PATC Diary: February 15 (2)

Dateline February 15, 2015 (Part 2)
After lunch today, there's a two-hour session on interpersonal relationship development and ethical conduct. Just thinking about it was souring my mood terribly. What's the underlying implication of having so many classes, sessions, and seminars on etiquette and ethics? Have they simply assumed that we are 'utterly uncouth—I mean, ill-mannered'?! I'm heading to the dormitory to drop off my bag after lunch. The session begins at 2:30, and I need to be present at the auditorium by 2:10. On my way, I noticed a sign somewhere: Beehive on the right. Caution! Do not throw stones.
The sign was posted on a pillar right beside the mango grove on the way to the dormitory. After reading it, I went down into the mango grove on the right and searched extensively "to avoid throwing stones," but couldn't find any trace of a beehive.
I went to my room, dropped off my bag, and headed out. On the way to the auditorium, as usual, something caught my eye in the rose garden: the name of a rose variety: Abal Rose. Its pronunciation is "Abel Rose." But the boys certainly don't call it Abel Rose. What do they call it then? Never mind, I won't say. Some things must be understood between the lines...
Outside the auditorium, at the gate and inside, countless red and blue balloons are arranged as decorations. Seeing so many balloons together makes the regret of growing up feel acute. It brings back memories of those days when I would cry for just one balloon. Back when buying me a single balloon would make me feel like saying goodbye to all the world's riches with such innocence. When a four-anna red balloon was more precious than today's Rado wristwatch. When, like the little boy in the short film 'The Red Balloon,' suddenly finding a red balloon while walking down the stairs seemed like discovering the world's most wondrous treasure in the palm of my hand. Sitting in the auditorium, I'm floating in a balloon fair, and with some strange magic enveloping my entire body and mind, that hauntingly peaceful song from the 1973 classic movie Jeremy keeps playing in my head—The Hourglass Song: Blue Balloon...
I have a blue balloon, a happy tune
DREAMS enough to last me, all through the afternoon.
……………………………………………....
Before the rivers run dry.
Before the last SAD good-bye
Let us be kind to one another.
We can try...
So don't just throw your love about
It's not too late to find out
Before the sand has all run out, of the hourglass
…………………………………………………………..
Before the rivers run dry, before the last sad goodbye
Let us be kind to one another, we can try...
Walls are adorned with clusters of roses, orchids, gladioli, and tuberose. Along with elaborate arrangements of various leaves and foliage in festive style. Twisted cane baskets filled with flowers and leaves hang from the doorways. Large pots seem to host colorful flower festivals. Gold thread embroidery encircles the entire room. Red carpets are laid crosswise on the floor. Today's auditorium sparkles with colorful paper origami. On the red carpet's surface, dust settles as busy officials rush about.
The women have dressed up beautifully. In red, green, white, yellow, and blue saris, they truly look magnificent. One just wants to keep gazing at them. I'm thinking, how carelessly God must have fashioned men when He made them! But with women, He took His time, arranging all beauty in layers and adorning them carefully. Wait, how did they manage to go to their rooms and change into saris so quickly? Do their five minutes really last just five minutes? How is that possible?! 'I realized, these are beings of a different species (female humans)...'
In the auditorium with us are also high-ranking officials from various government departments including BTRC, Army, Air Force, Navy. Many are taking photos on their phones. While taking pictures, everyone thinks they look their most beautiful at that moment. If the photo doesn't turn out as expected, they'll assume it's the photographer's fault. The helpless photographer gets consumed in the fire of the Creator's parsimony and creation's wrath.
I noticed something. Suppose while walking, you notice a senior colleague. You smile, greet them, exchange pleasantries. If you make even the slightest mistake, all their anger will fall upon you. Yet if you had cleverly avoided facing them directly, or walked past with your head down, looking elsewhere as if you hadn't seen them at all, nothing would have happened. Those who act make mistakes; those who don't act have no mistakes. We catch tax evaders among those who pay taxes. Those who don't pay taxes at all get away with murder!
In his poem "Srishtir Tirey" (At Creation's Shore), Jibanananda expressed his frustration: "There is no pure job in this world." I believe there's no greater truth than this. "Good job" is perhaps the finest example of an oxymoron. I have helplessly observed that jobs—whether bureaucratic or non-bureaucratic—are essentially systems of sycophancy. There's no job culture free from bootlicking and oil-pouring. That's why those who can't practice hypocrisy in their jobs, who can't sell their self-respect and flatter others, always lag behind. I feel like sharing some thoughts from Harprashad Shastri's essay "Tail" (Oil):
"One who can give oil is all-powerful, but giving oil alone isn't enough. There are proper recipients, proper timing, and proper techniques.
Even fire becomes subdued by oil. With a little oil in fire, you can keep it contained in a room all night. But that oil must be embodied.
Who isn't a suitable recipient for oil is hard to say. From the small oil merchant to the Lieutenant Governor—all are recipients of oil. Oil is not something that gets wasted. Once given, it will surely bear fruit somehow. But still, whoever has immediate work to be done becomes the primary target for oil-giving. Time—whenever it may be, giving oil will work. But at the right time, a little oil accomplishes much.
The quality of oil varies greatly from person to person. Pure oil is extremely rare. But oil has such a wonderful capacity for synthesis that it can absorb the qualities of all other substances. One who has knowledge has oil more valuable than mine. One who has intelligence along with knowledge has even more valuable oil. If they also have wealth, then each drop is worth a hundred thousand taka. But without oil, no matter how much intelligence, knowledge, or wealth one has, nobody notices.
The tendency to give oil is natural. Everyone has this tendency and applies it conveniently at home and within their own group, but many are so selfish that they cannot give oil to outsiders. Though the oil-giving tendency is natural, success through it depends on fate."
Reading all this, thinking about it, I begin to feel quite out of place. While pondering these thoughts, I suddenly hear the sound of applause. Two things are contagious in large halls: applause and coughing. I noticed some people are overly enthusiastic about clapping; they applaud irritatingly at inappropriate moments, even in the middle of speeches.
Today's event had a lovely surprise. Those whose birthdays fall during the PATC training period were each given a small bouquet of flowers today. Among them, those who are the youngest according to birth date—about 8-10 such people from various training programs—were called forward to cut cake in front of everyone. We all sang the "Happy Birthday" greeting song in unison. The Rector Sir and other senior faculty fed cake to those whose birthdays fall during the PATC course duration, and ate from their hands as well. Seeing this scene, we were all laughing with joy. It really feels like a family! During training, you can't celebrate birthdays with loved ones like you do at home, so this heartwarming surprise arrangement. In the crowd of peaceful, cheerful faces inside the auditorium, woven into this poetry of joy and sorrow, all fatigue vanished instantly. There was also an arrangement for refreshments. Despite the oath I had made to myself not to "gorge myself immediately after lunch," I broke it as usual and had snacks and coffee. I'm almost always a bit unfamiliar to myself. I thought, people make promises to eat less only to break those promises and eat their fill. Someone who has no Hemanti in his life can certainly make such strange aphorisms! Thanks to PATC for today's wonderful plan. To do something beautiful requires childlike innocence; it requires the kind of madness to think differently from how everyone else thinks; it requires tremendous love and respect for one's own emotions.
Something amusing happened today. According to the online form we had filled out, the authorities had determined whose birthday was when, and accordingly gave flowers to those whose birthdays fell during the course. A senior official over fifty had somehow been missed by mistake. He became quite hurt about this. He even started a gentle murmur around himself. Eventually this came to the authorities' attention, and he was called forward in front of everyone, given flowers, and we all stood and sang "Happy Birthday to You" as a birthday greeting. This veteran official was so delighted to receive this salutation! Seeing this scene, I laughed heartily to myself and thought, "Ah! Birthdays make people quite childish." So I say, never, ever consider celebrating birthdays as showing off. Laugh on your birthday, thank God, thank everyone around you. Think about it—if you weren't kept alive, no irreparable loss would have befallen this world. You've lived another year—that's the most joyful and wondrous thing. Rainer Maria Rilke wrote in a letter in 1908: It must be immense, this silence, in which sounds and movements have room, and if one thinks that along with all this the presence of the distant sea also resounds, perhaps as the innermost note in this prehistoric harmony, then one can only wish that you are trustingly and patiently letting the magnificent solitude work upon you, this solitude which can no longer be erased from your life; which, in everything that is in store for you to experience and to do, will act as an anonymous influence, continuously and gently decisive, rather as the blood of our ancestors incessantly moves in us and combines with our own to form the unique, unrepeatable being that we are at every turning of our life. Living immersed in this magnificent solitude is supreme joy, supreme fortune.
Though India Wins Freedom is Maulana Abul Kalam Azad's autobiographical work, many scholars consider this book an extremely impartial, objective, and reliable document of India's freedom struggle. After the author's death, the manuscript remained sealed for 30 years in Kolkata's National Library and Delhi's National Archives. Several portions of this book were originally written in Urdu and then translated into English by Professor Humayun Kabir.
After Maulana Azad's death on February 22, 1958, Professor Kabir signed an agreement with Orient Longman, the publisher of this book, in accordance with Azad's wishes, and the book was published on February 22, 1988, exactly as stipulated in the contract. For thirty years, this book remained buried in darkness. In our classes, various professors distribute handouts on the subjects they teach. I carefully place these in the bag I carry to class and never bother to open them again, whether in class or back in my room. Due to sheer laziness, I don't even sort them module-wise, nor do I flip through them before exams. They just lie there in my bag, face down and forgotten. I've made a pact with myself not to open them for six months.
Tomorrow I have an exam on the Modern Office Management module. I'm not studying at all. Just sitting here writing this note. I've already convinced myself that I can take tomorrow's exam without any preparation. It's all about document management and writing government correspondence. I've done plenty of such work hands-on in my job. I'll just write whatever I can manage, making things up as I go along, both what I know and what I don't.
It's 1:37 AM on the clock. I've been writing for almost four and a half hours. Now I'll go to sleep. Tomorrow I'll take another look, make any necessary edits, and post it.