Final days of Kazi Nazrul Islam

It is almost impossible to determine the number of countless writings published on Rebel Poet Kazi Nazrul Islam. In Michael H Hart’s book, “The 100: A Ranking of the Most Influential Persons in History”, Kazi Nazrul Islam is named among the greatest of all time. There is nothing new to be said about the poet. In short, Nazrul was the poet of rebellion and equality. He was one of the most prominent figures in Bengali literature, music and culture.

During the anti-British movement, his writings awakened the Indian people like a comet. For this, he was given the title of Rebel Poet. He wrote countless stories, poems, novels and songs in a fiery voice against imperialism, oppression, injustice, inequality, exploitation and subjugation. Yet alongside his rebellious nature, his romantic side was legendary. The subject of this article is the final days of the poet.

The poet, a humanist, indomitable, rebellious, altruistic and independent spirit, was eventually defeated by life. Like a helpless child, he fell ill with a severe and incurable brain disease. It was 10 July, 1942. Two years earlier, in 1940, his wife Pramila Devi had been paralysed. The poet spent large amounts of money on her treatment. He used everything—his car bought on instalments, land donated by a devotee in Ballygunge, copyright from his books, royalties from his recorded songs—for her care, but no effort succeeded. Meanwhile, his illness deprived him of speech and writing. On 17 August 1942, he wrote to his close friend and younger brotherly companion Sufi Zulfikar Haidar, a letter that revealed his mental state.

In the letter, he wrote, “Dear Haidar, …Bedridden with blood pressure. Writing this letter with great difficulty. Illness in my home, debts, creditors’ demands, worries from morning till night. Then the worries of Nabajug for 3/4 months. For all these reasons, my nerves are shattered. For six months I have been going to Mr Haque, sitting there like a beggar for 5/6 hours, only to return empty. …I cannot afford proper treatment. …This may be my last letter to you. …My speech is failing, with great difficulty I utter a few words, and even that brings unbearable pain throughout the body. Perhaps like poet Ferdowsi I too shall receive money on the day of my funeral prayer; but I have forbidden my relatives to accept it.”

In the early stages there were mistakes in his treatment, and it would be fair to say there was neglect. Otherwise, who knows, perhaps the present condition of being called ‘incurable’ might never have come. As long as the poet’s wife Pramila lived, there was no shortcoming in her devotion, care and love. Though paralysed, she not only managed the household but also tended to the poet till the very end.

On Pramila’s care, the poet’s daughter-in-law Kalyani Kazi said: “As long as she lived, Pramila fed baba with her own hands on most days. After he finished eating, she would wash his hands and face and gently dry them with a towel. If she did not serve the food or sit by him, none of us felt satisfied. Her sense of responsibility and duty towards baba was extraordinary. Even at dead of night, when everyone else was fast asleep, she would sit alone playing ludo, cards, or Chinese checkers. The purpose was to keep watch like an alert guard. Because baba never slept continuously. So sometimes, waking up in the middle of the night, we would hear the sound of pieces knocking on the board, and then a voice saying from time to time— ‘Come back, don’t go outside. Listen, lie down.’”

Nazrul spent the last two decades of his life in a state like living death. Not only his creative powers but his speech and intellect too had completely vanished. By 1953, doctors had confirmed: “In the present condition, any kind of surgery would do the patient more harm than good. The patient is practically thoughtless, calm, childlike, and should be left as he is, because no better condition can be restored.”

There remains some uncertainty about what exactly his disease was. In 1953, Dr Hans Hoff’s report clearly stated: “The disease is probably not GPI (General Paralysis of the Insane); more likely it is a type of pseudo-paralytic condition caused by meningo-vascular syphilis. The disease has progressed so far that no benefit can be expected from surgery.” In this condition, Nazrul lived on for another 23 years.

On 24 May, 1972, the day before his seventy-third birthday, the Bangladesh government, with special permission from the Indian government, brought the poet to Dhaka with great ceremony. By then, he was completely unconscious and unresponsive. At the airport, amidst the enthusiasm of hundreds of thousands of admirers, the royal welcome, the luxurious residence and the careful arrangements for his comfort—he was in no state to feel any of it.

In January 1975 he was granted Bangladeshi citizenship, and on 21 February he was awarded the country’s highest state honour, the Ekushey Padak.

On 6 April, 1941, at the silver jubilee celebrations of the Bengali Muslim Literary Society held at the Muslim Institute Hall in Kolkata, Nazrul delivered this address as president. This was his last speech before being rendered speechless for life by an incurable disease. In his last speech, Kazi Nazrul Islam had said: “Friends, the gift you have placed in my hands today, I lift it to my head in respect. My whole body, mind and soul have today resonated like a veena. From it has emerged only one note—I am blessed, I am blessed. You honoured me on the day you liked my writings. I was born in the age of the impossible made possible of the twentieth century. I am one of the trumpeters of that campaign army—let this be my greatest identity. Because I was born in this land, in this society, I do not belong only to this land or this society, I belong to all lands, all people.”

Nazrul’s music teacher, Dhiren Basu, recalled an incident. On the poet’s seventy-third birthday in Dhaka, invited artistes Kazi Sabyasachi, Manabendra Mukhopadhyay, Kalyani Kazi and Dhiren Basu all went to place garlands on him. But the poet would not lift his head. At that moment, Kazi Sabyasachi said to Dhiren Basu, “Dhiren, sing that song of yours.” Dhiren Basu drew up the harmonium and sang, “Why are you silent, poet, in the festival of flowers?” As the song ended, the poet raised his head and looked at everyone. The garlanding ceremony was completed.

Despite medical supervision, the poet’s condition gradually worsened. His frail body was attacked by fever and pneumonia. On Sunday, 29 August 1976, at 10:10 in the morning, the poet passed away.

In every crisis, disaster and adversity of our national life, Kazi Nazrul Islam remains ever relevant. If we draw strength and inspiration from him in moments of national challenge, only then will we achieve success. On the forty-ninth anniversary of his death, we pay deep respect to his memory and his works.