Anime and Bangladesh: The 90's Connection

Bangladesh and Anime:

The 90s’ Connection

By Le Chupacabra

A quick glance at the wall clock shows the time as 5:30pm. Outside, the summer Sun has sunk low and casts cool shadows all over the place. The sky is a bluish-purple and the clouds are still white and fluffy; the chance of rainfall is quite slim. Ah, perfect conditions.

It's time to prepare yourself then. Call your cousin (or heck, cousins) over and ring up your friends…

… Robotech is about to begin on Star Plus.

What, you were expecting, cricket or something? Well, not for me.

During the mid-1990's, my (and certainly many others') evenings were characterised by half-an-hour of blistering fast fighter jets that miraculously (I was six) transformed into sleek robots armed with all manner of laser rifles, mounted machine guns and of course, an infinite stock of missiles with wonderfully ceaseless smoke trails. Robotech was its name and despite being a pretty old anime series already, it was rather brilliant. Granted, most of the story and characterisations zoomed over my head, but what bits I caught could be deemed 'ultra cool' for me. And even if all the plot pouting lost me, there was still some very awesome fighting as the consolation prize. Watching the Veritech jet fighters pirouette through barrages of gunfire to emerge unscathed from the smoke and then slickly transforming into the Guardian mode and unleashing their own salvo of heat-seeking missiles - the warhead count numbering in quadruple figures, it seemed - that was entertainment like no other. Back then, the now-ancient artwork was considered incredible and how could one not like it with all those superb robot designs? I'd wager that even now Robotech could hold its own - heck, if Victory Gundam can do it, why not? But best of all was the music; call it outdated, call it pointless… but the music was (and still is, in my opinion) the very definition of memorable. A decade on from the ending, and I still recall some of the tunes. A particularly unforgettable moment for me was when the story arc made the huge leap over to the bit with the Cyclotrons and the alien Invid. I simply didn't understand how or why back then, and I was so disappointed that the Veritech fighter parts were over that I decided never to watch Robotech again. Fortunately, curiosity got the better of me and the good times rolled again - the last arc of Robotech was still brilliant.

Within the next few years, Star Plus started degenerating into yet another pointless Hindi channel. At first, the shows were dubbed in the language (Small Wonder, we will never forget) but later they were completely replaced with the forerunners of today's never-ending serials beginning with the letter 'K'. Anime, it seemed, was being snubbed rather badly. Even early morning showings of Sabre Rider and the Star Sheriffs slowly vanished. However, it was replaced by G.I. Joe which was much better, so no big loss. However, waking up that early made it a bit tasteless. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles ran for a while during the afternoons, but that didn't last too long either. Pity, because that was my favourite cartoon when I was younger. (Okay, so both of those weren't anime, but you know… I'm kinda being washed over with nostalgia while writing this - work with me here!)

Salvation came after three years and two house shifts in the form of a little channel called AXN aka Action TV.

At first, I didn't pay much heed to it - after all, they still showed too many 'reality TV' shows on it. It wasn't until I was really bored that I flicked on to the channel while at my grandmother's house. What a fight scene it was... Himura Kenshin versus Aoshi Shinomori! It was a fantastically tense clash of two great swordsmen and the battle choreography was superb; I was hooked within minutes! After that, I caught every episode of Samurai X (aka Rurouni Kenshin) and I absolutely loved it! The final fight with Shishio was breathtaking but no other scene stayed with me like that one with Aoshi - after all, that was the one that got me interested in Samurai X in the first place! The later episodes spiralled rapidly away from a coherent storyline but back then, it didn't matter; those episodes were entertaining at the very least. The ending song during the Shishio saga (Heart of Sword, FYI) still stands as an all-time favourite. And in 2004, I bought the DVD boxed set of the entire Rurouni Kenshin series - one of the very few anime I have in original DVD form.

Another anime that was shown alongside Samurai X was Flame of Recca. I don't remember too much about it (they are showing it on Animax, so yeah I'm watching it again), but it was a great example of those tournament based anime that keep throwing an endless barrage of increasingly powerful.

Foes. Of course, the hero hovers near the brink of death only to burst forth with hitherto unseen powers galore; a certain Mr Goku can attest to such a formula. However, the fight scenes were still superbly entertaining and it was quite an imaginative show as well. The recent and super-popular anime Naruto owes many of its fight scenes, techniques and what-not to Flame of Recca. Recca Hanabishi, Naruto fans all over the world salute you!

Now, while Samurai X and Robotech retain a certain timeless quality, others faded from my memory. (Kudos to Lancer for the heads up.) One such anime was Ninja Robots. Yes, it of the same fight scene… over and over and over again! And now that I think about it… how did ninja fit into the context anyway? Somewhere in Japan, stealthy masked assassins are taking their own lives. Jokes aside, this has to be said: no matter corny or lame Ninja Robots may seem now, I (and plenty of others…. 'fess up you all) actually, honestly and genuinely liked and enjoyed the show. Besides the blatant copy-pasting of the aforementioned fight scenes, some of them were quite entertaining. The story wasn't too bad (or maybe that has to do with the fact that I reached an age where I could understand 'plotlines' - sorry, Robotech) and the artwork was quite decent. Let's not forget the, bless it, 'catchy' theme song - courtesy of the whole Americanisation process. Still, no matter how many times the Princess ended up being kidnapped (once you realise you can't count off your fingers, it was no longer funny), when Joe, Michael and Jenny (and later, Damien) strapped up into their robots to rescue her, you were rooting them on to victory. Cybertroooooooooooooooooon!

And, you cannot talk about anime in the 1990s without mention (unfortunately, that's all this one gets) of the one, the only… Speed Racer! *cue large-eyed, lopsided-mouth gasps of 'Oh!' ala Speed himself* What can you say about Speed Racer? (Preferably avoiding expletives). Nothing much. Of course, you could do some of those character expressions - they're a great hit when you and a bunch of friends go all nostalgic regarding TV shows. Speed Racer was embarrassingly corny and the constant exclamations made you roll your eyes, but hey, it was somewhat entertaining. Also without that Volcano Mountain race with the whole Snake (or was it Viper?) racing team, you wouldn't get that brilliantly hilarious parody episode of Dexter's Laboratory. Speaking of which, Dexter was at its satirical zenith during that time - the newer version lacks much of what made the old Dexter so bloody brilliant. Sad.

Lastly, and on a more serious tone, was the Anime Fest on Animax during the end of 1999. As a fitting end to that decade (and this article), that week highlighted some great anime films, particularly the subliminal Ghost in the Shell. That was the time when they also released The Matrix (the first, and brilliant, one) which shared much in common with Mamoru Oshii's animated opus; it was a doubly sweet dose of sci-fi centric philosophical musings. More importantly, it was also an indication of the burgeoning International audience for anime. And within a few weeks, we celebrated the New Year… the year 2000.

That golden decade ended on a fantastic note and was a forerunner of things to come. Cartoon Network picked up the slack with the loveable DragonBall Z and rather fun Cardcaptor Sakura. Unfortunately, it also started showing the inexplicably popular Pokemon, Digimon and Beyblade, and so on. One Piece is due to air soon (avoid the English dub, read the manga - bloody brilliant stuff!) The anime channel Animax commenced a few months back and we got access to anime like Gundam, Cowboy Bebop, GetBackers, Inu Yasha, Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex, Ranma 1/2, Samurai X, Escaflowne and other wonderful shows. The sublime FullMetal Alchemist and entertaining Great Teacher Onizuka are due soon. Whoever's writing this piece in 2010 will need all of RS for that article then!

Fiction - The Sign

The Sign

(Based on an actual event)

All the walls around him suddenly collapsed and crumbled into ashes. He choked as the dust clouds swirled and fine particles clotted his throat, his nostrils. As the dust settled, only darkness surrounded him. A mournful wailing sound reverberated all around him and stopped as suddenly as it began. Then, out of the darkness emerged a creature robed in black. Its dark eyes glinted malevolently. It pointed at him. On command, hundreds of black beings materialised and formed a circle around him. They raised their terrible shining weapons at him. The man uttered a name and begged for forgiveness, first on reflex and then in desperation. He was surprised to realise that he meant it. Fires flashed all around him and shards of white-hot pain lanced throughout his body. Then he began to fall…

The man woke up, his head jerking violently upwards. He impulsively ran his hand all across his chest area - there were no bullet holes. His ragged breathing slowed down, although his heart pumped like it had never done before. He looked around him. The room seemed unnaturally bright with almost an ethereal aura. Time, it felt, had slowed down.

Slowly the horrific dream faded away into something far worse: reality. The surreal melded into the secular and thousands of thoughts rushed in. The man carefully stood up, only to sit back down as his head spun with nausea. His entire body ached and he closed his eyes to momentarily dull the pain. It worked, but the effects were short-lived. As soon as he opened his eyelids, the throbbing pain returned afresh.

He raised his left arm to check the time - it had only been a mere three minutes since he had dozed off. Despite such an ominous nightmare, it was the most peaceful three minutes he had that whole day - and given his state of mind, it was probably the most peaceful time he had ever experienced in his life.

His beard was dank and unkempt, his eyes red-rimmed and watery. His clothes, drenched with bodily fluid, stuck to his body and felt unnaturally heavy. Or was it something else that created such an overpowering feeling of carrying an impossible burden? His bones creaked with arthritic pain, and his muscles, far past their prime, sagged and felt more like dead weights than support. This was a defeated man. Yet that fact could only be gleaned from physical appearance alone; his eyes still shone with a strange feral light - like an animal fighting fervently against the inevitable.

Time seemed to be caught in a limbo of speed - at moments it felt that it was moving along at an astonishing pace, while at others it felt like it dragged on, enunciating each painful second. During those lulls almost every fibre in his body wanted to sag and give in. However, that feeling was immediately replaced by a furious desire to do something rash, something memorable - something that would not undermine his existence and more importantly, his reputation.

The past few years of meticulous planning and procedure had culminated into a thirty-something hour siege by the notoriously demonic RAB forces. The man's emotions flared up - he knew the truth behind all the 'cross-fire' incidents. He knew how they used an iron fist to lay out justice. What angered him the most was that they had no greater purpose. No, they were not like him. What did they know about true greatness?

The only thing he had in common - and that was a feeling that was mingled with immense disgust - with the infidels was that he was not afraid to take lives whilst on the path to his goal. If one did not cull the herd, then what quality remained would deteriorate. Fear was a potent weapon and a supreme equaliser in his opinion - it allowed men to know where they belonged and what they truly were.

Visions of the future flitted in front of the man. After all, was he not like those who declared Independence those thirty-five years ago? The images of power and acceptance were suddenly and brutally replaced with him begging for forgiveness - not from the Lord to whom he prayed - but from those outside. The apparition was so sudden that it startled the man. He clenched his fists and roared obscenities at the invading forces. His voice was already hoarse from all the yelling he had done before.

As soon as he stopped, there was a silence, a deathly silence that chilled the bone. All the fighting, the explosions, the shouting - “What was their worth?” the man almost cried out to himself. He then looked up at the browning ceiling and viciously directed his thoughts at the heavens above. So what if he had killed. So what if he had gone through the path of violence. Weren't jihads a part of his religion? He had conformed to all aspects of religion, so where was his reward? The ironclad faith which he had unflinchingly believed in and which he had strongly imparted to his followers - it was beginning to fade. Or did it even exist in the first place?

He knew what was in store, he knew the consequences - yet 'knowing' accounted for nothing. He was facing a sudden stretch of darkness in front of him. All his idealistic plans for his religion were suddenly snatched away from him - a definite future shattered. He realised, only too late, that there was nothing to look forward to. Left in uncertainty, the man could feel his mind slowly unravel. If the process took any longer, he would cease to be himself. He would die and in his place would be a deranged madman. Or, would it be the other way around? Would the man that came after him be the sane one?

Random thoughts rushed through in a dizzying manner. When he had sent his family away within the early hours, was it merely for their safety or was it that their involvement might have diminished his role as the central figure. He wondered what his followers would think - that he was weak? That he could not hold onto what he believed in? That his visions were not worth it? That his activities could no longer be justified - all because of a bold move on the part of a group of infidels?

The man roared again. How could this have happened? Why could this have happened? What was happening? Questions that had just momentarily surfaced throughout the events of the day rose up in unison and threatened to overwhelm him. Unable to take the pressure of all his thoughts, his mind suddenly reverted back to the base, animal-like instincts that are ingrained in the psyche of all humans. He jumped to his feet and with seemingly clawed hands grasped the first thing he could see. He was about to rip to shreds a weathered tome that once lay on the broken table next to him. Even that seizure of pure rage could not blind him to what was written on the cover of the book. His knees buckled and he fell back into the chair. The culmination of his years to power was not in the raid but in his actions a few seconds ago - he had attempted to destroy the very book that he followed to the last letter. He found the sign unlooked for.

Whatever vestiges of morality and true religious belief that remained in this shell of a human vanished at that instance. The light from his eyes were extinguished and he was finally defeated in every way. His mind was surprisingly devoid of any thoughts - a vast emptiness only spurred on by a single course of action left for him to take. He threw up his hands in absolute rejection and thereby manifest something he had hidden in a veil of murmuring religious incantations and honeyed speeches - he never believed with his heart.

If the Almighty would not protect him, then he could salvage the same means by using His holy book. After all, to the man, it was nothing but a shield that preyed upon the religious tenets that bound the men outside - a restriction that surely did not apply to 'holy' men such as himself. Ironically, he did not forget to place a prayer hat on his head.

His final preparations complete, the man gingerly got off the damaged chair and walked towards the door into the bright sunshine outside.

On the 2nd of March, 2006, the JMB man known as Shaikh Abdur Rahman surrendered to RAB forces after a 32-hour siege.

By Le Chupacabra

The Twilight Road

The Twilight Road

By Azfarul Islam

Thirty-five years.

It’s only a small phrase yet it’s quite a long time to live through – and especially if you yourself haven’t reached that age, it’s easier to appreciate the magnitude of such a figure…

Everyone probably knows what I’m talking about. If you don’t, then shame on you. The 26th of March is upon us. On this momentous day, thirty-five years ago, we established sovereignty – we became a free nation of our own.

It was freedom from the tyranny of Pakistani rule. It was freedom from those who wished to subjugate and dominate. It was freedom from a life of a fear.

In perspective, after 35 years, what has it become a freedom to?

A failing Government needs a puppet terrorist organisation to assert itself as a leader we should put our faith in. The reputations of two groups are built up over years – one through fear and one through notoriety.

Pebbles are thrown into the pond and the ripples reverberate throughout, ruining the balance and tranquillity – the fish are oblivious to world beyond the surface and their hatred, if they feel it, is directed at the unsightly stones that mar their otherwise peaceful lives.

The white pawns are sent into battle, dying so that the King remains unharmed. The black pieces ravage the pawns with little thought. The white army appears to be in disarray until the white Queen and her Knights, Bishops and Rooks are sent into the fray. The black pieces are cut down. The despised black King and Queen seem demoralised and offer little in the way of a fight. The battle ends with their cold, calculated destruction and the surviving pawns celebrate. The black pieces deserved what they got for all the terror they wrought. The King is a true hero.

If only the pieces knew that the game was being played by one person – the same person who enjoyed throwing stones into the pond.

We live in this game where a battle of egos and supremacy rages on at all fronts – from the highest to the most base of levels.

A man wishes to express his ideals and his thoughts – such an activity is duly encouraged. After all, they all shout out to the world that we would be nothing without the right of free expression, right? Of course, they agree that limits must be observed for the sake of protocol and respect. What is being expressed may infringe into the ‘ethics’ of others, but that isn’t an issue if it is a ‘freedom’, right? The man will gladly go up to the podium and smile and wave at the awaiting crowd. He will then bow and step down. Maybe there’s no real need to say all that, he thinks. After all, he’s quite sure they all know. No need to repeat something that everyone already knows, right? There’s no need for him to force his personal ethics upon others. Infact, as far he’s concerned, his ideas are actually quite biased. As far as he knows, the people might disagree completely with him – that in itself is the freedom of their expression right? It makes no sense to go through such trouble, after all. It might even be in the best of interests of himself and others that he not bother to step up to the podium again.

Embracing a single day out of hundreds to celebrate and offer our respects to the ghosts and dreams of history. Spending the rest of our days in activities that undermine the true worth of a freedom fought for in blood and tears. Spending that single day revelling in an emotion that becomes terrestrial for that day and alien the next. What a farcical and pretentious beast patriotism is here!

A nation cannot bring itself up to stand head and shoulders with others if it travels in a straight line. From that point in 1971, it had to travel a curved path. A path that lead up and towards the stars. Such beautiful hopes and dreams they must have had back then. They should be happy that such a dream was realised! The curved path was traversed higher and higher. The path kept curving further. It finally curved back and is now curving into itself – it’s almost a full circle. Are returning to the very point we aimed to get as far away as possible from?

In the most cliché of definitions, light and dark must coexist in order to maintain harmony. We like to believe that we began that journey on the twilight road, on the 26th of March, 1971. We traverse that same twilight path into not the dawn but the night that is the 26th of March, 2006.

While it’s been too long, it’s never too late. On this the 35th anniversary of our freedom, it’s not too late to remember what this day stands for. Then it is imperative to hold on the same thoughts, the same feeling for the other three-hundred and sixty-four days. I myself am far from patriotic – my only thoughts about the 26th of March usually involve wondering if it will fall on a weekday so that I can enjoy a day off from school. At the same time, I truly appreciate and respect the sacrifice that so many made for a future that was uncertain at the time. If you want to honour those brave men and women, then don’t just be patriotic – mean it. Every single day. Like those before us, stop looking at the now and stare on past the horizon to a brighter future.

Maybe then, we may be able to embrace the glorious light of daybreak.

Fiction - Acceptance

Acceptance

By Azfarul Islam

Rokon awoke bright and early, as was his habit. He immediately squinted and began to rub his eyes furiously; they had caught a ray of sunlight directly. His eyes still half-closed, Rokon grunted as he brought himself up to a sitting position. He rubbed his rumbling belly and started licking his lips as his first thoughts turned to food. After all, he had had nothing to eat the night before. Infact, as far as he could remember, dinner was a few sips of stale water from their pitcher. If you lived in the slums, that was ritual. However, that didn't stop Rokon from remembering the mouth-watering chotpoti he had once had countless days back; such food being an exorbitant luxury, Rokon could only afford to savour the memory of the taste. He looked around and sighed. His mother was still sleeping on the muddy floor of the place they called 'home'.

It was a small cul-de-sac they lived in. Even small would be an understatement. The floor was just cold dirt, some part covered by an old, musty tarp that was so patched that it looked more like those fancy quilts you saw on TV the sardarji had. A round chunk of a tree trunk served as a table; during Qurbani Eid, his mother would lend this to the local butcher for cutting the meat on. In return they often got a tiny portion of whatever the butcher managed to sneak into his bag. Sometimes it was money. Although it was pitiable amount - it was something and Rokon couldn't really complain. The walls weren't actually theirs. He and his mother had moved in to the space between two slightly larger slum huts. The 'roof' was merely a few crooked bamboo poles laid across their neighbours' roofs. A broken, rusty sheet of corrugated iron just barely helped in keeping a small area dry when it rained. The front 'door' was nothing more than the rest of the old tarp that was on the floor. It was the most meagre of existences, but it was one Rokon could still call 'home'. There was nothing more important than that.

He nudged his mother on the small of her back and called out to her. It was getting late; they would have to start their daily routine of begging to bring in whatever money they could. Her eyes were still closed. Rokon kept poking her and raised his voice ever so slightly. It had no effect. Now annoyed, Rokon impatiently clicked his tongue and began to nudge her shoulders. She didn't even flicker her eyelids. Rokon brought his mouth close to her left ear and yelled into it. She didn't flinch. This continued for quite some time without effect. Now Rokon's annoyance was replaced with another emotion: fear. He put the back of hand against her cheek and was rather shocked to feel how cold and hard it was. Maybe she was just ill, he thought. He suddenly noticed that the tattered urna his mother normally used as a blanket was tangled around his legs; she had probably covered him with it at night, but why? He looked around and seeing the muddiness of the floor realised that it must have rained at night. Something else caught his attention as well. He usually slept on the floor where his mother was lying. She must have moved him during the night because right above that place, the iron sheet had a large hole, letting in quite a bit of rainwater. He finally surmised that while he was dead asleep, his mother had dragged him to the part of the floor which received the best shelter and she had even draped him with her own blanket. She had probably shivered throughout the whole night as the rain poured in - his guilty conscience made him visualise the scene rather vividly. Now, because of him, she was cold and ill and wouldn’t move at all. He gulped and his breathing starting to become heavy. Rokon immediately plucked off the blanket and laid it across his mother. It was too late to make amends, but maybe if she was warmed up all would be better eventually. Rokon hugged his knees and waited.

********************************************************

Two hours have passed and the late October sky grows dark, although it is almost noon.

Rokon’s mother shows no sign of motion and then suddenly, Rokon gasps. Horrible thoughts cloud his mind and he shakes his head violently as if trying to force them out. Then it comes. Intoxicating every cell of his body, an overwhelming emotion paralyses him. A sharp pain in his chest tells Rokon that he has been holding his breath for quite some time. But why? There is no reason for him to feel all this, he shouts inside his head. The rain starts again – the incessant drumming sound punctuating the deathly silence. He watches dumbstruck, as long, silver streaks of water come through the hole in the ceiling and begin to pelt down on his mother’s face. On a sudden impulse, Rokon throws himself over his mother’s body and drags it away from the spot. His arms are wrapped around her shoulders as if he was trying to protect her from the cold, merciless raindrops that dare touch his mother. Rokon’s eyes stare aimlessly ahead - perpetually wide open - and his breathing feels more constricted than ever. He feels his mind lose sense of everything around him, yet he is somehow starkly aware of all. He feels each of his fingers slowly curling around to grip his mother’s shoulders more tightly. Each breath he takes is labourious. The heaving of his chest makes him fear that it might suddenly explode. He coughs out; his mouth had become utterly dry. Rokon closes his eyes and brings his mother closer to his chest. It can’t be, can it? He shakes his head as if trying to knock out a thought, a single thought that refuses to leave him. His senses suddenly feel dulled as he does all that is possible to feign ignorance. He can almost hear her scold him harshly for being so stupid. He can almost see her smile again. His eyes begin burning and he immediately opens them. He turns his mother’s face towards him and his head drops towards his own chest. He shuts his eyes so tightly that they hurt. But it’s useless – that image refuses to disappear. He sniffs in loudly and stops. Something else is wrong. Something is missing. He knows what. Her very own scent, the very smell that always brought his mother’s smiling face into his thoughts was not there anymore. Suddenly, the very thought he was trying to quell hits him with tremendous force. He grips her even more tightly, but falters. She slowly slides out of his arms. Her rigid, cold face… the fact that she refuses to even open her eyes… and that he can’t even recall what she smelt like… all of that hits him with utmost brutality.

Rokon’s eyes burst with salty tears and they sting like never before. His stomach soars as if flying and it twists ever so painfully. His head begins spinning and his throat becomes choked up. His sees bright spots before him and only one other thing: her face. A pain beyond sorrow, beyond loneliness, beyond anything engulfs him – the pain of acceptance.