ALAUDIN ULLAH: Growing up in East Harlem, I was getting bullied.

All the kids were like "yo, your mom talks funny, what's that she's wearing?"

This was the beginning of when I just totally abandoned and rebelled against anything that was Bangladeshi or Muslim.

NATASHA DEL TORO: A journey to uncover his family's history takes Alaudin Ullah from Harlem to Bangladesh.

SHAMSUL: And that's your family waiting for you.

ALAUDIN: There's so many stories, we've been omitted from history.

DEL TORO: "In Search of Bengali Harlem" on America ReFramed.

♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ALAUDIN: It's fall in October, 1983.

My mom is out shopping.

I have my headphones on, and my dog is biting my pants.

So I take my headphones off.

I go to my parents' bedroom.

♪ ♪ Well, I open the door and I see my father sprawled out.

He's gasping for air.

(sirens wailing) ♪ ♪ Here we are in the ambulance.

I'm holding his hand, he's holding my hand, and he's from the villages of Bangladesh.

I'm from the streets of East Harlem.

We don't have anything in common.

♪ ♪ (indistinct radio chatter, siren blaring) And to think, the last thing that he remembers is looking at my face and holding my hand.

♪ ♪ (train passing) ♪ I'm holding on by a thread ♪ ("Kites" by Anik Khan playing) TRAIN ANNOUNCER: This is Times Square... ♪ There's not much of a breeze today ♪ (train passing continues) ♪ I keep trippin' on the clouds ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ Yeah ♪ ♪ And I'm no use to you ♪ ♪ If I fall down ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ I can feel the wind beneath me ♪ ♪ Yeah ♪ ♪ It's so you to keep believing ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ Yeah ♪ ♪ Something needs to give right now ♪ ♪ Yeah ♪ (smacks lips, exhales) ♪ Or this ain't working out ♪ ♪ Yeah ♪ ♪ ♪ (music fades) (Alaudin sighs) (keyboard keys clacking) ALAUDIN: What does my character want?

What's going on with these secondary characters?

Like right now, I'm writing a scene where the kid is getting ready for school and he's practicing breakdancing.

And the mother's like, "Come on, you gotta go to school."

He's like, "Ah, forget about school."

What's really happening is inner dialect.

"Okay, Ma, I'll stop what I'm doing, "jump out the window, and do namaz, and eat a pork chop while I'm flying."

But instead he goes, "Okay, Ma, I'll be there in two minutes."

(voiceover): Is Bangladesh in the house?

(crowd cheering) All right, welcome, welcome, welcome.

So there we were, the first Bangladeshi family in Spanish Harlem.

And before I was about to embark on my first day of kindergarten, I saw all the kids in the neighborhood wearing these badass cool sneakers.

"Amma, Amma, can I please get these shell top Adidas?"

"Alaudin, when I was in Bangladesh, I wore nothing on my feet."

"Ma, can I please get these, these brand-new Kareem Abdul-Jabbars?"

"Did you say Kareem Abdul-Jabbar?

Is he a Muslim?"

"I don't know, Ma-- "oh yeah, yeah, yeah!

Yeah, Ma, yeah!"

(laughter) "He is a Muslim, Ma.

Can I get them?

They're only $19.99."

"Haye Allah, $19.99?

That is a lot of money for a sneaker."

"But Ma, these are Muslim sneakers."

(laughter) So there I was, rocking my brand-new Kareem Abdul-Jabbars, first day of kindergarten.

See, people have no idea how tough it is, growing up Muslim.

(birds chirping) My dad, me, and my brother Karim, and that's Rockefeller Center.

That's me as really a little kid.

Inquisitive, you know, introverted.

And... also it reminds me that when my father was alive, people would say, "Oh, I saw your grandfather."

I'm like, "Who's my grandfather?

That's my father."

And they'd do a double take.

This is an interesting picture of me.

I know who that kid is in that picture.

He's pissed and he's like, "I don't wanna be part of this.

And lady, you don't know (muted) about me."

I would never hug my mom, I would never kiss my mom.

My mom's just not happy.

(din of the street) (cars honking) This is going from 103rd and Lexington up the big hill to 102nd.

It's a killer hill, man.

It was a lot easier when I was a kid, but it's a pretty good hill to go down skateboarding.

Whew.

Man, that was a workout.

This is my father's block.

Very Puerto Rican, very East Harlem.

Gone.

It's very white now.

So I'm looking at East Harlem, like, (music blaring from passing car, chuckles) That's old school East Harlem, blasting Héctor Lavoe.

♪ ♪ (voiceover): From 1966 to like 1970, in that apartment on 102nd Street, it was my father, brother Karim, and my mom.

When I came into the picture, my father went on a waiting list at Carver Projects.

So they went from this little tenement to this more spacious project apartment.

And you know, growing up in East Harlem, I was Bangladeshi, I was Muslim, I was getting bullied.

My mom, like in kindergarten, first grade, she would come with a sari.

She had a strong accent.

And all the kids were like, "Yo, your mom talks funny.

"What's that she's wearing?

Why is she wearing a curtain?"

I'd say, "No, that's a sari."

I literally was like that kid in the corner who had no friends.

But I also have great memories, because the second week of kindergarten, this skinny Black kid who lived across the street from me in Carver, he walked up to me and just said, "Hey, do you wanna be Robin?

I'll be Batman."

And I never forget that, for the rest of my life, because Chris was the only friend that I had.

So Chris would call me on the roof.

CAMERAMAN: Mm-hmm.

And he was like, "Yo, you got The Incredible Hulk" ?

So I put it in a bag and I drop it 15 flights.

- Wow.

- From up there.

(siren blaring) That's kitchen, living room, my bedroom and my brother's bedroom, and my parents' bedroom at the end.

♪ ♪ By the time I got to fourth or fifth grade, in the lower income areas of New York, there was a cultural revolution going down.

♪ ♪ I was sneaking to the Black park in front of my building.

They used to have all the rappers there.

Rap really was connecting with this feeling of isolation, being an outcast, being a freak.

I loved it, I worshiped it.

I wanted to be part of that revolution.

And then when I got into the boys club, there were a lot of Puerto Rican graffiti artists.

I was watching them tag, and they were quick.

They were like, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh-- and they were gone.

When I went to Metropolitan or MoMA with these guys, they were like, "Yo, my man, "I gotta tell you something, though.

"We're never gonna be in this place.

That's why we gotta do the trains."

(train passing) ♪ ♪ Watching the trains come out of that train yard, it was a feeling of euphoria.

So it was like being in some underground movement.

You know my father, he'd say, "Putting your signature on wall, what is this?

What is that crap?"

I looked at my father like a Uncle Tom dishwasher.

Like, you don't know anything about the hood, the projects, you're just some old man and a cane.

And I remember one time, my mom came out with a stick, screaming and yelling 'cause it was past 8:00.

I couldn't express to her why I loved hip-hop so much.

She was never gonna get it.

This was the beginning of when I just totally abandoned and rebelled against anything that was Bangladeshi or Muslim.

♪ ♪ And I could almost see myself just moving away from my mom and my father.

They lost me by then, I was gone.

♪ ♪ It's one of the oldest shots we got.

I think this is from '69.

Oh wow, I forgot I had this picture.

Holy (muted).

This is right before my dad died.

(voiceover): At my father's funeral, there were people I'd never seen before.

Kitchen workers, waiters, chefs, dishwashers.

I didn't want to see my father in the casket.

What I wanted to see was the Yankees in World Series.

So I snuck a Walkman to the back of the mosque while someone started eulogizing my father.

"Habib Ullah came to the promised land, but he could not find the promise."

"Strike three, Winfield strikes out again.

"The Yankees are down to their last out.

"Coming to the plate, none other than Mr. October.

Holy cow, Reggie Jackson."

"A time to rejoice, pass that promise on to a new generation of dreamers."

"This could be the very last time "we see Reggie in a Yankee uniform.

"The crowd is at their feet.

They're cheering, 'Reggie, Reggie.'"

"We must celebrate the life that Habib Ullah has led."

"The pitch..." "We must all dare to dream."

"Reggie pops 'em up!

Say it ain't so."

"So before we say goodbye..." "The Yankees lose to the Dodgers."

"Let's pay our last respects to..." "Say goodbye to Reggie."

"Habib Ullah."

♪ ♪ From '97 to 2000, my commercial, TV, film career was really taking off in Los Angeles.

So if you needed a voice or an actor to do the Indian accent, I was the guy.

I remember thinking about my father, if he was alive, he would slap the taste out my mouth.

Like, "what are you doing?"

Then, after 9/11, it was just an influx of stereotypical caricatures.

(voiceover): "As Prince of this country, "I will not allow you to do business "with my father's oil company.

"Death to America, death to you infidels, Allah Akbar!"

Scene.

I would get these parts, the money was really good, but after a while, I was getting so angry.

I'm from Carver Projects on 104th Street.

The (muted) I know about terrorists and cab drivers?

And I would say, "I'm a comedian.

"Why don't you just let me read for like, the best friend, like the, the kooky guy.

I had my hand on the doorknob, about to leave triumphantly, when suddenly, I remember that look in my father's eyes as I held his hand that last day.

"Uh, excuse me!

"Um, I wanted to ask you a question.

"Do you know any Muslims?

"Well, it's just that my family "is full of crazy Muslims, and none of them talk like this."

(laughter) (voiceover): This is the first time in my life I saw a connection to my father.

It's almost like he gave me the baton and saying, "I know you're not a Muslim, "you're definitely not a Bangladeshi kid, but you know, do the right thing."

And I walked out of the audition room saying, you know what?

I don't wanna be part of this bulls--t anymore.

♪ ♪ And I remember one director says, "Who was your father?"

"Well, I don't really know."

There's a void in my life, like I really have to know who my father is.

♪ ♪ When I got back from L.A., I decided to reach out to my father's last remaining friend, Chacha Masud.

Nothing is built... - Right.

When did you first meet my father?

After... same day I came in America.

Because he's very close to my brother.

I got a job in the, some...

Laundry... Big.

Minimum wage was 75 cents an hour.

ALAUDIN: Wow.

Yeah, but that was good money.

(laughs) Now, according to now, it was good money.

- When you met him, he was always a dishwasher?

- Who?

- My father.

- No, he used to work some restaurant, I don't know what the hell he do.

- Yeah.

- I never asked him.

(dishes clanking, laughter) CHOUDHURY: That's me.

- Is that-- who's it of?

- Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.

- Hold it.

ALAUDIN: Chacha Masud, he spoke fragments.

His memory seemed to come and go.

So I turned to my mother for answers.

MOHIMA ULLAH: Mr. Ullah go to 19... 65.

He marry me.

That time, my age is 20 year old.

He like me, I like him.

Mr. Habib Ullah tell me, lot of people come, ship... visit.

Visit.

You know, my husband come also ship.

VIVEK: You met their wives also?

ALAUDIN: Who did they get married to?

VIVEK: Who did they get married to here?

- Here?

I don't know them.

I come 1967, after they marry American lady.

Okay, what's this picture, of Pop and these people.

- This picture?

No, this no good.

That was in... it was in-- Union, Union Square, you know.

- (inaudible) - What was there?

- The nice building.

- But what was there?

- Wonderful.

- Do you remember?

- Yes.

- Do you remember what was there?

It was like, I'm talking to my mom, but we just talk past each other.

How old was I here?

I was maybe like, five years old... - You five year old.

- So that must've been... - Karim, I think, so ten.

ALAUDIN: She pulls out these two old photo albums.

Just pages and pages of photos.

Mostly just me, Karim, our mom and dad.

And you know, Karim is two or three years older than me.

He spoke more Bengali growing up, and he was recognizing the people in those photos.

- (speaking Bengali) ALAUDIN: That's Hamid?

- Yeah, that's Hamid.

These are my father's homeboys, chilling out at Orchard Beach.

ALAUDIN: But his philosophy is the past is the past.

Just let it go.

I kept on asking my mom about my father's early life, but her health was deteriorating and I felt like I was running out of time.

I miss everybody.

My brother, my sister, my mother, my uncle, cousin.

ALAUDIN: I wanted to know about my father.

Instead she told me about her past life, her village in Bangladesh, the sisters she left behind.

(clicking) I think what I knew about my father was kind of like bullet points.

My dad left Noakhali and got on a ship sometime in the '20s.

We don't know the age.

He landed in the Lower East Side, then he eventually moved to East Harlem.

♪ ♪ He married a Puerto Rican woman, had my stepbrother and my stepsister, and then his wife Victoria had an aneurysm and she died.

So 20 years had gone by, and he was pretty much alone and his asthma got really bad.

He went to Bangladesh to look for a young bride to take care of him.

My mom was the best prospect because she was divorced.

But there was a big age difference: my mom was in her 20s and my dad was in his 60s.

That's the extent of what I knew.

I really didn't know the specifics.

♪ ♪ Hey, what's up, Pepe?

What's good, how are you?

- Hey, long time no see, man.

♪ ♪ (audience cheering) So happy to see you all.

My name is Alaudin.

For those of you wondering, no, I don't own a 7-Eleven.

(laughter) No, I don't own a news stand.

(laughter) No, I don't drive a cab.

(laughter) And I had absolutely, positively, nothing to do with the Oklahoma City bombing.

All right?

(laughter) Isn't it ironic, this place called the Nuyorican Poets Cafe and it was all South Asians that night.

And I was doing jokes about my mom, about her scolding me about eating pork chops, and all of that material was, was landing.

I was right over there the whole time, videotaping the set.

And then after the set, you came through the crowd.

You just stood there and said, "I wanna make a documentary about my father."

And you started telling me about your father's story and you told me that he was maybe a teenager when he first came here.

That he came on a boat, came in the 1920s.

He married a Puerto Rican woman and moved to Spanish Harlem.

I mean that story, there was no other story like that.

That was a time when South Asian immigration was, was actually banned.

♪ ♪ In 1917, the United States passed an immigration law that's referred to as the Asiatic Barred Zone Act.

And that law banned the immigration of people from all over Asia, including India, British India.

So, the understanding within the community, within historians, was that the door closed in 1917 and there was no more migration from South Asia... - Right.

- ...until much later, until 1965.

- Right.

- So, your father, he lived his whole adult life in the United States at a time when... - It was prohibited.

- Yeah, it was prohibited.

I looked around for... existing histories, like written histories that might explain how your father got here, right?

And there was nothing.

There was nothing.

I had to go into the archives and start looking to find out, you know, was your father just one guy?

Was his circle just a small circle that came from, what was then East Bengal to East Harlem?

- Yeah.

- Or was there some other thing that was going on here?

Some other history... - Yeah, was there, was there an underground railroad?

That's crazy, man.

I don't even think about my father as being defiant or rebellious like that.

He risked so much.

They broke the law to come to another country.

I can't believe I'm getting emotional.

(film reel spinning) (film flapping) VIVEK: So, this is where I first came to start the research.

They have marriage records, birth records, death records.

So what I wanted to find out here was were these men part of some larger history that hadn't been recorded yet?

I started the process looking at the indexes.

ALAUDIN: These look like 8-tracks.

- Yeah.

(both laughing) "Groom's index, all boroughs, 1928 to 1932."

- Right.

- So I started looking through these for those names: Ali, Ullah, Uddin, Miah-- surnames that were common among Bengali Muslims.

So over in these cabinets are microfilms of the actual... - Marriage certificates?

- Marriage certificates.

- Okay.

- Yes.

"29364... Mohammed Abdul is married to Sadie Simmons."

Wow, 1923.

Can you imagine what their wedding was like?

- (mumbling): nine-two-29... - Most of them says India because, right-- 'cause back then it was, it wasn't Bangladesh... - Right.

- It was India.

- When they came here, first they were Indian, then they were Pakistani, then they were Bangladeshi because of the, the independence movements that were unfolding.

ALAUDIN: So in a lifetime, my father had three identities.

- All right, so here we go.

We'll take a look at these... - 1925, wow.

- Yeah.

- Yankees won the World Series that year.

Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig.

- (laughing): Your whole reference to history... - (laughing): I know.

- Is the history of the New York Yankees.

- My only way of remembering history is the Yankees.

Like who are these people?

Whatever happened to them?

But I feel they're one degree of separation away from my dad.

- So let's take a look at the one from 1939.

ALAUDIN: So you roll it around first.

- Eight... - This is August 8.

Okay, we're looking for May 27... 10:46...

This.

Can you read that?

- "Ali Habib, Maria V." - "Maria V...

Echevarria."

- That's your father.

And this is Victoria.

So he went by Habib Ali.

- Ali, right.

- Right.

"Color or race."

It says... - What the... - "Indian White."

- "Indian White."

- What's Indian White?

(both laughing) - Sometimes they're referred to as white, sometimes colored, sometimes Black.

Occupation?

Cook.

- Cook.

There's age 28.

- Age 28.

- Wow.

- So, this was a pattern that there were a lot more men than just your father and his small circle of friends.

They were almost all marrying either African American... - Yeah.

- Or Puerto Rican women.

They were almost all working in these like, service-type jobs.

- Yeah.

- Which were all also occupations that other men of color in that era would've been doing.

And we know that they were settling in the Lower East Side and in Harlem.

- I didn't realize there was that many.

- So then the next thing that I started looking at was ships' passenger records.

I didn't find any passengers with these names, but...

I found lots and lots and lots of ship workers.

(reel whirring) ♪ ♪ (ship horn blaring) Ali, Miah, Ullah, Uddin, the same names.

One after the next after the next, being listed as firemen.

Those were the people who shoveled coal into the furnaces... - Right.

- Stokers who also kept the fire at a particular temperature, cooks and stewards.

So then, it started to make sense.

So they were actually men who had come as ship workers and jumped ship.

♪ ♪ You know, as colonial subjects on these British ships, They were like indentured laborers.

There are these stories of men who are described as having gone crazy in the heat of the boiler room and jumping overboard in the middle of the sea.

♪ ♪ In this book by Rozina Visram, she recounts a story that she found in the archives in Britain.

A group of South Asian Muslim ship workers who were punished for something onboard their ship.

The ship's captain hung them up on meat hooks and shoved pig entrails into their mouths.

All the crew jumped ship at the next port.

(water sloshing) ALAUDIN: "Give me your hungry, your tired, your poor."

That's not really how it went down.

But when I think about my father and his generation, who welcomed them?

African Americans, Hispanics, Puerto Ricans, Caribbean, they welcomed them.

HABIB: Could you imagine when the ships came into New York Harbor?

- Can you imagine what must've been going through their heads?

(boat passing) ALAUDIN: One of the most reliable people I can ask questions about my father is my half-brother Habib.

So he always tells me, "you only knew your dad after he had a stroke."

Habib was with my dad in the '40s and the '50s and the '60s.

What he told me, he actually got here by accident.

He came as a merchant worker on a British ship, I guess.

And they landed in New York and he decided to get off to look around.

He claimed he got lost, and he couldn't find his way back to the ship, and the ship left.

So he got left in New York.

He got picked up by the police.

He was sent to a lockup and there happened to be other Indians there.

And from there, they took him to where they lived.

And that was how he started living here in New York.

So it was all by accident.

So he claims.

- (laughing): So he claims.

(helicopter blades churning) HABIB: Pop never went back until 40 years later.

He was married to an American citizen.

He had his children here, he had a job, friends.

I think his life was here.

(boat horn blowing) 'Cause I remember, one time I asked Pop, "Can you teach me to speak Bengali?"

And he told me no.

He told me straight out, no.

He said, "You're an American boy."

(water sloshing) (din of the street) HABIB: He never mentioned much of his earlier life.

All I know is that there was always a club down here someplace.

The Pakistan League of America, they always had a loft down the Lower East Side.

I'll never forget, there was a sign on the wall: "No Gambling Allowed.

And right under, there was two guys playing poker.

(laughter) So I used to go to the tables, "Hello, Chacha."

"Hey Habib, ah, yeah!"

And they'd give me a dollar.

I would rack up that way.

I think it might be around the corner.

HABIB: The little streets... ALAUDIN: Yeah.

HABIB: ...are very familiar.

- 190.

- So 193.

It's right there.

ALAUDIN: What are your memories of the Pakistan League?

HABIB: After Eid, they would have their dinners.

Pop would be there with a couple of other guys cooking all night.

Because they would buy a whole cow, and then they'd butcher it and everything and cook.

They used to eat by groups, there was so many people.

First group, and then when you finish, you go hang out, walk around-- second group, you know?

♪ ♪ They never gave up the curry.

ALAUDIN: Yeah.

HABIB: They never gave up the religion.

They never gave up on each other.

My father was a cook.

I'd never really known him to do anything else.

He worked Downtown.

I think the only time he had actually left there was to open up his own restaurant.

My mother was Puerto Rican, but she was the driving force in much of their business transactions and goals.

They did well together.

They even opened up a restaurant.

Bengal Gardens.

My greatest shock over that was that was the first time I ever heard him curse.

He was the boss of that kitchen.

He would help other Indian restaurants who were trying to get started, making a menu, ordering the silverware, tablecloths, things like that.

So he did serve as a consultant.

♪ ♪ ALAUDIN: Here I am thinking, "Oh, I'm gonna hang out with these graffiti artists and we're gonna challenge the status quo."

Not knowing that my father and my uncles were already challenging that, you know, 50 years ago.

My father didn't wanna be just a cook or a dishwasher.

He wanted to own his own business.

That is as rebellious and radical as you could probably be at that time, in the '40s, in the '50s.

♪ ♪ (train passing) HABIB: You would start on the lower East side.

And as you got better, made a little more money, you decided to go and get a better place.

And usually that better place would be East Harlem.

(man singing in Bengali) Back in the '40s and '50s, it was basically a Hispanic community.

They called it Spanish Harlem.

Or the Spanish people would call it El Barrio.

Every Saturday we used to walk to the Marqueta on 116th Street.

There was a Botanica there.

Pop, he would go there and say, "Gimme a pound of that, gimme a pound of this."

And he knew the spices, and she would put it in, mix it up for him.

That's why Pop's curry was always distinct.

(singing resumes) He had some close Puerto Rican friends, families.

And of course he always had his Indian friends, his Bengali friends.

♪ ♪ You had one, two, three, four.

And then, halfway down the hill was another Indian family.

♪ ♪ This is when I was born.

This is where they brought me.

1942.

I lived here till 1964.

When I got married and moved out.

(man singing in Bengali) 50% of my teenage years was spent on the roof.

(singing continues) I used to take care of a coop, for a guy, his nickname was Dogo.

I used to take care of his birds.

(singing in Bengali) (children playing) People tend to look to like, "Wow, you lived in a ghetto.

You must've been depressed.

It must've been horrible for you."

No, it wasn't-- I grew up in this neighborhood.

You felt safe here.

I had friends here.

You couldn't do anything bad, because they would know who you are.

"Oh, there's Ali's son," you know, like that?

I mean, this was the neighborhood.

(children shrieking) ♪ ♪ (train passing) HABIB: Hey.

FELITA: Good morning.

How are you?

KARIM: Five minutes ago.

FELITA: Yeah, right?

Mm.

Good to see you.

KARIM: Yeah, yeah, what's happening?

FELITA: '50, '49, '50.

'cause this used to be starting at 103rd Street, the pushcart area, and they used to have stables.

HABIB: This is my old block.

I can't get over how nice this street looks.

(laughing, dog barking) ALAUDIN: Yeah, I know, right?

KARIM: Don't look like 1941 anymore.

HABIB: See I was Pop's caretaker.

After I got married, I moved out, he was on his own, and he knew that.

And that's why he was... ALAUDIN: Yeah.

HABIB: ...kind of looking for somebody.

And he made a decision after 40 years or so, longer than that, to go back to Bangladesh.

That's how he met your mother.

ALAUDIN: Yeah.

HABIB: Mohima.

So he went back.

He went back again.

Got your mom.

By this time Karim was born.

Were you the one that picked him up at the airport?

HABIB: Yes.

He was like all eyes, you know.

I said, "Hello Karim, how are you?"

He just looked at me like, what?

She had never been on an airplane.

Looking out the window... saying in Bangla, "akash, akash," the sky.

She's also depressed because she's very close with her sisters.

Leaving her family behind, and to my understanding, she's young.

She's like, about, she tells me, she claimed she was 19.

No, she was older.

ALAUDIN: A little older in her 20s.

Well, her and I were the same age.

♪ ♪ ALAUDIN: So we were trying to figure out who some of these people were, because we didn't have a clue.

Talking to Habib was like pushing a door open and seeing a glimpse of this whole other world.

All these families, these Muslim men from Bengali villages and their African American and Puerto Rican wives.

My dad was in the middle of that world.

He had this whole other life.

HABIB: So you never knew him as I did when he was a young man.

But you see, you could tell we went to the beach a lot.

Yeah, that's a quintessential picture.

HABIB: And you know how now people bring fried chicken and all that; Pop would bring pot of curry, rice.

But not that three tier, that's what I'm thinking... ALAUDIN: Not the Tiffin?

HABIB: No, no.

A regular pot and make the curry and the rice and we go to the beach... (eating sounds) ALAUDIN: And then there's all the kids, like my brother Habib, Bengali and Puerto Rican, Bengali and Black, he had that community.

♪ ♪ In my early childhood, a lot of those Bengali families were gone.

They left East Harlem.

Once a month, we would go visit Chacha Abbas and Auntie Frenchie in Brooklyn.

Chacha Victor and Auntie Helen were in Long Island.

Chacha Nurul was in Staten Island.

They had children who were older than me.

So I'd be like four or five and they were teenagers.

And when my mother would say, "Come on, we have to go home."

I didn't wanna go home.

♪ ♪ I wanna find those families again.

♪ ♪ I wanna find out about that world, that community they all had.

♪ ♪ Whenever I would see Chacha Victor talk to my dad, these two men were like, "Oh, let me tell you.

No, let me tell you."

(Helen chuckles) I can't see both of them cooped up in the village.

It's the one trait that they all have in common.

Like, let's go for a walk, let's go outside.

Auntie Helen and Chacha Victor were friends of my dad's.

They were the kind of couple that I imagined my dad and Victoria were.

How did Victor get to Harlem and how did he and Helen meet?

♪ ♪ HELEN: He was a tender on the British ships.

You had to shovel coal to run the engines.

The ship landed in Baltimore and his friend told him to come with him, that they were gonna go see some people.

But as the night wore on, he says, "Well, I'm staying.

You have no choice.

You have to go with me."

And they took a bus and landed up in New York.

♪ ♪ Now there was a lady, she was a Black lady.

He stayed in her rooming house, and there were other Indians there.

♪ ♪ My mother used to take the train with my sisters.

My future husband, he would wait for my mother, and he would give her his seat.

And then my mother invited him to the house.

I said, "I guess he's interested in my sister."

She said, "You can have him."

I said, "I don't want him."

(laughing) ALAUDIN: You had a boyfriend already?

No, I had no boyfriend.

I worked as a nurse and I didn't want to be a housewife.

He came back just before Christmas.

♪ ♪ He proposed to me and I was flabbergasted.

(chuckles) I said, "Oh my goodness."

We decided we would get married.

And I said to my mother, "You don't have to worry about the gown, we're not gonna be married in a Catholic church."

"No pork," that's what I told my mother.

That's when I was introduced into the Indian community.

♪ ♪ ALAUDIN: It's great seeing you.

How are you?

JOLIKHA ALI: Good to see you, good to see you, welcome, welcome.

- Thank you.

- Come on in.

ALAUDIN: Eshad and Ruth Ali ran a restaurant together in Harlem, not long after my dad and Victoria opened the Bengal Garden in Times Square.

I had heard about how Malcolm X's circle used to eat there.

This place became like a fixture in the neighborhood.

(indistinct chatter) RUTH: I'm good.

How are you?

ALAUDIN: You want us to take our shoes off?

RUTH: No.

(group chattering) JOLIKHA: Come on and have a seat.

They're just, no great order of any kind.

ALAUDIN: You know, it's funny because when we started this project, I never had any pictures of my dad.

RUTH: Oh, really?

ALAUDIN: I only knew him as an old man.

RUTH: I remember that picture so well.

She was crying and he was taking care of a customer.

And he just picked her up and then she stopped crying.

JOLIKHA: I think I was about three months.

RUTH: Yeah.

Something.

JOLIKHA: Three months old.

Four months old.

I was sitting in the window like this, and he was passing with a person.

I said, "Wow, I'm gonna get that guy, I'm gonna get that guy one day."

Just like that.

So I watched where he was going.

It was this Indian restaurant between 134th and 135th Street.

He gave me his, the phone number on a back of a matchbox.

ALAUDIN: Did you notice he had a strong accent or was he... RUTH: Yes, I didn't care.

I was going for the good looks.

(laughing) I didn't care where he was from!

♪ ♪ He was a foreigner.

And I knew in my heart that my family would not accept him.

I wasn't in South Carolina, you know, and I wasn't being watched.

I felt a freedom.

♪ ♪ He opened the restaurant in 1958, and shortly after that, we got married.

He lived to get up and go to work.

He loved it.

RUTH: That was him in the kitchen.

JOLIKHA: There was a counter in the front.

It was very American; it was four of us, you know, my brother, my mother, my... We worked; chop up, peel carrots.

I'd stand on the soda crate, and watch him butcher the lamb or the beef or the chicken, and cut it up.

And I had chicken curry just about every day of my life as far as I can recall.

And she would cook on Friday nights.

We'd, you know, we'd have our southern food on Friday nights, you know, up in the apartment.

RUTH: And he liked it.

He liked it.

JOLIKHA: We had our birthday parties there.

Miles Davis used to come and I used to serve him all the time.

I remember Cicely Tyson sitting there.

RUTH: Morgan Freeman came.

JOLIKHA: Mark Breland, a boxer.

Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.

♪ ♪ My father passed away in 1982.

She ran it for another 15 years without him.

So this little Black woman from Pawleys Island, South Carolina, you know what?

That's why she went after him, because she had to carry on the legacy of running this Indian restaurant 17 years after he died.

ALAUDIN: Wow.

You're no joke.

(laughing) ♪ ♪ ALAUDIN: Hey.

NURUL: How's it going, man?

ALAUDIN: How's your back?

I don't wanna hurt your back.

NURUL: Nah.

ALAUDIN: You're looking good.

My dad's friend, Nurul Amin, married an African American woman, my Auntie Laverne.

They had a bunch of teenage boys.

These were the coolest, hippest dudes that were Bangladeshi.

NURUL: So we were basically the only Indian family that moved to Staten Island at that time.

Growing up and the way we looked, for the few Black people that were in that community, we weren't accepted.

And then the white people did not know how to categorize us.

I remember growing up with some of my so-called white friends and hearing conversations.

It was one that I remember.

A little kid came to me one day, and he says, "You know, my daddy says you got big, thick lips like (muted)."

This is a kid.

I mean, I'm like six, seven years old.

This is what he's telling me.

So we heard a lot of that growing up.

You know, that we would not be able to achieve things because we weren't bright enough, and this is what the teachers are telling us.

ALAUDIN: Your identity, do you think it was more Black than Bengali?

NURUL: We were growing up in the Black movement.

I gravitated more towards that and the Indian part just got left.

ALAUDIN (chuckling): The reason why I love this shot, 'cause all the Bengalis had that fur, that hat.

NURUL: That's right.

ALAUDIN: And these dudes dressed up like they ready to go to Soul Train.

NURUL (laughing): Right.

I was into my jazz, I was into my Jimi Hendrix, I was into Led Zeppelin, you name it.

I wasn't going to follow any type of religion, period.

And I could sense that you guys weren't the normal, good Bangladeshi boys.

NURUL: My father avoided that conflict.

And that was the reason why he agreed to have the children brought up in the Catholic world instead of the Muslim world.

That was the compromise they made.

♪ ♪ ALAUDIN: Another place we used to frequent a lot was Chacha Abbas, Auntie Frenchie; they moved out to Brooklyn near the waterfront.

I remember they had two daughters, Zuleika and Ayesha, who were teenagers when I was little.

And I had the biggest crushes on both of them.

Hey!

ZULEIKA: Hi, how are you?

A very long time.

There were some times where people would come to our house with a piece of paper and it was like, go see Abbas, he lives on Sutter Avenue.

And my mother and father would help them.

She knew the system.

She was American.

She knew how to help these people.

We used to go to the ships and we would visit.

And as a little girl, going to the ships, do you know how huge those ships looked?

♪ ♪ And sometimes, you know, a few days later, people would come to our house-- the Chachas-- and they'd bring big cans of ghee.

And my mother would cook, and they always call her Chachi.

"Oh Chachi, thank you, Chachi, thank you."

And then the ship would leave, and there would be an uncle that stayed behind.

♪ ♪ My parents used to say to us, "If anybody comes around asking you "about Chacha this one or Chacha that one, you don't know them."

They got jobs and they went on to live productive lives.

♪ ♪ MAN: Hi.

LAILY: Hi.

ALAUDIN: I remember Chacha Chowdry as this tall, cool, slick, old uncle with a fine suit and a car, with a warm, raspy voice.

He seemed really impressive and important, but I didn't know why.

NOOR: Let me back up on this a minute.

My dad was president of the Pakistan League of America, five times.

They always voted him back in.

♪ ♪ LAILY: He was basically a go-between-- whomever came to the country, and whatever service they needed, because he had the knowledge.

He would meet and greet them when they first arrived.

He was helping them to get their paperwork.

He would take care of burials, he would visit the sick.

He would bring food to people.

Anytime any one of his fellow countrymen knocked on the door, he was gone.

NOOR: The reason for having the Pakistan League of America was to give a place for Muslim people to be with other Muslim people.

It started out with like 35, 40 members.

And that last count that I remember, it was up to like 500.

It worked, it worked for many, many years.

In order to continue raising money, they started doing this annual boat ride.

That was the most thrilling time.

HABIB: We'd go down to Bowling Green.

HABIB: 9:00, 10:00 in the morning, 500, 600, 700 people.

A lot of Pakistani and Bengali men and their families and friends, which was all, everything; Puerto Rican to Italian to Black.

LAILY: We just walk back and forth, we check out the young Indians, you know.

WOMAN: This one's cute, that one's cute.

HABIB: They had a, also, live band on board.

LAILY: Rock and roll, remember rock and roll?

WOMAN: The '50s, Doo-Wop, and dance.

(boat horn blaring) NOOR: Dad and I would go find a place on the beach so we could lay down, get a little sun, and go swimming and whatnot.

LAILY: Then we'd all meet at a certain time and have this huge feast.

(roller coaster clanking, excited screams) NOOR: No matter what we were doing, we always kept that Sunday open for that trip.

ALAUDIN: After the interview, Laily sent me this photo of the Pakistan League.

♪ ♪ And it was amazing because this is my dad's community.

Bengali, African American, Puerto Rican, Muslim, Catholic, documented, undocumented, all packed into the Pakistan League headquarters on the Lower East side.

They all built that world together.

♪ ♪ And there's my dad, right in the middle.

(indistinct chatter, laughter) ♪ ♪ (indistinct chatter continues) What was it like for those of you who were from the city, to come out to the...?

ALAUDIN: Everyone around this table is related to someone who was in that 1952 photograph.

Everybody came to that house.

Where the heck did everybody sleep?

(indistinct chatter) ♪ ♪ This first group of Indians who came here were such trailblazers.

They left everything that was familiar to them.

And yet they still lived life with such joy and exuberance, and that's really how I remember my grandfather.

I would not have known about what being on a ship was like, that it was close to slavery.

It was, they were indentured servants, basically.

He never shared that part of his story with us.

You know, we just thought it was a grand adventure.

(voice breaking): And I remember before... ...before Chacha Masud died, he said, "Don't, don't forget about us."

He said, "Don't, don't forget about us."

(people chattering) WOMAN: Here's to Chacha Frank.

To Chacha Frank... ...and Chacha Habib Ali.

ALAUDIN: I look at this community now, and I understand why I always felt like a fish out of water.

I never had what they had.

♪ ♪ But it also makes me think about my mom.

♪ ♪ How she came here after this whole community had scattered in the winds.

You know, at least I had hip-hop, I had sports, I got into comedy.

My mom, she was totally isolated in that apartment in 15-F. ♪ ♪ All those earlier families had moved out of the neighborhood.

There were no other Bangladeshi women in the projects.

She only had my father.

And after my father died, that was it.

Do you remember my mom?

I do remember her.

ALAUDIN: What were your earliest memories of my mom?

I can be candid?

(laughing) When we saw her the very first time, we said, "Damn, that's a good looking woman."

Can't recall the color, but she was wearing this beautiful sari, and she was holding you.

She was very protective, my mom of your mom.

Because she felt like, here's this woman coming to strange people's house in this strange country.

Mohima was really surprised of the freedom of women.

How we brought up the children.

ALAUDIN: You know, my father was married to Victoria, who seemed to be a super progressive woman.

Yes.

And then with my mom, it's like, my mom just would not budge.

- No.

- Would not compromise.

That was Mohima.

I had a really volatile relationship with my mom.

- With your mom, really?

Oh... - Yeah, it was.

My mom would force me to do the namaz and the prayers and I just wasn't into it.

And she was saying, you know, you gotta do Hajj, it's the holy pilgrimage, and I said, "Mom, my holy pilgrimage is to Yankee Stadium."

(laughing) And she just... she knocked me out.

Oh yeah!

She's not, maybe, as affectionate as you wanted her to be, but she's also not understanding the two boys that she's raising, because they're growing up American.

Kind of gotta give her some credit there.

Yeah, and I think about that timid girl in your mother's kitchen.

- Right.

- Scared.

I don't know who that girl is.

Like, I only know the woman who was, like, very strong, who was very forceful.

Because in my head, I only know that young woman.

But look how strong she really was.

How many people do you know in their twenties could say, "Yep, gonna marry this guy.

I'm never coming back, probably."

Your mother had to have internal strength for her to be able to do all of that.

You know what I mean?

ALAUDIN: Yeah.

♪ ♪ (train horn blaring) (tracks rumbling) MOHIMA (on TV): Mr. Ullah go to 1965, he marry me.

Also before I marry, he asking my grandfather.

My uncle, which girl I marry, she can go America?

My family said, why not?

You can take her moon.

She belong to you.

I lost my husband 1983.

I think so I lost my best friend that day.

My heart break.

I no eat couple of days.

I have no family here, nobody else.

I am depressed.

What can you do?

I miss everybody.

(voice cracks) My best friend, Mr. Habib Ullah.

He's my companion.

Nobody else.

I miss him very much.

ALAUDIN: My mother was always, in some ways bipolar, 'cause she'd be really happy then be really depressed.

And then she would talk, like, in riddles.

"Oh Allah, take me, take me."

I did not get her.

I did not understand her.

I didn't care to know her.

One of the things that I asked is like, why she keeps on saying Mr. Habib Ullah?

I never understood that.

♪ ♪ I look at these early interviews and I feel like she was trying to tell me something.

When I try to talk to her now, she still won't answer these basic questions.

Why did she say yes to marrying my dad, this old man?

And after my father died, why didn't she ever go back?

MOHIMA: Move my chair.

ALAUDIN: What clothes?

MOHIMA: Lady put in blanket.

ALAUDIN: These clothes right here?

MOHIMA: Yeah, he can sit down.

ALAUDIN: I even come in, two seconds, I'm already working.

This right here?

MOHIMA: Yeah.

ALAUDIN: Oh boy.

MOHIMA: Everything put on my chair.

ALAUDIN: All right.

MOHIMA: Lady put it here.

ALAUDIN: Okay.

MOHIMA: Okay, Papa.

ALAUDIN: All right, so Ma, I'm leaving tonight.

I gotta go in a couple minutes.

You want the air conditioner on?

MOHIMA: Okay.

ALAUDIN: So I want you to say something to your sisters, 'cause I'm gonna show it to them, okay?

MOHIMA: Okay.

ALAUDIN: All right.

(Mohima speaking in Bengali) ALAUDIN: Well, help me out, 'cause I can't see your ear.

(Mohima singing Bengali) (singing Bengali continues) ALAUDIN: It means you have three sisters.

We're all alone.

Who do we have?

We only have each other.

♪ ♪ (woman vocalizing) ♪ ♪ (car horn honks) (traffic, horns honking) (horn honking) ♪ A long way ♪ ♪ From home ♪ ♪ A long way ♪ ♪ From home ♪ ♪ ♪ ALAUDIN: I think it's important to know what was going on in Bangladesh before they came here.

It's unfinished business for me, for us.

♪ ♪ I'm going to see Kalama, I'm in a rickshaw.

We're gonna see Kalama in like five minutes, ten minutes.

♪ ♪ (rain falling) (indistinct chatter) ALAUDIN: Wow.

(woman vocalizing continues) (Alaudin grunts) (Delwara speaking Bengali, sobbing) ♪ ♪ (Shuma speaking Bengali) ALAUDIN: She's okay.

I brought...

I have pictures.

You just, she looks just like my mom-- aman amma.

(rain falling) SHUMA: Hassan, Hassan's daughter.

ALAUDIN: Oh, okay, that's Hassan's daughter.

Thank you.

(Shuma speaking Bengali) (laughing) SHUMA: My father's elder brother.

ALAUDIN: Oh, okay.

SHUMA: Wife.

SHUMA: And she's my cousin, Rabia.

ALAUDIN: Hi.

(Rabia speaking Bengali) It's a big family.

(Shuma chuckling) And she's our... Hassan's wife.

ALAUDIN: My mother wanted to know if you got married in Dhaka or Noakhali?

- Dhaka.

Dhaka.

ALAUDIN: Yeah, because she has a whole lot of questions.

(group chattering) (cat meowing, woman speaking Bengali) ALAUDIN: Abdul Mannan's son said that aman abba's body is not too far from here, is like maybe half-an-hour, 45 minutes.

(indistinct chatter) (toy firing) (indistinct chatter) (music playing) DELWARA (in Bengali): ALAUDIN: What year?

DELWARA: Mohima Ullah.

ALAUDIN: This is me!

DELWARA (in Bengali): ALAUDIN: This is tumi, yeah, this is me.

I wrote this in 1986.

Wow!

That's my handwriting.

DELWARA (in Bengali): ALAUDIN: My mom would wait downstairs in the lobby for the postman, and she would open up the box, so eagerly, the mailbox, and she would look for that letter in Bangladesh and run upstairs.

She would hold these letters, like, it was holding a part of Bangladesh with her.

DELWARA (in Bengali): ALAUDIN: Can you tell me what, what did she say?

DELWARA (in Bengali): (water sloshing) (indistinct chatter) (water splashing, children laughing) (laughing) ALAUDIN: This is really my mother's roots.

I feel like I'm close to her here in this place.

(children shouting, water splashing) When I came here at seven years old, we used to hang out in this little pond river here with my cousins.

My mother would always make me stay in the shallow area.

♪ ♪ (water splashing, children laughing) (squawking) This was the first time I saw her swim.

That kind of tripped me out, that I got to see my mother in a different light.

(child laughing) (indistinct chatter) ♪ ♪ My father came to New York in a boat, and here I am going to his village in a boat.

So I look like a Bangladeshi cowboy with a dress.

In order to get to my father's village, we have to take a canoe over this rice field covered in water.

(water sloshing) It's been over 30 years since I've been in that village.

SHAMSUL: That's your family waiting for you.

So who are the... do I... these people are related to me?

So you know as much as I do.

SHAMSUL: Yeah.

(speaking Bengali) - He's your cousin.

ALAUDIN: Okay.

(people speaking in Bengali) Ah.

(indistinct chatter) ALAUDIN: When I was in kindergarten, I was ashamed of my name.

I didn't wanna be called Alaudin.

When I went to prep school, I had people call me Al.

And then when I was a comedian, I would say Aladdin just so I can get validation.

MAN (in Bengali): ALAUDIN: This is what?

MAN: This is our place, our house, our house.

This is the place where your father belongs to.

ALAUDIN: And then when I got to Bangladesh, everybody was saying it the same way my mother was saying it.

Alaudin!

(laughter) ALAUDIN: I'm Alaudin, that's the name that was given to me.

SHAMSUL (in Bengali): ZOINUL (in Bengali): ANWAR (in Bengali): ALAUDIN: I'm going to see Nadu Miah.

Nadu was the matchmaker who got my father and my mother together, it was an arranged marriage.

NADU (in Bengali): SHAMSUL (in Bengali): NADU: (crickets chirping) SHAMSUL (in Bengali): NADU: The reason that my family is together is because of him.

'Cause, tell him that's why I'm here.

SHAMSUL (in Bengali): ALAUDIN: And I've waited 30 years to speak to him.

SHAMSUL (in Bengali): NADU: ♪ ♪ (rain falling) ALAUDIN: I look in every house.

Everybody in those houses are related to me.

It's my cousin over there.

That's my other cousin over there.

That's my cousin's children.

Inside is my Auntie.

I've never had that before.

I've never had a community of family.

(Delwara speaking Bengali) CAMERAMAN: You can make it full screen.

(Mohima speaking on recording) ALAUDIN (on laptop): Yeah, so say something... MOHIMA (on laptop): You can talk with her?

ALAUDIN: I'm taping this.

Just talk to her.

(on camera) I can't-- I don't think I can make this full screen.

(recording) So Ma just talk, say something to Kalama.

(Mohima singing in Bengali) (Delwara joins) ALAUDIN: So you sing that when your mother dies?

SHUMA (in Bengali): DELWARA (in Bengali): (rain falling) ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ (woman vocalizing) ♪ ♪ SHUMA (in Bengali): SHAMSUL (in Bengali): DELWARA: SHUMA (in Bengali): DELWARA: ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ALAUDIN: I looked up at Kalama like, what are you saying?

And then Shahadat, who was behind the camera, I was like, "Can you translate?"

He was like, "Your mother had a prior marriage."

♪ ♪ DELWARA (singing in Bengali): (voice breaking): (toddler whining) (sniffles, sobs) I always thought my mother had one marriage, and then she married my father.

That was incorrect.

She was younger.

I have this image of a terrified little girl in some house, you know, waiting for some man to come home.

She had a child, Harun, who was seven, and that child ended up dying.

When I go back to New York... (voice breaking): ...when I go back to New York, I feel like I wanna apologize to her for, you know, just being really, just being really mean to her.

You know, like I, I don't, I feel guilty that I was, you know, that I had this adversarial relationship with her.

That-- I didn't know that she got abused.

I didn't know to what extent, you know?

♪ ♪ She deserved to be treated like a queen, and I wish I could have given her more.

♪ ♪ When I came home, my mother kept on saying, "I don't want to go to Bangladesh, I have you here."

I almost think, like, me going to Bangladesh was closure for her.

♪ ♪ She had pneumonia and pneumonia just never broke.

I sometimes wonder if she was just holding on for one of us just to go to Bangladesh.

(din of the street) (indistinct chatter) VIVEK: Hello, auntie, hello auntie.

(Mohima laughs) ♪ ♪ MOHIMA: I love Indian harmony.

You know, you see Maya daughter play?

KARIM: I didn't hear that-- you never wanted Pop to go see Indian film ever, right?

MOHIMA: You father tell me, your mother and your father.

ALAUDIN: You didn't get a kick out of the fact it's all Arab guys?

Oh God.

(laughs) (indistinct) Hold it.

Hold it.

ALAUDIN: Step with the right foot.

MOHIMA: Too long sit down, my knee.

♪ ♪ Come on, Karim, Alaudin.

(Mohima reading prayer) ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ALAUDIN: My mother died, like, around 2016.

Two years after that, I was offered a scholarship to study dramatic writing.

I want to create narratives where we don't have to be ashamed of our skin, our ethnicity, and our name.

♪ ♪ There's so many stories, we've been omitted from history.

♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ It was September 21, 2008, the last game at Yankee Stadium.

I wanted my mother to experience what I felt when I was nine years old.

(speaking Bengali) "Yankee Stadium is so beautiful."

I took my mother's hand, we walked down to the box seats, we were right behind the fence and I showed her home plate where Billy Martin used to argue with the umpires, where the captain, Thurman Munson, used to hold court, (voice breaking): Where Reggie hit those three home runs.

Look, Ma!

This is home.

♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ Denied, I'm falling behind ♪ ♪ I wanna inspire but they will not let me fly ♪ ♪ Mm, denied, they tore up my design ♪ ♪ All of my life been in denial ♪ ♪ Brown and black, black and brown ♪ ♪ Damn, way too black for brown, way too brown for black ♪ ♪ Super facts, how you bring your parents' village ♪ ♪ To the trap?

Super facts ♪ ♪ How you travel with your borough on your back?

♪ ♪ ♪