Reading
It was a holiday when I planned to visit Manikganj. The crowds at Baliati shared that mood as well. As I walked through the gates, the ruins began to speak of something older.
Built by the Saha family, who grew wealthy from the salt trade, Baliati Zamindar Bari rose in the shadow of British rule. Its palaces, with their Corinthian columns and arched verandas, mirror the empire the zamindars served.
Inside the museum, where cameras were not allowed, the colonial taste was everywhere: a jhaarbati chandelier, a round white-stone table, a tall wall mirror, a wooden commode, and countless sinduks stacked in the niches. Blue and red, the colours of colonial instinct, dressed the rooms.
One photograph held me longest: the zamindar, faded and damaged, with the faint shapes of British figures still visible around him. Time had worn away faces, but kept the hierarchy intact. Baliati is at least preserved.
Teota is not. With no boundary walls and no restoration, the building simply waits to fall. Bricks crumble, roots split the walls, and visitors climb freely over what remains. Yet this forgotten house carries a story the nation should treasure. Our national poet, Kazi Nazrul Islam, came here. Teota is tied to Promila Devi, the woman he loved and married. Many of his poems of love and longing carry the memory of this place.
Standing among the cracked pillars, I felt that neglect was erasing more than plaster. It was erasing poetry. The river, the fields and the quiet evenings here are said to have shaped many of Nazrul’s love poems and songs.
The day ended with a sunset at the Padma. The river was wide and calm. Boats drifted home. Perhaps Nazrul watched this same light.