There was a time when I dreamed of becoming a university teacher, though I lacked the means to fulfill that dream. I didn’t pursue academic studies seriously; my honors result was abysmal (2.74), and I had not the slightest educational qualification to teach at a university. Back then, apart from this one regret, there were no other real sorrows in my life.
Why this regret? Let me tell you. There was a time when I didn’t have the courage to share this secret. Now I do, so I’m telling you.
My grandfather was Abinash Chandra Pal—a distinguished professor of Bengal who taught at the renowned Sir Ashutosh College in Kanungopara. He owned vast estates in Maheshkhali and was known throughout the region as a generous philanthropist. How many people still remember my grandfather with reverence! It fills me with pride just to witness it! Grandfather was also a reciter and an amateur actor who performed in stage plays. He wrote as well (I’ve added that conjunction because not all professors write). During the war, all his manuscripts and book collections were burned. His personality, refinement, and artistic sensibilities were remarkable. He was extraordinarily handsome to behold. None of us grandchildren could even approach the magnitude of his masculinity or character. He died young. Let me share an incident from shortly before grandfather’s death…
“You bastard! Son of that traitor Mir Jafar!” The shoes and sandals hurled by the audience that evening split grandfather’s nose and forehead, blood streaming down his face. The play could never be completed. I’ve heard many people praise grandfather’s dramatic style of teaching Bengali through his recitation techniques. He lived in the quarters at Kanungopara and acted in plays as a passion. I’ve heard from my uncles that people would come from far and wide to watch grandfather perform. That evening, his performance as the villain in the play “Siraj-ud-Daulah” enraged the audience. Such hatred was nothing new in grandfather’s acting career. He preferred playing negative roles. Whether on stage or in life, love from audiences isn’t always apparent, but the expression of hatred almost always is. When some of grandfather’s friends and colleagues were about to get into an altercation with the angry spectators, grandfather himself, with great difficulty, persuaded and calmed them down.
When grandfather died, my mother was four years old and my youngest uncle was six months old. All the siblings were still studying. To keep the family afloat after grandfather’s death, my eldest uncle Dipak Kumar Pal took a job at the same college. Later he taught at several other government colleges. Had he wished, he could have become a professor at Dhaka University—he had the qualifications for it. But taking on family responsibilities, he couldn’t afford to wait. Uncle taught physics. His appearance and physique were strikingly handsome. He was an extremely idealistic, dedicated teacher. He tutored many students for free and helped countless people. Many in Bangladesh still know my eldest uncle.
Neither grandfather nor eldest uncle lived long lives—both died at premature ages. But they remain immortal even now. Many people bow their heads in respect and wipe away tears upon hearing their names. Many of grandfather and uncle’s students have risen to high positions in society. Growing up witnessing all this from childhood, deep in my innocent mind, a desire to become someone great had been planted for a very long time. But there was no way. I was absolutely nobody! So what else could I do but live with that regret in my heart!
Now even that is gone. I’m invited to speak at various universities, colleges, and institutions, teaching people to dream. So far, I’ve had the opportunity to speak at 70 motivational seminars. I conduct these programs under the name “Career Chat.” The largest audience was at Begum Rokeya University’s program—at least 5,500 students. They sit and listen for 6-7 hours straight. I wonder, how do they manage to sit for so long at this age? Faculty members also attend these programs. They tell me, “These things aren’t taught in universities. There isn’t much opportunity for it either. You teach them, we’re with you.” Thank you to the teachers.
Sometimes, hiding the tears that gather in the corners of my eyes, I think—how much one can gain just by staying alive! Life never sends anyone back empty-handed. As I can’t teach how to get grades, I’ve decided to teach how to live life. Not everyone can do everything. If we say an elephant can’t climb trees so it’s good for nothing, surely that’s not the elephant’s fault!
Yesterday a boy called me. He and everyone around him believe he’ll never amount to anything in life. Why? He was born blind in his left eye, hard of hearing, and his right leg is lame from polio. People like him receive no love, only pity. This has always been his experience. People’s neglect leaves him begging on life’s streets at every moment. Just as a thirsty person writhes for a single drop of water, a person can give up their very life for just a little bit of love! No one has ever loved him. As a result, he’s always accustomed to thinking about these things—what he lacks, which jobs aren’t for him, how he has nothing to offer anyone. Eighty percent of all his thoughts revolve around what isn’t meant for him. In tremendous despair, pain, and depression, he often thinks, “Let me just leave! How can someone stay in this world when nobody wants them?” I spoke with him for a long time. I taught him how to reduce that eighty percent to twenty percent and cast it away. In this world, only tears are personal. Living with that is equivalent to death. Tears don’t need to be shared with everyone. Not everyone will understand the value of your pain. Let some tears remain personal! The power of suffering is immense. One must learn to seek it out. I told him many other things. I convinced him that his worth in this world is immense. Those who don’t value him should be thrown away like used tissue paper. I taught him to be brave, to recognize his own strength. Why should a student from the country’s premier institution, Dhaka University, accept defeat? I want no one to be lost. When I told him, “Brother, after you get a job, you must treat me to sweets with your first month’s salary!” he began to cry profusely. I know tears never lie. I believe from my heart—he will succeed!