Inside Manab Babur Bari: The last living zamindar with an enduring legacy
In a forgotten corner of Kishoreganj, one zamindar bari still breathes—its history etched in stone and the steady presence of 92-year-old Manab Babu. Amidst the fading legacy, Gangatia Zamindar Bari stands not as a relic, but as an enduring space where stories are told and time gently lingers
On a late afternoon in Kishoreganj, the wide courtyard of Gangatia Zamidar Bari lies quiet, save for the rustle of leaves and the call of birds circling above the old pond. At the heart of the silence sits an elderly man in a simple vest and a lungi, his chair angled towards the fading sun.
Visitors arrive hesitantly, unsure if they are stepping into history or someone's home. He rises, smiling warmly, and makes gestures to them. The man is Manabendra Nath Chakraborty, or simply Manab Babu. The house, though known officially as Gangatia Zamindar Bari, is called by everyone here as 'Manab Babur Bari'.
Most Zamindar Baris of Bangladesh are now skeletons of what they once were—crumbling walls, weeds growing through fallen arches, ghosts of music and laughter lost to time. But this Bari is different. Here, a zamindar still lives, tells his stories, and eagerly waits to welcome strangers and visitors.
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A house that holds time
Gangatia Zamindar Bari is located in Govindpur union of Hossainpur upazila under Kishoreganj district. It was built in the 18th century, a modest estate compared to the vast zamindaris of North Bengal, yet its Greek-style columns and proud gateway carry the same air of power and artistry.
The zamindari began with Din Nath Chakraborty, who settled here during British rule. His son Atul Chandra Chakraborty expanded the estate by buying land shares from a zamindar of the famed Atharobari. The main gate, still standing today, was named Shridhar Bhaban after Atul's son.
From there the lineage passed down to Bhupati Chakraborty, the last recognised zamindar, and finally to his son Manabendra Nath, who remains the custodian of the Zamindar Bari.
Though smaller in scale, the estate stretched across ten acres, with its kachari ghar (revenue office), nahabatkhana (music tower), guest quarters, temple, and wide pond with stone steps. Inside the house, carved beds and wooden furniture still whisper of days when officials, musicians, and visitors crowded the halls. On the gates, the word 'Welcome' is still inscribed in Sanskrit, and on the main arch, the name Shridhar survives like an echo.
The war that changed everything
History weighs heavily on these walls. During the Liberation War of 1971, the Zamindar Bari became a shelter and training ground for freedom fighters. Its position as a symbol of influence did not go unnoticed. The Pakistani army, with local collaborators, attacked the estate.
"My father and ancestors ran their zamindari from here. Now the zamindari is gone. My relatives are gone. But I will not leave. I will die on this soil."
That night, Bhupati Chakraborty, Manab Babu's father, was killed along with several family members. Their bodies were left as reminders of what loyalty to the land could cost. The rest of the family fled to India, but Manab Babu, then a young man, refused to leave.
"My father and ancestors ran their zamindari from here," he recalled, his voice steady despite the weight of memory. "Now the zamindari is gone. My relatives are gone. But I will not leave. I will die on this soil."
A simple memorial (monument) within the compound honours those who were killed in 1971. Visitors pause here, some in silence, some with whispered prayers, knowing that the Liberation War is not just a story in books but one written into the very stones of this Zamindar Bari.
The last zamindar
The zamindari system was abolished long ago, but in Gangatia the spirit lingers. Locals still call him Zamidar Saheb, though he lives simply, with no wealth or retinue. At ninety-two, Manab Babu moves slowly, yet with the grace of someone deeply rooted.
After the war, he chose not to retreat into isolation. In 1974, urged by villagers, he contested for upazila chairman post. "I never pursued politics," he said. "The people came to me, and they asked me to serve. I stood only for them." He won, and for years, he was remembered as a fair, approachable leader.
This Zamindar Bari has remained open, not as a museum but as a living space of culture. In the evenings, the courtyards sometimes get filled with the sounds of baithak gaan. The dulcet music of the harmonium, tabla, and flute reverberates across the pond, reviving the old zamindari tradition of patronage. Musicians travel from Kishoreganj town, from Mymensingh, even from Sylhet to join. Manab Babu himself still sings occasionally—his frail voice rising with surprising strength when the tune takes hold.
"I enjoy these gatherings very much," he admitted, with his eyes gleaming with joy. "It feels as if the old days are alive again."
A living legacy
While walking through the grounds, one could see the balance of decay and care. Some walls are cracked, some cornices broken, yet much has been restored. The front columns still stand tall, the pond glitters in the sun, and the temple bell still rings in the morning.
Beyond history, the Zamindar Bari has adapted. A fish farm beside the estate now supplies fresh fishes to the markets and even the Bangladesh Army. This practical enterprise helps sustain the household and keeps the land alive with activity.
For all its quiet dignity, Manab Babur Bari is never empty. Travellers, students, tourists, and neighbours pass through, eager to meet a living zamindar.
Santosh Kumar, hailing from Meherpur, said, "I have been hearing stories of Gangatia Zamindar Bari for years. To finally stand here, to meet the zamindar himself, feels like stepping into history."
Others speak of tranquility. "This place is peaceful," said Anis Mia from Ashulia. "The greenery, the air, and the silence—it all pulls you in." Visitors from India too find their way here, connecting across borders through memory and heritage.
The long shadow of the zamindars
The Zamindar Bari is part of a wider story. From the Mughal jagirdari to the Permanent Settlement of 1793, when Lord Cornwallis formalised zamindari under the British, these houses became centres of both control and culture.
They were courts, treasuries, music halls, and family homes. They shaped villages, encouraged learning, patronised art—and also imposed rent and taxes that bound peasants tightly.
When independence and land reforms arrived, most zamindars, particularly Hindu families, left for India. Their estate collapsed into ruin while their legacies scattered. Only a few, like Gangatia, survived against the test of time.
That survival feels fragile now. The walls hold stories, but it is the presence of Manab Babu himself that makes its legacy more enduring.
