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A teacher with a difference: Razia Khan

Saturday, 24 March 2012


Wasi Ahmed
It is no wonder at a time when human emotions and sensibilities are meant to be methodically blunted by chaotic and street-smart contrivances of self-promotion, the passing away of Mrs Razia Khan would cause a noticeable ripple. Thanks to those few who have tried to rekindle their memories with her.
A devout teacher of English literature, Razia Khan was in the first place a creative writer gifted with a sharp insight to probe the social scenario as well as the situation of the individual caught in diverse twists of the human psyche - an effort (occasionally an affront perhaps) which unmistakably places her as a forerunner of the writers of this country who succeeded her in the last two-three decades. Her 'Bot Tolar Uponnash' written as a beginner in her early teens was enough of an indication of the literary journey she was to take in the years that followed. True, she did not pursue the journey as steadfastly as she should have given her capabilities, however, she did write a couple of remarkable novels in the seventies and few stories in the eighties and the nineties. Her novels 'Proticitra' and 'Citrakabya' are notable for the carefully woven narratives and a curious reader would find she was experimenting a good deal for an innovative blend of the plot and the language not common even to this day. Razia Khan did not write to capture a wide readership nor did she aspire to be well received by the amjonota. Selective as she was, she wrote for the sheer joy of writing - an urge she so strongly cherished to portray and interpret her themes -- society and indeed the individual -- as she found them.
My first encounter with Prof Razia Khan took place in a tutorial class way back in 1976 when as a student of DU English department I was more inclined to attend Sharif Mia's canteen located at that time behind the university library than the classes on Shakespeare, Coleridge, Tennyson and so on. The university campus in those days was just beginning to show signs of unrest with stray incidents of vandalism here and there, though in style and degree those were far too amateurish compared to the heroics we see and read in the newspapers these days. In the English department classes were barely skipped by the teachers with 'I shall remain indisposed on…' notices, and the students mostly God-fearing, felt insecure to bunk classes on King Lear and The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner. As for myself, being in the company of a few neo-stalwarts I preferred Sharif's canteen for the simple reason that it was in that decrepit tiny tea shop rank with the smell of stale bread and kerosene you could hope to see a whole gang of young poets, revolutionaries, playwrights, short fiction writers brimming with bursts of creative energy that would one day shake the world.
The day I met Madame Khan being summoned by her, she was for good reason furious not to have ever seen me in her tutorials. My reaction obviously was of shock - a budding writer myself expected some measure of differential if not preferential treatment from someone of my fraternity. Shock too, because her aggression didn't betray the slightest aura of a writer's temperament underneath the seething disposition of the teacher's -- scolding a recalcitrant. The fury part over, she asked me to take my seat and write an essay on a modern poet - anyone I wanted, but not one included in the curriculum. I asked, 'Baudelaire?' -- my voice feeble but potentially full of injured pride. Raising her eyebrows she looked at me straight in the eye and quizzed, 'Are you sure?' But before I was to nod in approval, she said, 'You're here to appreciate English literature and not Buddhadev Bose's translation of Baudelaire in Bangla.' In a last ditch effort I wanted to know if Sandburg would do, Carl Sandburg. She was quiet for a long moment but without allowing a semblance of calm returning to her agitated face ordered, 'Go ahead and finish before I'm off in just forty-five minutes.'
What followed in a week or so seemed a repair job from her side to not only restore my self-esteem but more importantly to draw me close to her heart with such affection that perhaps only Madame Razia Khan was capable of. Moody she indeed was, but she was no longer the hard-hitting soul and at times even indulged in enquiring about a host of personal matters. The fear factor gone, I was quick to join her in long exploratory talks on a wide range of issues. She regretted for not giving enough time to her writing. But for a writer, she would say, time is no big deal, its inspiration that you need. She would tell me about her favorite writers. Oscar Wilde was one and loved to occasionally refer to The Picture of Dorian Gray. Dostoevsky was another. Browning, Lawrence, Patrick White, Faulkner, Lorca, Yeats were also in her list of fond authors. Forster - no, Kipling's Lahore stories - yes. Tagore was the delight of her heart.
As I soon became her ardent fan attending the 8:30 classes on Browning with or without breakfast, I realised how passionately she loved to share her feelings with her students. And the joy of listening to her immaculately delightful English was partly due to her frequent digressions. She would move away from the text, bring in a myriad mix of references, anecdotes, incidences of the writers' private life that would reinforce the reading of the text in her own unique style. Speaking on Browning's dramatic and interior monologue in My Last Duchess or Andrea Del Sarto she would delve into the theories of renaissance art based on observation and detail and one could see how eager she was to open up all possible avenues before her students to instill in their minds an aptitude for literature beyond the few selected texts in the curriculum. My liking for Browning's poetry is singularly indebted to those memorable classes she took. And yes, interior monologue as a literary device has ever since remained a source of great inspiration in whatever little attempts I have tried myself.
Madame Razia Khan was generous in grading -- more than perhaps anyone of her colleagues in our time. She encouraged free thinking like most of our teachers at that time did, but the beauty of her appreciation was she would read out a script she liked to others - a rare incentive that the incumbent was tempted to see repeated.
With her passing away I am reminded of a John Berger one-liner: Dare not knock the seed lest it bursts.
(The writer is a novelist and short story writer.)