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On The Man Who Knew Too Much

Published : Wednesday, 21 August, 2019 at 12:00 AM  Count : 520
Shahriar Feroze
Shahriar Feroze

Shahriar Feroze

Does the title ring a bell? Yes, it is the epic Alfred Hitchcock suspense thriller film of the 50's.

As the cr�me-de-la-cr�me of our elites have been kept busy raving about the intellectual prowess and on the innumerable achievements of the late Mizanur Rahman Shelley, at least I found it difficult selecting the most appropriate adjective-cum- prefix to define the man.    

Counting by my fingers, I have had four separate lengthy encounters with him in my lifetime. And all the four had ended with captivating conversations on numerable subjects ranging from politics, sports, religion, history, philosophy, literature, movies , books , songs to even which country had the prettiest of women and...

How a civil servant could acquire such immense knowledge and information on an overabundance of subjects yet remains a mystery. Moreover, in penning commentaries, he appeared no short of a sage.  
 
However, I am not good in penning tribute pieces but on the passing away of Uncle Shelley, I felt an urge leading to an obligation. After about a week from his passing away, my pricking conscience had hit its ceiling. I have heard about the man many times from my parents since my school days. Both my parents were his students at Dhaka University, and addressed him as "Sir" pronounced with a deep tone of reverence.

To my late father, also a CSP officer of the 70 batch, he was a complete institution. To my mother, retiring from her bureaucratic career as a diplomat, he is defined as a mentor. And to me, he is The Man Who Knew Too Much on far too many subjects.  That is how I would like to define Mizanur Rahman Shelley.

Anyone could have strike a conversation with Uncle Shelley, almost on any subject, anywhere and on any time. As a conversationalist he was a man for all seasons.

Forlornly, this writer had come to meet him a bit too late, but better late than never. He happened to be one the key discussants of my elder brother's book launching ceremony of Dreams of Dhaka way back in 2014. That's when I came face to face with him for the first time and the rest is history.

Unlike the innumerable ego static CSP officers we have had in our society, he was a different mould breaking free out of all barriers. He would take his time to listen first and speak later. CSP, intellectual or ministerial tags never concerned him much. Age, academic degrees or background seldom prevented him from befriending people. Most importantly, he rarely spoke out of context.
Strictly a personal remark, Uncle Shelley perhaps liked to define an individual based on his first impressions. Perhaps that is why I never seemed to be a journalist to him. I was never the son of my parents.

Also my mother hadn't introduced me as a journalist working for The Daily Star at that time. On our first meeting, she plainly introduced me - "My younger son, he has just returned ending a hiking trip in Nepal." Since then I was largely written off as a bohemian hiker to him. 

Not surprisingly, the four long memorable conversations that had taken place between the two us had always somehow included the topics of hiking, mountaineering or trekking in some fashion. The last time it was the growing commercialisation of trekking the Mount Everest.

Many absorbing exchanges had taken place among the two of us in between 2014 and 2019, mostly over our mobile phones and e-mails. He had agreed to share his memoirs to get published as a weekly column for the Daily Observer; he arranged a special permit for me to play squash at Dhaka Club and most importantly he wrote exclusive pieces for my lesser circulated English Daily. I will never forget his magnanimous and sincere gestures to help me make my limited circulated editorial pages look elegant.

Large sums of honorariums and the lust for a wider readership had never eluded Uncle Shelley. Otherwise, he would have channelled to launch his publications abroad while only writing for the largest circulated newspaper at home.
He was a much better writer than the innumerable mediocre Bangladeshi writers seeking international acknowledgement and awards. As a writer and a columnist, he decided to share his memories and deliver his messages to his readers at home. Seeking publicity through a greater readership was never in his list of priorities. Making money out of his books least bothered him.

Nevertheless, he is past. But unlike thousands of his admirers, at here and abroad, I am unwilling to mourn his death. On the flipside, this writer is just too happy that we had a Mizanur Rahman Shelley among us. Every human is sent to earth with a purpose and he had served his best.

But the trillion dollar question, what lessons have we, the admirers have drawn from him?

This writer does not have an answer to it.
Reflecting back to our conversations, in person and over the mobile phone, he practically appeared Hitchcock's The Man Who Knew Too Much, of course with a customised definition of the title that suited him.
To finish with, a very different Percy Bysshe Shelley of a different era and with grandeur identity had once quoted: The more we study, the more we discover our ignorance.

My uncle Shelley had perhaps walked along poet Shelley's prominent quote to discover his ignorance by acquiring infinite knowledge to become my Man Who Knew Too Much.

It is not the time to rest in peace Uncle Shelley. it is time to hook up your surrounding angels and demons with your captivating t�te-�-t�te.

The writer is editor-in-charge, editorial section, The Daily Observer


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