The boy casts a last look at Nagordola. He hears the cries of joy of the riders as the Ferris wheel goes round and round. He's ridden it once, but he'll love to jump in again for another round.

The Baishakhi fairgrounds is just a stone's throw away from the Doyagonj Bridge, where grandpa always takes Rony for afternoon walks. At the Dhupkhola Math fairgrounds, the boy goes wild with excitement. So many toys to buy, so many sweet snacks to eat, so many fun rides to try. The Mela is abuzz with a raucous yet delightful soundscape. He flutters with joy. "Dada, I want this. Dada, I want that," Rony demands as he capers about, driving grandpa crazy and tugging his hand violently in all directions.

Over an hour, the boy makes grandpa broke. Still his seven-year-old heart is unconvinced. He begins to shed tears, and grandpa has no way but to pull his empty Panjabi pockets inside out. "See?" Grandpa says. "I had 10 taka and I spent it all on you. Now let's go home."

Clutching the clay boat in one hand and the balloon bashi (flute) in the other, he gives one more soulful glance at the vendor who is vending toy steamboats. In a water filled small round tub, the vendor exhibits how his "bhotbhoti" works. He lights the oil infused wick, and it runs ahead cutting across the water, just like a real big steamer launch that the boy had seen at Sadarghat port. 

"It's too expensive," Grandpa says and pulls his hand. "We'll buy it next time."

The boy casts a last look at Nagordola. He hears the cries of joy of the riders as the Ferris wheel goes round and round. He's ridden it once, but he'll love to jump in again for another round. Grandpa is holding a clay elephant and the wooden push-n-pull walking toy. And his other hand is holding a cone of finger shaped goja sticks. The boy bites into a stick as they head out the fairgrounds.

Toward the end of that year, 1987, grandpa no longer takes the boy to afternoon walks. "It's dangerous," grandpa explains. "Military is everywhere." At times, Rony surreptitiously slips from the house and wanders through the alley that leads to the main street. From a safe distance he watches open top olive-green jeeps patrol the street. At a neighbor's front yard where children gather to play, he often hears some older kids chant a phrase: "Down, down, down with Ershad."

The following year, the boy's family has moved to another neighborhood in Narinda. He is happy in the new place. One of his friends at school happens to live next door. The friend's father, who is in the trade of business, reads books. One day Rony hears him tell his friend, "If someone asks you about your religion, say it's Sanatana Dharma."

That year, the day before Pohela Baishakh, the boy learns about Chaitra Sankranti, a celebration of the last day of the month Chaitra in Bangla calendar. When he visits his friend's, he is offered fruits and a variety of homemade sweets, including payesh and coconut laddoo.

Delwar is a senior mastan, a known goonda in the neighborhood. His kinfolks—younger brothers and many cousins—all have eventually followed his footsteps. One of these cousins, a school dropout, is Rony's age. Rony plays marbles and spinning tops with him, along with the other kids in the neighborhood.

In one year, arrangements are made to celebrate Baishak. A small stage with shamiana is erected off the main street, blocking the three-way junction. On the day of the Pohela Baishak, the program kicks off in the late afternoon. The host is none but Delwar. Long and tedious speeches are delivered. Songs and dances are performed. Then Delwar stands upright before the microphone. He begins reciting a poem. Bidrohi by Kazi Nazrul Islam.

For the first time, the boy sees the other side of Delwar mastan, in the skin of an artist. His thick and stentorian voice is mesmerizing. The boy is awed, enchanted, fascinated. Each word of the poem fills him with a thrilling sensation. This is his first ever experience to watch someone perform Bidrohi live.  

Of medium height and sturdily built and balding, Delwar is in his mid-thirties. He has a hard face and large eyes, eyes that are powerful enough to give one a cold shiver. What astonishes the boy most is Delwar renders the whole poem by heart. How could the heart of a goonda or mastan bear such a passion for poetry? How on earth has he gotten this artistic talent? the boy wonders. When Delwar utters the last two lines of the poem, the boy truly imagines him as the real rebel—a savior dropped from the sky to save the troubled nation: 

Ami chiro bidrohi bir/ bishwo charaye uthiyachi eka chiro unnoto shir (I am the rebel eternal, / I raise my head beyond this world, / High, ever erect and alone! —trans. by Kabir Chowdhury)

The boy has had goosebumps all over his body, all throughout the recitation. Long after Delwar finishes his performance, his masterful voice stays with the boy. He feels possessed for days and weeks. That afternoon, Delwar mastan turns his preteen life upside down. Eventually, the boy purchases a second-hand copy of Sanchita from Bangla Bazar and starts memorizing many brief poems.

Some years later when Delwar dies of a heart attack, the boy has yet to learn Bidrohi in full by heart. Pohela Baishakhs come and go. Rony will listen to many recitals of the poem Bidrohi, but it is Delwar's voice that still reverberates in his ear.

The boy, Rony, is me. The boy is now a man, over forty.

As the man writes this piece on Pohela Baishakh, as he thinks back to his early days in the eighties, he relishes the happy memories of going to the Baishakhi Mela. He is to remember the exuberant soundscape of the fairgrounds. He can hear the continual sound of dug-dugi. The rhythmic steady creaking of Nagordola is not to be forgotten. As the Ferris wheel goes round and round, its riders—kids and teens—cheering and screaming and laughing their hearts out.

Growing up in the eighties in old Dhaka, the man cannot remember hearing anyone greeting others uttering: "Shuvo Noboborsho." In those days, the arrival of Baishak was all about going to the fair. Maqsoodul Haque of Feeedback band rightly says in his song: Melay jaire, melay jaire…

Rahad Abir's work has appeared or is forthcoming in Prairie Schooner, The Los Angeles Review, Singapore Unbound, Himal Southasian, Courrier International, The Wire, and elsewhere. Currently he is working on a short story collection, which was a finalist for the 2021 Miami Book Fair Emerging Writer Fellowship.