Personally, I am an ardent admirer of novelist Hamim Kamal’s prose. When he writes, his work simply cannot be relegated to the realm of ordinary storytelling. The most exquisite and singular facet of his writing is that nestled within every single sentence lies an entire canvas. No sooner does one canvas draw to a close than a new vista materializes before the reader’s gaze. The reverie of roaming through his words lingers inside the reader’s mind for a long, long time.
Where Hamim Kamal learned this sorcery, I do not know. Yet I was first captivated by his linguistic wizardry upon reading his 2018 novel, “The Factory Whistle” (Karkhanar Bashi). Exactly two years later, in his new novel “Enchanted Illusion” (Jadukori Bhrom), Hamim Kamal has once again unlocked his cabinet of wonders. Living up to its title with breathtaking fidelity, the novel is, in the most literal sense, an ‘enchanted illusion’ for the reader!
Another striking virtue of the author’s pen is his ‘lean, sinewy metaphor.’ Without superfluous flourishes or overwrought exposition, he can etch an entire poignant image into the reader’s mind with nothing more than a single, minimalist metaphor. For instance, when the woman he loved drifted away from the protagonist, Mayukh, the author captures that rupture like this—
“Suddenly, she bound herself fiercely in religious edicts. I could only see her eyes.”
The wounded Mayukh asks—are these edicts truly enlightened? Yet no answer arrives. Just as in our daily lives we routinely sidestep countless inconvenient, childlike questions, Mayukh’s beloved eludes him in precisely the same fashion.
In his deployment of metaphor, Hamim Kamal leaves an indelible stamp of originality at every turn. When we look upon young children, we naturally soften into effusive warmth; their innocent, boundless antics wash over us with pure delight. The author captures this ordinary human sensation in extraordinary language—
“A spark of joy caught my eye. A little girl… oh, the leaps and bounds of her play!”
Pitting human systems of justice against the primal jurisdiction of the wild, he observes: “The creatures of the wild do not appeal to human courts; they turn to nature’s tribunal.” Humankind has ceaselessly encroached upon forests and wildlife for its own selfish ends, and nature has never let it pass without retribution. Just how enduring and inescapable nature’s vengeance can be is crystallized in a haunting conclusion: “The father goes unpunished; the retribution falls upon the child.”
Countless such luminous metaphors shimmer across the pages of this book. For instance: “The roar of thunderclouds was like the clash of two warring hosts of angels!” Or a fresh metaphysical reflection linking human yearning to the cosmos: “Even the stars of the firmament have an end, yet human demands know none.” Thanks to this novel, one even discovers that the crisp fragrance of ripe paddy can be breathed within the lyrics of a song!
What enthralled me most in “Enchanted Illusion” was the author’s meticulous eye for detail. He writes like a master painter whose brush refuses to miss a single nuance. While reading, one vividly beholds the desolate coastal town in the amber stillness of late afternoon; or in cinematic flashbacks, we watch how Mayukh transforms a single shawl alternately into a pillow, a mattress, a tether, or a headband! In supple, effortless prose, the author paints a rural hamlet, paddy fields swaying in the wind, a magical thatched hut nestled amid the stalks, and the golden hearthfire flaring to life. Everything visualizes before the mind’s eye like cinema. At times, his descriptions of bone-chilling cold make the reader’s teeth clench; at other times, when ethereal phantoms close in, the reader freezes alongside Mayukh—left without a single avenue of escape!
The novel’s tapestry is woven through an intricate harmony of a central narrative interwoven with myriad subordinate tales. While travelling through the village of Naldamanti, through Mayukh and Arabinda, an old man’s chronicle comes alive: how Debjani was transformed into Asmani, how Asmani’s son Kaher rose from abject obscurity through ruthless resourcefulness to become a powerful zamindar! The tale that first took root with the old patriarch branches out night after night in Rafiq’s recounting, blossoming into a towering, living banyan. Every character breathes with living flesh and blood. That is Hamim Kamal’s true sorcery!
In his choices of diction and naming—whether of characters or topography—Hamim Kamal stands peerless in this era. Who else could christen a river ‘Debijangha’ (The Goddess’s Thigh)? Who could conceive of villages bearing names like ‘Naldamanti’ or ‘Piyai’!
As the novel progresses, each disparate piece locks together like a puzzle, culminating in an epic confrontation between entrenched power and the dispossessed. Following their encounter with Mina and Majnun in Piyai village, Majnun’s ideological mentor Mohen unveils the dark chronicle behind Kaher’s descent into tyranny. The ultimate feud between Majnun and Kaher Saud tightens with palpable tension! I warmly invite every reader to embark on this charismatic journey through this enchanted illusion alongside Mayukh and Arabinda.
In conclusion, in an era marked by the toxic race for cheap popularity and the hollow imitation of trying to become ‘mini Humayun Ahmeds,’ a novelist of Hamim Kamal’s calibre is a genuine beacon of hope in contemporary Bengali literature. May the haunting melodies of ‘The Factory Whistle’ and the spellbinding enchantments of ‘Enchanted Illusion’ flow ever more profusely from his pen.
To the author Hamim Kamal, I send my boundless love and heartfelt wishes.
