Syed Manzoorul Islam: A name that fits countless titles

Those of us who grew up in the 1990s saw before our eyes countless giants and towering figures — bright stars who shone across literature, politics and culture. Through their writings and activities, they played a vital role in building Bangladesh, both before and after independence. Their names are too many to list; remembering them all at once is difficult. Yet today, when we look around, we see emptiness everywhere. Only a handful remain alive. Among our great contemporaries, Professor Sirajul Islam Chowdhury is still with us. Not long ago, we lost Badruddin Umar, Jatin Sarkar and Ahmad Rafique. Yesterday, Syed Manzoorul Islam took his final leave. In fact, he was the last representative of that golden, glorious era of the 1960s and 1970s, when our nation-state began to take shape through literature and culture. I say this because he built a bridge between the generations of the 1960s and 1970s and those of the 1980s, 1990s and beyond.

Syed Manzoorul Islam was a professor who taught in the Department of English at the University of Dhaka for over four decades; yet, he had nothing of the typical professorial air about him. He was like a friend, like an elder brother — as many young poets and writers have said after his passing. Poet Tokon Thakur wrote on social media, “One of Syed Manzoor’s finest qualities was his friendly approach to students or those who were like sons to him. He was never the ‘erudite professor’ type. I have lost a revered senior friend.” 

The truth of that statement is reflected in the flood of tributes from countless admirers, friends and well-wishers on social media. Facebook is filled with mourning and respect from poets, writers and readers. As a writer, Syed Manzoorul Islam might not have been universally popular, but as a person he certainly was. People loved him because anyone could approach him freely and without fear. He was never stern; he would become one of you while still preserving his own distinct personality. One could not quite call him reserved — rather, he managed to establish closeness while maintaining a gentle distance.

His immense popularity among the young came mainly from the way he mingled with them. Anyone who went to him could sit comfortably and talk. He was easily reachable, often attending literary and cultural events when invited. But perhaps that alone does not explain his appeal. Many others are modest and sociable too, yet despite their goodwill they often fail to connect with younger generations — whether because of age or some other barrier — and a distance or hesitation arises from both sides. To give an example, Sirajul Islam Chowdhury never really established a connection with the post-1990 generation. Some may have known him personally, but friendship never developed. In that sense, Syed Manzoorul Islam was exceptional. Many of his students became his close friends. And not just those of the 1990s — writers and poets of the next two decades also enjoyed his companionship. This ability to transcend both time and personality must be recognised as rare in our society. We have seen how, once people attain some social stature, they withdraw from ordinary circles, hiding themselves from public contact. Syed Manzoorul Islam, though extraordinary, remained wonderfully ordinary. And that very ordinariness was his most extraordinary quality.

Syed Manzoorul Islam was not only immersed in writing and friendly gatherings; he also raised his voice when needed. One of his remarks once went viral: “No scientists, no researchers, no philosophers — wherever you look, only administrators!” In what became his last public speech, on 27 September at a literary event at the World Literature Centre, he said, “Teachers must be good human beings. Teachers must be intelligent. How much are our primary school teachers paid? Reform must begin there.”

These voices are falling silent. We now live in an age of witnessing the passing of the greats. One by one, all the lights are going out. Darkness lies ahead, and there is no sign of light anytime soon. Those who once spoke boldly about the injustices of our society and state, whose words carried moral weight — they are vanishing. We are becoming orphaned of our guardians. For our generation, this is a vast emptiness. Naturally, one generation departs and another is born — that is the law of life and the world. Yet it is painful to accept this eternal truth because, for us, everything seems only to be disappearing; the birth of such luminous new generations is no longer happening. A great intellectual poverty is clearly taking hold in our country.

Another unfortunate reality is that even many of those from the 1990s who followed in the footsteps of earlier generations have failed to establish meaningful contact with the next generation. This too is creating a large gap between generations. A few still speak out, but most of what is said now becomes the voice of a specific political faction. The classical tradition of public discussion — that is, creating a civic space through art and culture — is fading into the dust of time.

Syed Manzoorul Islam kept that classical tradition alive — through his writing, his discussions, his connections with both earlier and later generations, even through his dress and bearing. His small book Nondontotto (“Aesthetics”) expressed this sense of beauty in every line. In his literary work, too, he sought repeatedly to connect the classical with the contemporary. In Olosh Diner Hawa (“The Breeze of Idle Days”) and Lekha-jokhar Karkhanate (“In the Workshop of Writing”), he wrote about great writers such as John Keats, Yeats, Umberto Eco and Pushkin. Like a magician opening his palm to reveal gems, he introduced us to European, African and Latin American postmodern literature. He did not hesitate to write about contemporary author Chinmoy Guha’s works either. He wrote extensively on art. While many of our writers remain hazy about postmodernism, he was crystal clear — and could make even novices like us understand through his short essays.

Our only complaint against Syed Manzoorul Islam is that he did not write more. Given his knowledge and erudition, he wrote too little. In later years, he often attended events and presided over seminars — which prompted both critics and admirers to remark, half-jokingly, that he had taken over Anisuzzaman’s seat!

At the time of his death, Syed Manzoorul Islam was 74. That can hardly be called an age to go. He always appeared strong and energetic, his age barely visible. No one imagined he would be taken away by a heart attack. Even after returning from life support, everyone hoped he would recover — but he set out instead on the journey to eternity. Yet even as a traveller on that eternal path, he will remain among us in this world of dust and clay through his writings. In his stories and novels, he always sought to portray fragile human beings — those who, even while breaking down, keep their spines straight; who, while trapped in nightmares, keep their dreams alive; who, even as darkness engulfs them, continue searching for the light.