I often recall a fifteen-year-old conversation with my Genetics professor at the University of Houston, which marked the beginning of my academic stint in the United States. “Can you name the person who wrote the national anthem of two countries?” he began his introduction, hinting at his Bangladeshi origins, to which the class responded with a confused silence. After a few moments of random guesses, as we then belonged to the pre-smartphone era, the Professor finally disclosed the answer, “Rabindranath Tagore.” While my fellow Indian classmates remained unperturbed, I, in hindsight, attribute this incident to my fascination for the Idea and the Identity of Bangladesh, as well as the shared values of the Indian subcontinent. But what immediately followed the Professor’s self-introduction was a friendly tug of war between us over Tagore’s domicile. “How can Tagore write your country’s national anthem? He died in 1941, whereas Bangladesh was born in 1971”, I protested, earning a few amused responses from a few American students, who, perhaps, had never encountered identity like their South Asian counterparts. Taken aback by my response, the Professor, a few moments after regaining composure, conceded that my question had merit but stressed Tagore as Bangladesh’s national icon. “But he died before Bangladesh was born!” I immediately retorted to nationalism to claim domicile for a man who, ironically, had called it the worst form of bondage. And though our conversation ended in a friendly truce, the Professor had the last stamp on our debate. “We Bangladeshis have upheld Tagore’s legacy more than you Indians”, he said with a wry smile.

I don’t know if it was my youthful enthusiasm in my early twenties or an urge to project a nationalist identity on foreign soil. But fifteen years later, I don’t associate myself with nationalism; I am game for cultural overlaps and shared identities!

In his autobiography, Banker to the Poor, Muhammad Yunus mentions a compelling anecdote from his childhood reflecting the public sentiment when the British were about to leave India.

“We were all deeply committed to partition from the rest of India. When my brother Ibrahim started to utter his first words, he called the white sugar he liked ‘Jinnah sugar’ and the brown sugar, which he did not like ‘Gandhi sugar”, he writes.

However, this choice of Jinnah Sugar could not last even a quarter-century as the singular identity sought around religion (Islam) could not prevent the region’s ugly break-up with Pakistan, creating a new national language-centred Identity called Bangladesh.

In fact, diametrically opposite to India, Pakistan’s story reflects how religion provides a fragile foundation for nationhood. Since Islam’s selection as the fountainhead of the new nation’s journey, anything non-Islamic, mainly Hindu, was met with suspicion if not outright rejection. Classical dance forms like Kathak and Bharatnatyam, classical Ragas reflecting a Hindu nomenclature, and sporting a saree were a few elementary Un-Islamic examples in the process of Islamization that sought a homogeneous society which later further narrowed to exclude even the Shias and the Ahmadis.

How do we examine the Idea of Bangladesh against these circumstances? To begin with, after Undivided India (till 1947) and East Pakistan (1947-1971), Bangladesh is the third Identity of Bangladeshis belonging to Muhammad Yunus’s generation. It has navigated from being an Indian under the British to a religion-based Islamic Pakistani, finally culminating into one based on language. It is fascinating to wonder how Bangladeshis think about this constant transition today and if the quest for a stable identity has occupied their subconscious mind. Could this be why the Genetics professor emphasised invoking Tagore while introducing himself to our class?

The cultural symbols that define Bangladesh’s nationhood are shared identities with the Indian states surrounding it, mainly West Bengal. While Amar Sonar Bangla, Bangladesh’s national anthem, is the prime example in this list, its most celebrated poets, Rabindranath Tagore and Kazi Nazrul Islam, belong as much to West Bengal (and hence, India) as they belong to Bangladesh. Interestingly, Tagore composed Amar Sonar Bangla to celebrate a united Bengali identity during the anti-partition movement of 1905-06 when the then British viceroy Lord Curzon partitioned Bengal. Another interesting reference to a united Bengali sentiment in Prof Amartya Sen’s memoir, Home in the World, could not escape my sight. In the chapter Bengal and the Idea of Bangladesh, Prof Sen recalls an alternative political sentiment in Bengal in the decade leading to India’s independence, which proposed a division of India into three parts – India, Pakistan and Bengal. It took only three decades for this to happen, and we now have the same three nations, except for a section of Bengal with India.

Let us dwell on the significant difference between religion as a foundational identity on the one hand and identities like language, music, and food (and rivers and fish in the case of the two Bengals) on the other. A religious identity excludes every other religious belief, whereas identities like language, music and food tend to find commonalities between varied populations. Consequently, societies or nations built on religion tend to become narrow and homogenous, whereas those on the other side thrive as multicultural entities. Suppose we apply these parameters to Bangladesh and acknowledge its shared identity with West Bengal (and other neighbouring Indian states) based on multiple identities. How do we establish the need for Islam as its state religion?

Pakistan is more straightforward in its vision of Islam as the fountainhead of its national identity, as evidenced by its approach to assigning the Islamic identity as primary. However, by assigning Tagore as its national icon and Amar Sonar Bangla as its anthem, Bangladesh has preferred having a multicultural Bangla identity. Hence, it is critical to know that Tagore was undoubtedly closer to Gandhi in sharing his worldview than Jinnah, and so should today’s Bangladesh if it believes in its national icon.

A peep into Bangladesh’s fifty-three-year-old history reveals an alternative thought in its national politics, which, contradicting Tagore’s vision, has championed religious nationalism, leading to a narrow and restricted worldview. This political vision, manifesting through the right-wing Bangladesh Nationalist Party, has expressed apprehension about adopting Amar Sonar Bangla, citing Tagore’s foreign domicile (India) and his not being a Muslim. Instead, they demand that Amar Sonar Bangla be replaced with Prothom Bangladesh, a song penned and composed by Bangladeshi Muslims, which also happens to be the party anthem of the Bangladesh Nationalist Party. In 2002, Bangladesh Jamaat-e-Islami, another right-wing Islamic political party, cited Islamic values as the reason to amend Amar Sonar Bangla’s lyrics. Interestingly, this thought process has existed in Bangladesh since the seventies, the decade it achieved independence from Pakistan.

While translating these references into the political context, it is vital to note that Sheikh Mujibur Rahman of the Awami League selected Amar Sonar Bangla as the national anthem, and the Bangladesh Nationalist Party and the Bangladesh Jamat-E-Islami have expressed their opposition, citing its non-Islamic and non-Bangladeshi origin. Therefore, it is fair to believe this is a contest between a secular and pan-Bengali identity and an Islamic identity restricted within the current geographical borders of Bangladesh. Protesting Bangladeshis targeting and demolishing statues of Sheikh Mujibur Rahman appears worrisome against this historical background. More importantly, references point towards a correlation between political leaders opposing Amar Sonar Bangla in the seventies and the eighties and owing a direct or indirect allegiance to the Pakistani army in the Bangladesh liberation war. These references present the Awami League as a secular party in Bangladesh, contrasting with the Bangladesh Nationalist Party and the Bangladesh Jamaat-E-Islami. A tattered Awami League post-Hasina could present challenges for the country’s non-Muslim minorities.

Against this historical background, it is vital to appreciate the Indian state and its commitment to remain secular, and despite various temptations and nudges in its journey as a nation, its refusal to adhere to the majority religion in its constitution. Every Indian neighbour did not resist the temptation to assign an official status to their majority religion, a step that has led to a constant clash of identities, leading to an unstable democracy, conflict and an identity crisis. Adhering to what Jawaharlal Nehru, in The Discovery of India, refers to as the assimilation of foreign influences instead of their exclusion, the Indian journey, since its foundation as a nation, has been inclusive and heterogeneous, unlike her neighbours.  

Had India’s neighbours adopted a secular path over a religious preference, they too would have seen an inflow and intermingling of various social and cultural streams into their national boundaries. But such a step would have questioned the relevance of partition for a country like Pakistan and rendered the vision of their founding father meaningless.

Finally, I end this essay by wondering if Mr Muhammad Yunus, bestowed with the noble responsibility of steering Bangladesh to a functional democracy and sustained peace, admits in retrospect that choosing Gandhi Sugar would have been a far better option.