Portrait of a Village

Legends of Choar Mumtaz:
Saleiha Chachi Smiles

John Samuel


Saleiha Chachi kept smiling. Her tobacco stained teeth gave some hints about her age. She must be in her mid sixties or early seventies. She lived at Choar Mumtaz a remote island in the Meghana river of Bangladesh. It took almost eighteen hours of trip by boat to reach Choar Mumtaz- near Gloachipa


Saleiha Chachi is a ray of hope in an otherwise hopeless world of Choar Mumtaz. Saleiha Chachi remembered the horror of the flood in the 1970. As the flood washed away most of the people of Choar Mumtaz- Saleiha Chachi lived to tell the story. She lived to change Choar Mumtaz. She lost her first husband, children and everything in the flood. She was a young and beautiful woman at that time. She found herself stuck on the branch of a tree almost four days after the flood. She still remembered the stench of death. She realized that her house and the places nearby did not exist anymore.

But her will to live prevailed. She slowly picked up the pieces of life, rebuilt again- all by her. Those days there were no NGOs or anyone to support. Saleiha Chachi married again, she has three children. She never had any chance to go to school. But she picked up the Bangla alphabets. Today she runs a school- a ray of hope in Choar Mumtaz. She was one of the few women without the veil in the whole island and she encouraged her daughter in laws and daughter not use veil. Her smile, bright eyes, perspective, her boldness to change the situation within and around her made her a rare women leader in the far away land of Choar Mumtaz.

She inspired me and she signified the thousands of unsung, unheard and invisible leaders- both women and men- who make change happen. Most of them are real volunteers, driven by a sense of purpose and courage of conviction to make change happen within and around them. They speak in their local language. They do not have the luxury to travel out. I was happy to discover Saleiha Chachi and was happy when Actionaid Bangladesh decided to felicitate her during its twentieth anniversary. That must be one of the very few times she traveled out.



Choar Mumtaz is in a time wrap. It seemed like visiting a village in the 1970s. There is no electricity in Choar Mumtaz, no telephone, no hospital, not many roads and no car. The elite of Choar Mumtaz travel by bicycles. Choar Mumtaz looked beautiful in the afternoon- like a green patch in the midst of the shining Meghana River. Choar Mumtaz boasts a weekly market- where goods from the mainland Bangladesh reach by boats. I saw a rather impressive poster of Sadaam Hussain- he looked like a film hero- in the main barbershop at the gateway of Choar Mumtaz. It seems to be a poster appeared in some magazines- Saddam with a gun! The barber knew that the photo was that of Saddam. But he did not know what happened to him. Somehow Saddam sneaked in to Choar Mumtaz in a small boat as a myth…the handsome macho man with a gun- challenging all the Kafirs (unbelievers)! It hardly mattered to the barber whether he was still ruling or captured or dead! In fact Saddam was the only visible symbol of globalisation there. Choar Mumtaz too needed heroes and their own myth. Barbershop seemed to be right place for that!


There is one pharmacy and a young “doctor” who runs it. The ‘doctor” is one of the enlightened souls of the village- as he claimed that he finished school and learned ‘pharmacy’ in Calcutta. He was the answer to all usual ailments. He was ready with quick diagnosis and medicines that he sold. His 10X 10 small room was the one and only primary health care system. I met the only globalised man during an evening walk in the main street. He showed off his own little English- to the wonder of around ten people who were curious to hear our conversation. He was the only “engineer” in the town and maintains few generators owned by the ‘elites”. He said that he worked in the ‘Gulf’ and knew about the ‘world’ quite a bit. He also supported the electric generators and “projector” in the lone entertainment centre – a thatched cinema hall. The young people of Choar Mumtaz sneaked out in the evening to catch a glimpse of Bollywood!


The weekly market is the one and only market place as well as a sort of public sphere. People across the island come here to sell, buy, to exchange and to entertain themselves. Market is a bit of celebration in the rather quite island On the side of the market, there was a cattle market- around hundred cows, goats and bullocks wait impatiently for buyers! The most astonishing thing was that I could not find many women at the market. Even the few who came covered their face, behind the black veil.

On the way back from the market in the evening, I saw a rather well made house, by the standard of the village. My friend told me that it was the house of Haji Sattar Chacha. Haji Sattar Chacha was the only man in the villages who could go to Mecca for Hajj. He is relatively well off- with farming. A short, dark man, with white beard and tobacco stained teeth. He became a father at the age of 72. His third wife was in her twenties and his son was four years! He told me the legends of Char Mumtaz- the flood, the farm, the people, the market, his trip to Mecca and development. He gave zakat and he started the first high school: Haji Sattar High School - the lone high school in the whole village. With a young wife, a little son, white beard and a school to his credit, Sattar Chacha looked a happy man- who lived a happy life in lush green of Char Mumtaz!


Choar Mumtaz looked beautiful. Choar Mumtaz looked Sad as well. A sad beauty standing alone in the midst of an unpredictable river – a danger concealed deep beneath the silver-green waves and flow. A soothing wind. No pollution. Not much noise. The sound of the flowing river and the sight of naked children running around in the green. The smell of the fertile earth. The smile of the people on the street. No police. No State! No globalisation! I went to the local Kali Temple with few young Muslim friends. There is no discussion on secularism and pluralism! But few Hindu families happily coexisted with majority Muslim population. Choar Mumtaz seemed to be blissfully unaware!

Choar Mumtaz almost looked like an imaginary island- where the big world beyond the vastness of the river- commenced at Golachipa and ended with Dhaka. The lone NGO is the sign of “development” in the island. I stayed at their place- a mix of shelter home and office. That one of the few concrete constructions among scattered huts in the midst of plantains, bamboo and coconut trees.

There are few hundreds of thousands of unsung and unheard leaders in such villages across South Asia and indeed across the world. They may not have the “development funda’ or jargon or a theoretical or strategic master plan to “deliver development”. But they act with courage of conviction. They bring together people. They help to mobilize resources. They plan with people and make things happen- help to get water, build schools, and challenge unjust practice and reform society and culture. Saleiha Chachi made me humble. She taught me a couple of lessons about survival, development and change.

The tragedy of development discourse is that the key proponents, experts and missionaries of modern development discourse often spent more time in seminar rooms and board rooms. Those who take decisions regarding development, women’s rights, human rights, and governance are often far away from the lives of the real poor people in the real lives. They often derive power from their sleek ready made “power- point” presentations rather than the power of experience or power of people. Such encounters with the real lives of real poor people make me still restless about my own validity and role in relations to hundreds of thousands of Saleiha Chachies in the world.


For me trip to Choar Mumtaz was like a pilgrimage – a cleansing act, a spiritual exercise and offer of myself to learn, to unlearn, to feel, to touch, to smell, to feel my own roots- an act of nostalgia. It reminded me of my own beginning in the villages as an invisible and inspired teenager who passionately wanted to make change happen- without any knowledge of development and NGOs. It brought back the nostalgia of my living for two years in the remote tribal villages in Mizoram of India. It reminded me of my work with slum dwellers in Pune.

Legends of Choar Mumtaz stirred me. The legends keep growing within me, make me feel and imagine. The legends that keep making me restless!

On my way back from the legends of Choar Mumtaz, sitting on the deck of the boat looking at mild waves of the Meghana River, I realized: I feel therefore I am; I think therefore I do!

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