Just moments ago, some words came flying through Gmail from America.
Written there:
Friend, I’m in great distress. Pray for me a little. Just the other day I worked an eighteen-hour shift, standing the entire time. A salesman’s job is brutal, friend, brutal! I often wonder, why did I come here? So many nights I can’t sleep, have to drive taxi. I’ve worked as a waiter too, held out my hand for tips from people. I remember home, friend. Nothing feels good here. No one knows me here. So I survive doing these jobs, friend. I have to study properly too—I didn’t get into some university where they pass you based on looks. I can’t remember the last time I slept peacefully. Now I think I was better off before.
Reading my friend's email hurt. But perhaps a crooked smile also flickered unbidden at the corner of my lips. Why? Let me return to an old day.
A rain-soaked afternoon in 2010. I was running a shop then. On the second floor of Gulzar Tower in Chittagong's Chawk Bazaar, two shops facing each other—my gift shop 'Dovana'. I had an employee at my shop: Piyush-da. That morning his little daughter had suddenly fallen ill, so he took leave before noon and left. I was alone in the shop. My younger brother and his friend weren't there that day either. (The four of us—me, my younger brother Pappu, his friend Arefin, and Piyush-da—ran the shop together.) Managing two shops alone was a bit difficult. The friend whose email I just received used to come to my shop often. He'd chat, eat, listen to music, watch movies. I sold some rare movies and music at my shop.
That day I called him. I requested that if he was free, he come to the shop and help me out. He came. I sat in one shop, he in the other. Sitting in the passage between the two shops, we chatted together and ate egg paratha. After a while a customer came. The customer entered the shop where my friend was sitting. He wasn't saying anything, just browsing Facebook absentmindedly. The customer looked around on his own and chose a flower vase. My shop had fixed prices. While taking money out of his wallet, thinking my friend was the shop owner, he asked him to pack the item. Then, with a very annoyed expression on his face, my friend said, "What, sir, don't you even recognize people? Do I look like a shopkeeper to you? No, no, I'm nobody from this shop. (Pointing at me) The shopkeeper is sitting over there. Take it to him." The customer seemed a bit taken aback. I came forward and said, "Brother, come this way. I'm the shopkeeper. I'll pack it for you."
After the customer left, my friend came and said, "Dost, if I stay at your place, I see there'll be no dignity left. People are making me the shopkeeper. How embarrassing! You stay, I'm leaving." After he left, I pulled down the shutter of one shop and closed the glass door of the other, sitting inside listening to songs on YouTube. I was desperately hoping that no more customers would come to my shop that day. If I had to talk to anyone after this, I wouldn't be able to hide my tears anymore—I'd surely cry.
Giving someone a tongue-lashing is one of people's favorite pastimes. I don't recall ever giving anyone a lecture in this life. Rather, when people lectured me, I digested it silently. I let myself be wounded. Stubbornness settled in my heart, and those wounds became strength that constantly pushed me forward with tremendous force from behind. They say people's backs hit the wall, but my back had become embedded in the wall! My mother often says, "Son, never criticize anyone. Those who criticize flowers end up wearing them." Mother is absolutely right. The power of not giving lectures is far, far greater than giving them. Let your work do the talking, not your mouth. The power of work's speech is a thousand times greater than the mouth's.
Much of the credit for my well-being goes to some extraordinary friends like these.
Today I understand: in life, suffering pain is better than getting nothing at all.
Dear friend, thank you. Stay tremendously well.
P.S. Many people have asked me in their inbox what 'Dovana' means. Let me tell them: it's a Lithuanian word. In that country, people lovingly name girls Dovana. It means gift. (At that time, my favorite pastime was playing with languages and words. Words are tremendously powerful. I loved playing with them freely on Facebook.)