(Last night I received a sweet shock, at night. At half past one.
The years were 1997 and 1998. When I was studying in classes seven and eight. I remember, I used to read a lot of books then. In our time, there was a great culture of reading. Not school books, but others. I wrote too. I mostly wrote poetry. My initiation into writing began then.
I had to write on very cheap paper with pen. (I feel like saying this, so I’ll say it: young Joy Goswami wrote his famous poem ‘The heart drifts away in Alakananda waters’ on the paper of a cigarette packet.) So I was ‘skipping studies’ and secretly writing poetry, which was certainly not acceptable to the guardians. How could I ask for a notebook for writing! So I would write whatever came to mind on whatever I could find at hand. What I wrote… actually not me, what that boy from 23-24 years ago wrote, it’s no longer there.
At that time I had secretly bound a few notebooks for writing poetry and prose. I would write. Whatever came to mind, I would write. If nothing came to mind, I would force it and write anyway. It had come to mind that I must write, I must write many things. Perhaps not one of them was worthy of being called writing, still I had to write! Why such thoughts came, I don’t remember. What comes or doesn’t come to a 13-14 year old boy’s mind has no fixed address.
One day. In the evening. No electricity. I was studying by hurricane lamp light. Mother was in the kitchen. Suddenly I discovered mother behind me. She had somehow come and stood silently. Coming, she saw her darling monkey not practicing math but joyfully writing poetry in the math notebook. I had little wisdom in my head, so I got caught. We are old people, we grew up breathing the scent of kerosene. Those who grow up in the warmth of oil lamps and hurricane lamps become a bit foolish. We never saw ‘Facebook,’ we grew up looking at ‘books.’ Now on Facebook you can see your own face however you like, so why need to go to books? We didn’t have that opportunity, we had to see our own face in books! We had less busyness, we had time to read books in hand. How does a boy who never learned to smell books become human!
Our mothers believed in the principle of ‘when hands are available, why use the mouth!’ We grew up getting beaten. Doesn’t intelligence open without getting beaten by mother’s hand? There was no internet then, there were only cane beatings and books. A boy whose school term would start the next day, sitting and writing poetry instead of studying, my mother was not good-natured enough to accept this. Inevitably… what else! I got beaten! What a tremendous beating! When we got beaten then, hands and feet would swell up, blue marks would settle! Mother would beat with whatever she found at hand. Not necessarily cane—hand fan, curtain rod, bed stand, broom, hoe handle, pressing fingers with pen in between, making me kneel down, holding ears and making me stand and sit countless times… and mother’s slaps and punches, hair pulling—those were there too! Such nectar… I would cry and curl up in fear and become restless! My crime was, like many of you, I too used to come first or second in school. Then it was the age of coming first or second! And those who come first or second are forbidden from writing poetry, because they have to become doctors or engineers. Have to means they absolutely must! If first-rankers can’t become doctors or engineers, they die of starvation. That was the rule in our time. (Nowadays there’s a new rule… those who can’t become BCS cadres die gasping in hunger, like that! Think about it, in today’s world where even highly educated people think life is over if you can’t become a BCS cadre, our mothers were old-fashioned, less educated people, it was natural for them to think like that for their children.)
So beating me, mother took away all my story-poetry notebooks. She made me swear that I would never write stories or poems again. There’s no oath in the world that can’t be made in front of mother’s beating. But breaking that oath made to mother, I’m doing well now. The happy thing is, my mother is also doing well with this disobedient boy.
Mother angrily sold those honored child-writer’s notebooks to the waste dealer. (With that money mother built several buildings and bought cars!) So they’re gone. The bits and pieces I wrote on scraps of paper shouldn’t exist, so they’re also gone. On that beating day I had forgotten to tell mother about one notebook. It was elsewhere, in my friend’s bag. Later I kept it carefully for many days. Then it got lost again. Last night while going through some old papers I found it. After taking it in hand, I felt as if I could count the heartbeats! Fresh emotions of first love are wrapped in it!
Half the pages of the notebook are missing. Torn, fallen somewhere. What remains, I took photos and shared. I felt like sharing, so I did. I know the writings are full of mistakes. Spelling mistakes, rhythm mistakes, structural mistakes. Mistakes and mistakes page after page. Still, the mistakes are mine, so they’re dear. Old mistakes always bring joy if you can emerge from those mistakes. I survived by making mistakes, I still do. I used to write in twisted or stretched, whatever you call it, that kind of font. I was forced to learn to write in that Rabindric style after getting beaten by our school’s headmaster. Good thing, one writing has a date from the year 2000.
Below some poems I had written jokes. Why, I don’t remember. Here and there I wrote self-made ‘maxims.’ At that time I used to produce lots and lots of maxims constantly! Making maxims made me feel wise. I would write them wherever my heart desired. Perhaps after writing poetry in the notebook, when I saw some space was left empty, I made good use of that space by writing jokes and maxims. I have only a few of the hundreds of poems, this itself brings much joy.
I must remember, in our time we saw mobile phones with our eyes towards the end of class ten, and even then couldn’t touch them, we only had the fortune of seeing from afar in Samiran Sir’s hand. We studied Bengali-English-Social Science with him. From afar he was showing us the Citycell SIM mobile phone, holding it tight in his fist, and saying, “If I want, I can talk to America with this right now! Within a few seconds the person in America will hear all my words exactly! Just like I’m standing in front of you talking, I can talk like that!” We were all staring wide-eyed at that strange magic. I asked foolishly, “Sir, can you talk to my aunt’s house in Dhaka with this? They have a telephone!” I got the answer, “Don’t ask stupid questions like a donkey. Telephone is a poor man’s thing! Do you know the price of this? One lakh taka!” What a question I asked and what an answer I got! At that age, did I even know the meaning of one lakh taka! The year was 2000, one lakh taka was really a lot of money then!
With that money you could have bought a Citycell SIM and gotten a handset free with the SIM!
—————————————————-
February 5, 2020)
(The notebook page is torn, so I couldn’t find the rest of the poem or the name and date.)
The country seems devoured whole
by all these terrorists,
even the police bow their heads
in fear of them.
The terrorists are emptying
the people’s pockets,
the police are growing fat
eating their money.
In ’71 we flew
the banner of victory,
then why do we hear today
the heart-breaking cries of mothers and sisters?
Why do we live in fear
of terrorists?
We are Bengalis, a free nation—
is this what we desire?
O Great Father of the Nation
—————————
O great father of the nation, Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman,
you brought us the honor of the Bengali nation.
Without fearing the Pakistani invader forces,
you declared with thunderous voice—”Joy Bangla’s Victory.”
The dictator Ayub Khan threatened you so much,
you said, I’ll go to jail, but I won’t bow my head!
On March 7th you gave Bengal the call for freedom,
then Bengal’s brave sons became tigers.
For nine months we fought with the invaders,
we snatched away the red sun of independence.
You wanted to see Bengal filled with green and beauty,
Bengal’s enemies didn’t let your dream come true.
You have gone, but I say today, you have no death,
looking at Bengal’s fields and ghats, I still seem to see you.
……………………………
August 12, 1997
Greed Brings Sin, Sin Brings Death
———————-
The mosquito’s great sorrow—
she cannot sing,
hearing human songs she
dies of rage and envy.
She asks the Creator
what was my sin,
for which you gave me
such a curse?
You gave me the power to fly
yet I remain unhappy,
humans love their sweet songs—
then why am I not in them?
The Creator laughs and says,
don’t grieve, my child,
here, I’m giving you
just as you wished!
The mosquito got exactly
what she had vowed,
getting a voice she joyfully
goes buzz-buzz.
But this made the poor mosquito’s
survival difficult,
when she goes to drink blood humans
notice her beforehand.
Being too greedy the mosquito
now loses her life,
excessive greed destroys the weaver (greed brings sin, sin brings death)—
this became the proof!
(Actually no one can teach anyone anything, they can only hold the truth before them.)
………………………………………………………
August 18, 1997
A Parody Poem
——————————
Joy, O joy, where
can you be found?
Do you live with those
who take bribes?
Do you live with those
who work hard?
Or do you live with those
because of whom people die?
Are you friend to meritorious students
who toil day and night?
Or are you friend to cadre students
who walk with weapons?
Do you live with the rich
who oppress others?
Or do you live with the poor
who toil and die day and night?
Joy, O joy, tell me
where do you live?
Do you live in that place
where murders happen?
Do you put bombs in students’ hands
or drugs to play with?
Are you the clashing of weapons
or a festival of peace and happiness?
Are you my mothers’ and sisters’
tear-soaked eyes?
Or those beast-like
blood-sucking leeches?
(Based on Ahsan Habib’s poem ‘Joy’)
(I think of so many people, but how many think of me?)
…………………………………………………………
August 23, 1997
Bangladesh Rich in the Variety of Six Seasons
———————————
Green and verdant, filled with crops, this our Bangladesh,
in the variety of six seasons her beauty seems endless.
First comes summer, then comes the rains,
autumn is the third season, then comes late autumn.
With winter’s touch the old woman of winter comes,
spring comes laughing with flowers and fruits.
In summer’s blazing sun, the joy of mangoes and jackfruit,
in the rains such fun getting soaked in the downpour.
With garlands of shiuli flowers autumn comes next,
grain-filled late autumn smiles like the harvest festival.
Winter’s old woman comes with her icy touch in winter,
in spring nature seems caught in a net of flowers.
In six seasons and twelve months filled is this my birthland,
decorated with flowers and fruits—truly generous are you, Nature.
……………………………………………………
August 24, 1997
Self-Interest
—————-
In this world everyone is fighting for self-interest,
over tiny, trivial things they’re snatching and grabbing.
In this world everyone only thinks of self-interest,
for this, fighting each other, so many people are dying.
This world seems to have become a battlefield,
everyone pierced by arrows of hatred, anger, and malice,
everyone forgetting that all humans are my own people,
we are all brothers.
Malicious thoughts, selfish thoughts fill everyone’s mind,
you won’t find such a person in this world
who possesses a beautiful heart.
Whoever makes the vow, ‘I will be beautiful,’
what can’t effort achieve?
People will call him mad, foolish,
nothing but an idiot.
Can’t we think for everyone’s welfare?
Can’t we give this world some beautiful gift?
…………………………………………………
August 24, 1997
Trees
——————
I want to breathe deeply,
all around me only polluted environment.
I want to go where there’s an abundance of green,
I want to go where there’s no noise,
where there’s the chirping of birds, gardens of green,
where there’s no human rush.
Where there’s no unrest, no murders, no hatred,
where going feels like heaven,
where there’s shade of forests, pure peace,
where going makes scientific happiness seem worth abandoning.
I know, finding such a place is very difficult,
because of how people are cutting down trees day by day!
To confine ourselves in ‘brick ribs and iron cages,’
they’re clearing forests everywhere.
Trees give us oxygen and whatever we need,
and we with cruel axe-blows are cutting those trees.
Trees can’t say, “I’m in pain, don’t kill me.
Just as you humans feel pain, so do we.”
Can’t we create green enclosures all around?
Can’t we save our friend, nature’s treasure, the tree?
(Someone: Why are you cutting down all these trees here?
Worker: Because today the Forest and Environment Minister will give a speech here.)
………………………………………………
August 24, 1997
My Cat
——————–
I have a cat,
She is very fat.
She has soft far,
I love her.
She has a round head,
She sleeps on my bed.
She has two eyes,
She catches mice.
She is afraid of the dog,
She doesn’t eat the frog.
She steals milk from the jar,
But I love her.
We Are All Brothers
—————————————
Hindu-Muslim-Buddhist-Christian,
we are all brothers
children of the same mother.
Hindu-Muslim-Buddhist-Christian,
we speak in the same language,
sing in the same language.
We struggle to live,
don’t give up the will to live,
our structure is the same, our purpose the same,
the blood inside is red.
We take shade from the same tree,
eat fruit from the same tree,
we enjoy the same air,
move forward in the same direction.
In happiness we all laugh,
in sorrow we shed tears,
we grow crops in the same soil,
fruits in the same soil.
He is one, He is unique
whom we are worshipping,
some call Him Buddha, others God,
some call Him Bhagavan, some Allah.
We practice human religion,
we are the human race,
Quran-Gita-Bible-Tripitaka
we write with the same ink.
At a fixed time we come,
at a fixed time we go,
we are each other’s very own,
we are brothers.
(I can’t understand how the Taj Mahal could be a symbol of love—it’s a living symbol of selfishness!)
………………………………………………………
August 26, 1997
If I Could
———————-
If I could be like a bird,
if I could be like a tree!
If I could wash away
all the darkness of this world!
If I were a butterfly,
I’d fly from flower to flower!
If I could spread my golden color
across the world!
If I were the moon and sun,
then I’d spread so much light,
with my light I’d erase
all the darkness of the world!
If I were like a tree,
what joy that would be,
if I could give like a tree
food, water, flowers and fruit!
If I were like soil,
then I’d be proud with martyrs’ blood,
I’d grow crops in my heart,
then I could do something beneficial!
I don’t want happiness and prosperity,
to build mountains of wealth,
I want to do public good and
die for humanity.
(Grandpa: Tell me grandson, will you grow up by doing business, or by studying?
Grandson: Grandpa, why should I grow up with such hardship? I’ll grow up by putting one stool on another.)
…………………………………………………
August 27, 1997
Hindu-Muslim
—————————–
Today we sing songs of joy,
today we have united
forgetting differences, Hindu and Muslim.
Today the mullah gives the call to prayer in the mosque,
bells ring in the temple,
today we have become united,
no fear of riots.
Today the Hindu says, “The Muslim is my brother,
my very own.”
Today Muslims have become brothers to Hindus,
no one is anyone’s enemy.
Today we Hindus and Muslims have joined together,
there will never be separation among us,
there will be unity among us,
no fighting.
Today we will sing songs of unity,
today we will strike up harmony.
Our labor will never be wasted,
seeing us today no one will be able to say,
“Hindu-Muslim trouble has started!”
Today Muslims still wear fatuas,
and Hindus wear dhotis,
the world may break in two,
but our harmony won’t break.
We are brothers,
this bond of brotherhood will never be severed.
We will cross difficult mountains,
embrace death if necessary.
Hindus worship gods,
Muslims serve Allah.
Today no one will obstruct
anyone’s worship.
The Creator is one, He is unique,
to reach Him we’re doing so much work!
Pujas and festivals in Hindu homes,
and Muslims at prayer.
We will illuminate the world—
two brothers hand in hand together,
we will stay together,
no one will move away from the other.
Hundreds of obstacles, hundreds of disasters,
we won’t fear anything,
with strength in our hearts we’ll move forward,
we will conquer the world.
(As many birthdays come in life, we move one year closer to death. So on birthdays, along with celebrating, we should be worried thinking that we’re gradually moving toward death, the years are disappearing from life’s diary.)
…………………………………………………………
August 27, 1997