the poet himself.

I am familiar with his first three poetry collections-  Premangshur Rokto Chai ( I want Premangshu's blood), Na Premik Na Biblobi ( Neither a Lover nor a revolutionary), Kobita: Omimangshito Romoni ( Poetry : Woman Unresolved) and I think they are his finest harvest. His poetry took a new turn after the events of 15^th August. It was a major trauma for him and affected the poet in many ways that never touched many Awami league leaders even. I remember a footpath poetry session, something that was common in those days, and Goonda read out a protest poem on Sheikh Mujib. This was during the Martial law days and doing this took guts. He was untroubled by it but many wondered about the consequences.  But he appeared neither troubled nor scared. He had simply followed his conscience. His later book, Tar agey chai Shomajtantra (And before that we want socialism), spoke of his beliefs and ideas, more political less poetical. They were somewhat naïve – most socialists are naïve anyway – but he believed in it with the sincerity of his heart. To him, Sheikh Mujib and socialism had become one.

My friend Kayes is close to him and has many tales of their shared and elaborate dissipated life, but that's another story for Kayes to tell some day. But the poet is an exceptional man, an exceptional eccentric, an exceptional poet , an exceptional man of political values and principles. He is also a man who treated the homes of Dhaka as his sitting and dining rooms. A cricket fanatic, I had once met him at the BSS office in Paltan where he was supposed to be working. After a spell of listening to the radio cricket commentary he went down  for lunch to a smoky restaurant which served badly cooked food.

He was not happy with his lunch so as we walked down the North South Road he said, "Rahat Khan( novelist and once Editor of Ittefaq) lives nearby. Let's go and see what he has on his table." And of course, luckily for him, the table was laden with a feast. He took such situations as the entitlement of a poet and as we talked, he ate and discussed why Dilip Vengsarkar of Indian cricket was a great but underrated individual. Finishing his food he chatted for a while, and then walked away to his next destination while I went home.

He has his reasons to yearn for a National medal but in my book he is one of the truly great souls and achievers of Bangladesh. What is the medal for truly great achievers called?