The night was a little cold. I walked towards the west-facing window of my top-floor studio apartment at F-10 Markaz, my Eyrie—the eagle’s nest—and opened one panel. The instant the night air entered, a familiar fragrance touched my nostrils. I paused. I knew that scent, yet how could it possibly have found its way to Islamabad?
For a fleeting moment, I was transported to the green fields of the East, to the Sundarbans, to the waterways and fertile lands of Bengal, to the world of jute—the golden fibre whose fragrance had become part of a landscape, a livelihood, and a memory.
East Pakistan. Today, Bangladesh.
Oh, my goodness!
Was it merely memory playing tricks on an old journalist, or could a familiar fragrance really make geography surrender to the heart? Islamabad was outside my window, yet somewhere within me, Dhaka had come alive. The breeze seemed to carry two cities at once, separated by distance and history, but brought momentarily together by the invisible threads of human memory.
Then I heard it.
Chin-chin-chin!
The sound came from the kitchenette. A smile spread across my face. I knew that unmistakable music. BāBā-Tāl had arrived—and, judging by the approaching whistle of my brass kettle, he had already taken charge of the tea.
I abandoned my plan to enter the kitchenette and went to perform wudu before Fajr. For us, the morning begins not merely with the opening of a window, but with the preparation of the heart to stand before its Creator. I was still in the bathroom when the kettle whistled. The tea was ready.
When I returned, two steaming mugs stood on the table. And there he was: BāBā-Tāl, my Bell-man, tall, thin, and unmistakably smart in his navy-blue robe stitched with little brass bells of different sizes. His blue jeans were torn at both knees, their threads showing freely, and joggers completed his unconventional attire. His deep eyes, expressive moustache, and distinctive beard seemed to conceal a library of unspoken observations. Wherever he moved, his bells announced him; wherever he paused, a whisper of wisdom usually followed.
“Bacha! Are you wondering how Islamabad has acquired the fragrance of Dhaka?”
He smiled mischievously.
“Your senses are sharp,” I replied, “but perhaps you are the one remembering your brotherly fragrance of jute.”
“Bacha! A fifteen-member cultural delegation from Bangladesh has arrived in Islamabad. They have come carrying their music, their dance, their artistic traditions—and, perhaps without knowing it, a little of your forgotten geography.”
I sat down and wrapped both hands around my mug. The steam rose between us like a curtain through which memories were returning.
According to reports published on October 16 and 17, 2026, the delegation arrived for a four-day visit intended to revive cultural exchange and strengthen artistic cooperation. Several media reports have described the initiative as a renewal of cultural exchange after a gap of thirty years. That historical interval, however, should be understood as a reported claim about comparable cultural exchanges, not as proof that no Bangladeshi cultural visit of any kind took place during those decades.
Led by Md. Mizanur Rahman, Joint Secretary in Bangladesh’s Ministry of Cultural Affairs, the delegation includes musicians, singers, dancers, cultural representatives, and the Bangladeshi painter and printmaker Md. Abdus Satter.
Cultural performances and related activities are scheduled for October 17 at the Pakistan National Council of the Arts (PNCA) and October 18 at Lok Virsa in Islamabad. The visit has been arranged under the bilateral cultural-exchange initiative, offering artists an opportunity to present their traditions, share their experiences, and establish new avenues for collaboration.
The dates and official programmes belong to the record; the feelings they awaken belong to the people. Whether the last comparable exchange was thirty years ago or the historical record requires further clarification, the present opportunity deserves our attention. A cultural bridge is valuable not because of the number of years that may have passed, but because of the human connections it can help restore.
BāBā-Tāl stirred his tea.
“Bacha, sometimes a nation needs no grand diplomatic speech. Sometimes a song can open a door that official language has kept closed. A dancer’s movement, a familiar melody, a painting, or the rhythm of a drum can remind people that the human heart existed before political divisions drew their lines.”
I looked again towards the open window. How strange that a fibre once woven into the economic and cultural life of Bengal could now become a symbol of something far larger: the threads that connect human beings even when history pulls them apart.
Jute is not merely a crop. It is work in the fields, hands in the mills, ropes, sacks, fabrics, livelihoods, and generations of inherited knowledge. It belongs to the landscape of Bengal, where water and earth have shaped both culture and commerce. Its familiar scent can awaken an entire world in the mind of someone who remembers.
And memory, if treated honestly, is not an invitation to deny history. It is an invitation to understand it.
The separation of Pakistan and Bangladesh in 1971 left wounds that cannot be healed by pretending they never existed. The suffering, grievances, political failures, and human tragedies associated with that chapter deserve honest remembrance. Friendship does not require historical amnesia. Nor does acknowledging the past require us to imprison future generations inside it.
We must be mature enough to hold two truths together: history must not be falsified, and humanity must not be denied the opportunity to build a better tomorrow.
The Holy Qur’an offers a profound principle for precisely such an undertaking:
“O mankind, indeed We have created you from male and female and made you peoples and tribes that you may know one another.” (Surah Al-Hujurat, 49:13; translation of the relevant passage.)
To know one another is more than to recognise a flag, read a diplomatic statement, or exchange formal courtesies. It means listening without prejudice, learning without arrogance, and meeting another people as human beings whose memories, hopes, and sorrows deserve respect.
The Qur’anic principle does not ask nations to erase their identities. It asks them to rise above the conceit that identity makes one people inherently superior to another.
BāBā-Tāl lifted one finger.
“Bacha! If culture becomes a bridge, let us walk across it with humility. Do not demand that the other side forget its pain before you offer your hand. Do not ask friendship to begin with silence about history. Begin with respect, and let honest conversation do the rest.”
His bells chimed as he settled back in his chair.
I remembered the teaching of the Holy Prophet Muhammad [Peace and blessings be upon him]:
“None of you truly believes until he loves for his brother what he loves for himself.”
— Sahih al-Bukhari, Hadith 13; Sahih Muslim, Hadith 45, with numbering varying by edition.
This teaching speaks to the conscience of the individual, but its moral challenge reaches every public institution and every nation. If we desire respect for our own people, we must respect others. If we expect our history to be heard, we must be willing to listen to theirs. If we wish our children to inherit peace rather than resentment, we must show them that dignity is not a resource that diminishes when shared.
A cultural delegation cannot settle every historical dispute. Fifteen visitors cannot, in four days, accomplish what generations of politicians and diplomats have struggled to achieve. Nor should we burden artists with the responsibility of repairing everything that politics has broken.
But they can begin something valuable.
They can place human faces before inherited assumptions. They can give young people an opportunity to discover another culture through its own voices. They can create professional relationships between artists, musicians, performers, and institutions. They can encourage future exhibitions, workshops, educational exchanges, joint productions, and visits that continue long after the official welcome has ended.
That is how a ceremonial event becomes a living relationship: not through photographs alone, but through continuity.
The Western playwright William Shakespeare, in The Tempest, offers a phrase that has travelled far beyond the play in which it appears: “What’s past is prologue.” It does not mean that the past should be forgotten. It reminds us that what has already happened forms the opening chapter, not necessarily the ending, of what comes next.
The challenge before Pakistan and Bangladesh is to write that next chapter with clear eyes and steady hands. Cultural exchange should not be a decorative line in a diplomatic communiqué. It should be a practical commitment, supported by institutions, sustained funding, reciprocal invitations, and genuine opportunities for people to meet.
Let Pakistani artists be welcomed in Bangladesh as warmly as Bangladeshi artists are welcomed here. Let young musicians learn one another’s traditions. Let painters exchange exhibitions. Let universities, museums, cultural councils, and literary organisations build lasting partnerships. Let the next generation inherit more than photographs of a delegation that visited once and then disappeared into the archives.
And let the welcome extend beyond official halls. A people-to-people relationship grows when ordinary citizens can participate, when cultural work is accessible, and when exchanges are designed to outlive the officials who inaugurate them.
Outside the window, Islamabad’s hills stood quietly beneath the morning sky. Somewhere in the city, preparations were under way for performances that would bring the sounds and colours of Bangladesh before Pakistani audiences. Perhaps a melody would stir a memory in an older listener. Perhaps a young visitor would discover a new favourite artist. Perhaps two performers, meeting for the first time, would find that the language of their craft required fewer explanations than either had expected.
These possibilities may sound modest. Yet the strongest bridges are not always built with grand arches. Sometimes they begin with a single plank laid firmly across a gap.
BāBā-Tāl glanced towards Foxy, my mustard-coloured Volkswagen, waiting outside as patiently as an old companion. Its engine sits at the rear, and its familiar shape has carried me through Islamabad’s changing moods. I imagined driving it towards the cultural venues, arriving not as a dignitary but as a journalist and an ordinary citizen eager to witness this meeting of traditions.
“Bacha!” he said, reading my expression. “Do not let this fragrance remain trapped inside your memories. Go and listen. Watch. Learn. And when you write, give the visitors the dignity of being themselves. Do not turn them into symbols alone. They are artists, professionals, individuals, and guests. Let their own work speak.”
He was right. A welcoming article must not claim to speak for Bangladesh. It must make room for Bangladesh to speak for itself.
The painter’s brush, the singer’s voice, the dancer’s movement, and the musician’s instrument are not substitutes for historical truth. They are ways of meeting one another while truth remains on the table. There is no contradiction between remembering the past honestly and extending a hand towards the future.
For a moment, the bells on BāBā-Tāl’s robe fell silent. He looked towards the window, and I followed his gaze.
The fragrance had changed—or perhaps my understanding of it had. At first, I had smelled jute and remembered a place. Now I was thinking of people: farmers, artists, families, children, and citizens whose lives cannot be reduced to the decisions of governments. The scent had become a question addressed to both nations. What will we do with the opportunities that history still leaves us?
A small original quatrain formed in my mind:
Across the years, a fragrance finds its way,
Across the rivers, memories still flow;
Let art give what old wounds cannot say,
And let respect be the seed we sow.
Poetry cannot replace policy, but it can sometimes give tenderness a language. And tenderness, when joined to truth and action, need not be weakness. It can be the beginning of wisdom.
Welcome, dear friends from Bangladesh.
Welcome to Islamabad, the city of hills, quiet mornings, and an open window through which an old fragrance has entered a new day. Welcome to the halls of PNCA and Lok Virsa. May your performances be received with curiosity, appreciation, and warmth. May your visit open doors for your fellow artists and for those Pakistani artists who will one day travel to your country.
We do not welcome you because our histories are identical. We welcome you because our differences need not prevent mutual respect. We do not ask the past to disappear. We ask the future to be better than the past.
Let the performances be more than performances. Let them become conversations without words, followed by conversations with words, and then by practical work that continues after the stage lights are switched off.
Let this four-day visit become the first page of a longer cultural partnership—not an isolated event remembered only when another anniversary approaches.
BāBā-Tāl raised his mug. The little brass bells on his navy-blue robe chimed softly.
“Drink, Bacha. The tea is ready.”
I raised my mug in return.
“And the air?” I asked.
He looked towards the west-facing window and smiled.
“The air, Bacha, is carrying a promise. Whether that promise becomes a bridge depends on what the people do next.”
Outside the Eyrie, Islamabad and Dhaka remained far apart on the map. Yet, in that quiet morning moment, the fragrance of jute had brought them close enough for the heart to recognise what distance alone could never explain.
May the fragrance linger. May the friendship grow. And may both nations have the courage to turn a beautiful moment into a lasting human connection.