A sudden encounter with my journalist friend Murtaza. Rain was falling in steady sheets all around us. Water had pooled in the middle of the tarred road ahead. It was easy to see that the street hadn't been repaired in ages. No one could have anticipated that such a downpour would begin so suddenly. Nor had I imagined that the sky, unable to contain all its anguish, would break into such sobbing. Lightning danced across the heavens, and the vast open sky seemed wounded—as if it wanted to lighten itself by telling its pain over and over. Its tears, its weeping, its savage laughter had stirred such commotion among the city's creatures, yet it seemed utterly oblivious to this.
Yes, sitting in a corner of the tea stall, I was lost in these thoughts about the sky. When Murtaza's pen-holding hand suddenly landed on my shoulder, naturally the web of imagination snapped, I lost my train of thought and looked around; I saw the tea stall had gotten quite crowded. For a moment I wondered if Murtaza too was one of those rain-battered souls around me. So with a touch of humor I said, "What brings the distinguished journalist saheb to this humble tea stall at such an hour?" He replied, "I was actually heading to your place. But you're never to be found these days—have you fallen in love or something?" It had indeed been forty-eight days since I'd seen my dear friend Murtaza, though his accusation was false. He knew very well that no hapless woman would come to offer her love to me.
My college friend Murtaza became a journalist after getting his honors degree. And me? Son of the lower middle class, I became a primary school teacher after passing my intermediate.
Murtaza sat in the chair across from me. From his ornate jute bag he pulled out a stack of poems submitted for publication in their paper. Setting aside a few poems, he said, "Not one of your poems was selected." He said, "Read some modern poetry. It contains the essence of today's life. You can't write poetry without knowing life, you can't become a good poet, understand!"
Perhaps Murtaza's accusation was right. He's a journalist, maybe he knows life better than I do, but oh Murtaza, do you really know life better than a primary school teacher battered by reality's lash? You're only busy writing about "open secrets," import-export budgets and such things. Do you ever get the chance to see life the way we do? Your camera captures scenes of office workers shirking duties, manholes on streets, rice smuggling, pictures of milk adulteration, images of rotting potatoes. But have you ever seen how people around you are rotting every moment? With a sigh I said, "Tell me what kind of life you know?" He said, "I won't just tell you, I'll show you with your own eyes. Be ready tomorrow."
The next afternoon. I was ready and waiting for Murtaza. I paced restlessly, wondering what kind of life Murtaza would show me. Would I find plot material there worthy of a story? I was becoming somewhat absent-minded thinking about all this. At the sound of the door opening, I turned to see Murtaza arrive in person. We always keep our door open because it's not just one person's room in the mess.
I said, "I'm ready."
He said, "If you have even an atom of an artist's heart within you, then I believe that when you return and arrange these true stories, it will make an excellent tale."
I said, "Skip the dramatics—where are you taking me? Let's go."
Getting into the rickshaw, Murtaza became somehow grave. A shadow of melancholy fell across his face and perhaps a touch of disgust as well. He said, "The person I'm taking you to today is a burnt-to-ashes artist. By fate's cruel mockery, he's now disabled. From behind the scenes he only paints pictures. And his blood and flesh, consciousness, marrow and labor are bought with money, making another ordinary artist famous." He said, "Tamal, do you remember that art exhibition a while back where an artist named Akbar Hossain was considered the year's best painter?" I said, "Yes." Murtaza said, "Those artworks too were by this unfortunate artist. On one side Akbar Hossain is ascending day by day to the high throne of glory, honor and fame, while on the other this unfortunate disabled young man is slowly dying in the dark chamber of a slum, surely approaching death."
Interrupting mid-conversation, I said, "Even art has its conspiracies?" He said, "Yes, it does. Today I'll tell you everything, show you everything, reveal everything."
The rickshaw had by then reached our intended destination. After paying the fare, we passed several buildings and through an alley arrived at a slum. After two or three huts, Murtaza stopped in front of one particular hut. Two muffled voices could be heard from inside. Murtaza quietly pulled me to a corner outside the room and said, "Look there." Peering inside, I saw that rising artist from the exhibition standing to one side—the one whose lavish praise had brightened the exhibition hall that day. The one surrounded by various photographers and journalists after receiving his award. I heard that renowned artist Akbar Hossain say to him, "Keep this money; and yes, paint a couple more pictures, okay? And give me the old picture file. Oh yes, you've written down what each one is called, haven't you? I'll be going then, okay?"
After Akbar left, we slowly entered the room. I saw the artist sitting on an old bed, gazing out the window. His look was expressionless. What was reflected in his gaze that day, I still haven't been able to decipher. Was there mockery in that look? Or sarcasm? Or jest, or helplessness? What was there? Hatred? Resentment? I still can't quite figure it out. At the call "Shyamal bhai," the artist turned around. Murtaza introduced us. In refined, restrained language the artist invited us to sit on two broken-armed chairs.
My discomfort had been growing since entering the room. The smell of bidis and two other related things had made the entire atmosphere filthy. On the rickety cot lay an oil-stained pillow, dirt had penetrated every hole in the mosquito net, the dirty bed had a patched sheet, a small table with many books, paints, brushes, drawing paper scattered about in complete disorder. While my searching eyes were taking all this in, the artist's words brought me back to my senses.
"You write stories, I understand?" "I try to." He laughed loudly and said, "Come here looking for plots, have you?" With his laughter came a hacking cough from his throat. His words embarrassed me somehow. I realized I'd been found out. Though I also understood that he was quite hard on his body. I said, "If the opportunity presents itself, why not?"
With great difficulty stopping his cough, he became quite grave and began to speak: "Today people come to write stories about my life—how strange to think!"
"You know, everyone in this world is selfish. Akbar comes to buy pictures. Shaoli is happy now, complete with all of life's accompaniments. Azmal is also quite well off with himself. Tamanna is busy today unlocking the doors to others' happiness; and Murtaza, you too have come today with a friend to hunt for story plots! Very good, everything is very good. May you all grow great, be happy..." A contemptuous utterance from an emotion-laden voice, an anguished prayer, a tone of dismissal touched my innermost being as well. I didn't interrupt; Murtaza began to feel quite awkward.
"Yet there was a day when I wasn't like this. I'm the nephew of a village headman. My father died in my childhood. My parents lovingly named me Shyamal. That Shyamal has today died a gray, premature death; his verdure is now scorched by the sun's heat. After father died leaving two children, mother fell into great difficulty. Still, based on the land father had left behind, she began raising us.
"Naturally, her temper wasn't right then, I didn't get her proper affection. I felt as though my mother didn't love me. Her strict discipline, her harsh words didn't please me; I was terribly afraid of mother." As he spoke, his eyes filled with tears. "Yet I had misunderstood mother; I've always been sentimental. For some reason all of mother's words made me feel she didn't love me. I would sit absent-mindedly in the afternoon by the big pond in the shade of trees, watching the wind play over the rice fields. I wanted to merge myself with nature and quench my inner fire."
Besides, to escape my uncle's tyranny and the hatred and scowls of the villagers who suffered under it, I wanted to disappear, to stay hidden from everyone. I would skip school. Nature enchanted me then. I had become somewhat whimsical and detached. Interrupting mid-conversation, I asked, "Did you paint then?" "Yes, I would sit by hurricane lamp light and paint all night. I would ruminate on the day's scenes like a cow chewing cud." In a journalistic tone, I asked, "When and from what source did your inclination toward painting begin?"
He said, "In the early stages, fear and neglect made me paint. And now I paint most pictures from the depths of my subconscious mind's hatred." I saw the artist's first painting; in it, a snake was chasing a child. A picture drawn at age eight. I asked, "What does the snake symbolize?" He said, "My mother." I saw many such paintings where his uncle was depicted as ferocious animals. The imprint of nature consciousness was also widespread in his paintings. Akbar has many more pictures. I was about to say something when Murtaza said, "Let me finish first, then ask your questions."
The artist continued, "My days passed among all these things. I gradually began to grow up. And I began to feel it quite clearly too. That day I thought, even amid this gurgling breeze, green rice fields, the scent of wet earth, tree shadows, dense green meadows, and the sky filled with seven-colored play—even among all this, I am empty."
One day, seeing Shaoli come to the pond steps with her water pot at dusk, I felt something like deep weeping within my heart. Besides, for quite some time I had been noticing that Shaoli too seemed somewhat drawn to me. I couldn't remain still. I slowly moved toward the steps. Forgetting society, customs, environment—everything—I took her two hands and pulled her close. I said, "Shaoli, I love you." "Shamol bhai..." The shy girl hid her face against my chest.
Her warm breath felt wonderful. But the good feeling didn't last long. Someone from our neighborhood caught sight of the affair. Gradually, thanks to him, everyone knew. What terrible consequences this might have, I had yet to learn. The scandal spread through hundreds and thousands of branches. In the eyes of the village's conservative society, our love became fodder for tasteless, ugly gossip. I've always been the type to run away. I couldn't bear this disgusting talk. Besides, there was talk of Shaoli's marriage then. So I realized that unless I left the village, there would be no escape from this.
Before leaving the village, I thought I'd meet with Shaoli once. I just wanted to hear whether she loved me or not. Shaoli is the daughter of our village doctor, Bhuiyan. We played together as children. Then she studied in the city, staying with her father. She had come home for a visit then. When I went to her on the eve of departure, the fire of hatred I saw in her face—I haven't forgotten it to this day. Without letting me speak, she shouted, "I don't love someone as worthless, incompetent, uncivilized, and cowardly as you. The ruin you've brought to my life—perhaps I'll have to pay for it my whole life. Go away from here. Weren't you ashamed to come here? What evil intention have you brought here?" I was stunned! I thought, is this the same Shaoli I played with in childhood, who had hidden her face against my chest like an intimate hope at the pond steps? Alas, is this what's natural in the world!
I left the village and came to Dhaka city. I tried desperately to survive. Just as when a ship sinks, helpless passengers try to survive by considering even a small straw as great support, so too on life's ocean voyage, I tried to survive by grasping such support to prevent total wreckage, and however painfully, I did survive.
Of course, the boy who had dreamed of bringing revolution to the village, breaking all superstitions and conventional patterns to build an ideal social system there, the young man whose ideal was to live honestly—that young man, that boy, was lost when he came to the city. There appeared only a devastated man struggling to survive! To live, he had to take the dark path. He had to make a living by black-marketing cinema tickets, joining up with bad crowds. Alongside began this cigarettes, alcohol, and marijuana—to forget everything.
Suddenly Murtaza said, "Hey, it's past eight! I have to get to the office early today. There's a meeting." Reluctantly, we had to get up. I saw the artist take another drag from his marijuana pipe.
Outside, I asked Murtaza, "Where did you find him?"
"I found him when I came to buy tickets at the cinema hall. It's quite a story. But that day I sensed there was a wonderful heart within this black-marketer, which is why I've come this far today."
"Listen Murtaza, don't you know anything else about this artist? I saw so many of his artworks. There's such hatred, contempt, and the pain of neglect in them! And many are quite incomprehensible too. Hasn't he had any contact with the good aspects of life?"
Murtaza said, "That's probably how it is. First childhood neglect, people's cunning frowns on the path to speaking out against injustice, an unspoken unbearable pain at not being able to stop his uncle's wrongdoing, the scorpion sting of rural social systems, the filthiness of urban life, the wretched struggle to survive—from all this he has learned to understand that life is nothing but torture. Besides, the contempt of a beloved childhood friend has probably influenced his life and art too, so when another woman appeared at his heart's door with all her charm, even then he rejected her. The real point is, how can someone who has received only neglect after neglect from the world expect the world to hope for love from him."
"Who is that woman?"
"The girl's name is Tamanna. When the girl was rapidly approaching death after a road accident, it was Shamol who took her to the hospital. He can't bear people's suffering. When the blood groups matched, he gave his own blood to fill the void from her excessive bleeding. Getting word, Tamanna's wealthy parents came to the hospital. After recovery, Tamanna's heart filled with gratitude. This gratitude took the form of love. But having a strange ugly notion about women, Shamol couldn't trust her either."
"One day he took the side of some slum dwellers in a fight with some hired thugs of a rich man. Faced with beating, the slum people fled, but he didn't flee. He eventually lost consciousness under the thugs' blows. Then he was admitted to the hospital. In this incident, he had to lose one of his precious legs."
"What news of Tamanna?"
"At first she would go to him at the hospital. But what parents want their daughter to fall into the hands of a cripple? Besides, Tamanna too began to understand harsh reality. So she gradually began to withdraw. Of course, Tamanna should have married by now too. Her whole life lies ahead. I heard that Tamanna is apparently going around with some young man these days."
"You said that Shamol himself rejected Tamanna?"
"Yes, he thought himself unsuitable for Tamanna's family."
"Do you think there's no self-destructive reason behind his losing his leg? All the slum people left when faced with beating—why didn't he? It seems to me that perhaps that day he fought that way to test whether Tamanna would love him if something happened to him. Yes, and what was that about his friend you were saying?"
"Yes, you've heard his friend's name too. The distinguished doctor Mr. Azmal Chowdhury. Shaoli is now the wife of his friend, that Dr. Azmal Chowdhury."
I asked, "His brother Rashid is also here in Dhaka city. He's doing well financially. Why doesn't he go to him?"
"Because Rashid has inherited his uncle's and grandfather's nature. The glamour of position and money is their only dream."
I said, "So what happened?"
Can a young man touched by nature, a free spirit, sacrifice his very being, his individuality, for money, for a life of murky indulgence? I had once gone to Rashid to speak of Shyamal. Hearing everything, he had said, "Why isn't that characterless idiot dead yet? He's no brother of mine."
The brother who, after hearing everything, could so easily disown his own brother for the sake of his position—could he ever truly be Shyamal's brother? I had told Shyamal all this. He had said, "Shaoli, Ajmal, my brother—let them all be happy. I only want to see this from the shadows."
Clouds had gathered in the sky then. It was past ten at night; after bidding Murtaza farewell, I returned to the mess via the main road. Truly, Murtaza had learned to see life.
The next morning I woke to find a fine drizzle falling. Clouds had gathered in the sky as well. I sat down to read the newspaper as usual. In one corner of the last page, a news item caught my eye. The day after tomorrow would see the opening of artist Akbar Hossain's solo exhibition. While scanning to see if there were any good television programs, my eyes fell upon an interview with "distinguished happy couple" Dr. Ajmal Chowdhury and Shaoli Chowdhury.
The day's rain began with gentle pattering. The sky was shrouded in thick black clouds. Rain fell in an unbroken stream. Perhaps in that slum in Shajahanpur, water was seeping through holes in the roof. And inside, a cripple was gasping and smoking ganja.
Artist Akbar, may you grow great. Shaoli, love your husband, live as the happy wife of the handsome Dr. Ajmal. Ajmal, may you rise to the highest peaks of honor and fame, but you two must love your son, so that he doesn't become starved for affection like me. Tamanna, you too—be happy with whomever you've married from your society. I bless you all.
Merging with the melody of the rain, I could hear the heart-wrenching blessings, longings, prayers of a wounded young man. Perhaps from his eyes too flowed an unceasing stream of water. For the law of nature was coursing through his blood... every moment, every instant. Like nature, he too carried sorrow, carried life's journey. Perhaps he too, reading all the news in today's paper, unable to suppress his pain, was weeping uncontrollably like this rainy day. Perhaps his tears would merge with the rainwater. And his small lips would tremble as he blessed them all—may you all be well, may good fortune come to you all.