Echoes of the Earth: My 43-Year Journey in Geology and Mining at Rajshahi University

 

As the sun sets over the Paris Road, casting long shadows beneath the towering rain trees, I find myself looking back at a journey that spans over four decades. From a wide-eyed freshman walking into the Department of Geology and Mining in 1983 to counting days as a professor here in 2026, my life has been inextricably linked with the rocks, the people, and the spirit of Rajshahi University. 

The story began in 1983. Entering the university as a student was a time of immense curiosity and structural change. The campus was different back then—quieter, deeply academic, and pulsing with youthful energy. Between 1983 and 1990, the department became my second home. We spent hours in labs studying minerals structures under petrological microscopes and embarked on unforgettable geological field trips to the hilly terrains of Bangladesh, mapping out strata and learning the language of the Earth. Those student years, filled with late-night study sessions, intense political backdrops, and deep friendships, laid the foundational bedrock of my life. 

The memories of our 1986 field trip remain some of the most vivid of my entire time at Rajshahi University.

November 1986 brought a journey that felt less like a standard academic excursion and more like an epic, slightly haunting adventure. Our destination was the famous Kaptai-Chandraghona Road cut section, cutting clean through the majestic Sitapahar anticline—a textbook geological dream. But it was the journey itself, shared with cherished friends and unforgettable teachers, that truly etched this trip into our hearts.

The adventure began long before we ever picked up a geological hammer. Traveling across the country in November 1986 meant riding an old-fashioned, weathered railway train. As darkness fell over the countryside, the train's electrical system flickered and died completely, leaving our compartment enveloped in pitch blackness.

To keep going, the railway crew lit old, flickering kerosene lanterns in the carriages. The dim, dancing orange flames cast long, exaggerated shadows against the walls of the wooden compartment. Outside, the pitch-black night rushed past the open windows; inside, the squeaking tracks and the low hiss of the lanterns created an incredibly ghostly, scary atmosphere. Instead of being afraid, we leaned into the thrill. Tuddled close together with our lovely friends and professors, we traded ghost stories, shared laughs, and sang songs to drown out the eerie creaking of the train. That spooky night forged a bond among us that decades couldn't erase.

When we finally reached our field site along the Kaptai-Chandraghona Road, the spooky atmosphere melted into pure scientific awe. The weather in November was crisp and perfect for fieldwork. Standing before the massive road cut section, we were looking directly into the heart of the Sitapahar anticline.

Our teachers, filled with infectious enthusiasm, guided us as we traced the sweeping curves of the rock layers. With our notebooks, compasses, and magnifying glasses in hand, we mapped out the alternating shale and sandstone beds, measuring strikes and dips while learning how tectonic forces had folded the very crust beneath our feet.

Every scraped knuckle, every shared bottle of water, and every breakthrough in understanding the strata cemented our love for geology. It was a beautiful blend of rigorous science, rustic exploration, and the deep, enduring camaraderie of youth.

Looking back, some of the most physically demanding yet exhilarating moments of our field programs happened when we broke away from the main roads and plunged deep into the wilderness. The terrain around the Karnaphuli river basin wasn't just a geological puzzle; it was a tremendous, thrilling natural workout that tested our endurance and ignited our spirits.

We spent days crisscrossing the rugged local hills, navigating our way in and out of a network of dynamic mountain streams, known locally as charas. We trekked through the dense, rocky pathways of Chitmaram Ghat, pushed our limits along Shilchari Chara, and scrambled through the winding, challenging terrain of Lichubagan Chara, alongside many other nameless streams. These charas cut beautifully through the geological formations, forcing us to climb, leap, and balance across wet boulders, all while keeping our field notebooks dry. It was exhausting, raw, and absolutely amazing.

Bound up with all these memories was the young, untamed Karnaphuli River. The river was our constant fascination and our ultimate playground. We didn't just study its sedimentary deposits; we lived alongside it. We coped with its powerful currents, swimming and floating with the unpredictable ups and downs of its tides. Diving into the cool, rushing waters of the Karnaphuli after a grueling day of tracking rock strata in the humid hills was the ultimate reward—a fluid connection to the very landscape we were trying to understand.

 

If the student days of 1986 were defined by rustic, ghostly train rides, October 1991 brought a geological field program of a completely different flavor. By this time, balancing intense field research with a touch of comfort made for a truly legendary week along the coast of Cox's Bazar.

After long, exhausting days analyzing the spectacular Cox's Bazar cliffs and tracking the coastal dynamics of the endless sandy beach, returning to our base felt like pure luxury. We were incredibly fortunate to reside at the Atomic Energy Commission Guest House. Perched perfectly near the coast, it provided a lavish, serene sanctuary after a tiring day under the sun. The spacious rooms, excellent meals, and the sound of the roaring waves in the evening offered the ultimate comfort, rejuvenating our tired bodies for the demanding field schedule ahead.

The geological highlights of that week were matched only by the vibrant cultural journeys we took. We spent our free hours touring the bustling Rakhaine market, immersed in the rich colors, textures, and aromas of traditional handlooms and local crafts.

Our fieldwork also took us on foot through the traditional coastal villages, where the warmth of the local communities greeted us at every turn. We walked the long, sandy stretches all the way toward the scenic Reju Khal, where the fresh river water cuts through the terrain to meet the salty embrace of the Bay of Bengal. Mapping the unique sedimentary structures where the khal opens out, surrounded by such breathtaking natural beauty, made that week in 1991 an irreplaceable milestone in my early career.

There is a profound, almost cinematic beauty in what I experienced. In the field of geology, we were taught to look at the earth objectively, measuring strikes, dips, and structural formations. But when We place human emotion—especially the shared melancholy of close friends—against the backdrop of a raw, exposed landscape, the field work transforms from a scientific exercise into a deeply personal awakening. The Chottagram Hill Tracts (CHT) provide the perfect canvas for this feeling. Here is how that emotional atmosphere perfectly mirrored the physical beauty of those hills:

When I felt silent with friends among massive geological structures, the silence was heavy, filled with unspoken thoughts. Watching the mist roll over the ridges or looking down into a deep synclinal valley created a collective humility and I realized how small we are in the face of deep geological time. The Chottagram hills ceased to be mere deposits of sandstone and shale in my poetic mind. Instead, they became a living, breathing canvas—a sculptural masterpiece carved by the invisible hands of time, wind, and monsoon rain. Where the scientist sees tectonic pressure, the creative soul sees the earth caught in a state of eternal, passionate dance. In fact, my realization of matching myself with the "naked beauty" of the hilly curves was a powerful poetic truth about the nature. I was surprised and was experiencing internal emotional weight while standing on rocks that were literally bent and twisted by the earth's immense forces that creates a beautiful harmony with the nature. I realize that curvature, friction, and stress are what make both the earth and human life incredibly beautiful.

An artist’s eye immediately tracks the sweeping contours of the landscape, viewing the hills as monumental brushstrokes against the sky.

For the poet, the Chottagram hills are an ocean of emerald frozen in time.

Both artist and poet are captivated by how the solid stone interacts with liquid water.

The beauty of these curves is never static; it changes with the light and atmosphere.

To the creative mind, the Chottagram hills are proof that the earth is not a rigid, dead sphere, but a fluid melody written in stone and soil—a place where the horizon itself seems to sing.

To step into the Chottagram Hill Tracts (CHT) is to enter a world where geography shifts seamlessly between the canvas of an artist and the raw field map of a geologist. The undulating terrain across Bandarban, Rangamati, and Khagrachari creates distinct landscapes where the "curly" architecture of rock, mist, and water takes concrete visual form.

After a brief interlude, I returned to where it all began, but this time in a different role. In 1993, I stepped into the classroom not as a student, but as a lecturer. Transitioning from the benches to the podium was humbling. For the next 33 years, until 2026, I had the privilege of guiding generations of students. Watching eager young minds discover the complexities of structural geology, mining economics, and stratigraphy became my greatest joy. Over three decades, I witnessed the department evolve from using basic hammers and compasses to adopting advanced software, modern labs, and cutting-edge research methodologies. 

Beyond the borders of Rajshahi University, academic quest took me across Asia. Teaching and conducting research in Japan, South Korea, and Malaysia expanded my horizons immensely. In Tokushima University of Japan, I immersed myself in their meticulous precision and state-of-the-art technologies. In South Korea, I engaged with highly collaborative, rapid-paced research environments focused on geological innovations in Chungnam National University. Meanwhile, my time in Universiti Sains Malaysia in Penang offered a rich experience in tropical geology and resource management. Each of these international stints allowed me to bring global expertise back to my classrooms in Rajshahi, bridging the gap between international research frontiers and Bangladeshi students. 

Now, in 2026, as I look back at this long, rewarding journey, I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude. I am grateful to the mentors who guided my student years, the colleagues who shared my academic passion, and above all, the thousands of students who kept me young at heart. The rocks I studied taught me that patience and time can shape something truly magnificent. As I close this long chapter at Rajshahi University, I know that while I may step away from the podium, the spirit of exploration and the love for geology will remain forever etched in my heart.