PATC Diary: February 8

Dateline February 8, 2015

Those who don't have to wake up at this half-past-five winter dawn are the happiest people on earth. We have no happiness—it's been stolen, someone has somehow coaxed and cajoled us into becoming cadres and thrown us onto the streets in this cold. We think we're doing quite well. They think we're sleeping quite soundly. A few leafless trees have become sky, covered in white bakul flowers. Those flowers no longer seem like flowers—they've all bloomed as stars. I ran ahead from the line to touch them a little, and by then the line had moved far away. The instructor shouted, "What are you doing over there? Get back in line." If no one gives you flowers, is even touching flowers a sin? Those who have no home—no one takes even their being outside lightly.
Across the fog-covered field, in the park beyond, you can see the lights of the night watchman's lamppost. If you gaze in that direction for a while, a narrow road becomes visible, that too shrouded in fog. The rows of ghostly trees beside it stand with bowed heads. They look like the white ghosts from 'Lord of the Rings'—veiled, heads bowed, standing still. A little farther away, a few fountains of light mingle with the fog-smoke, creating some enchanting spell. It seems like Paris Road in Rajshahi University campus. In the meeting of fog and lamppost light, you just want to keep walking, and love everything. Alone or solitary. Over there, in front of the mud house, is an arrangement of cut areca nut trees. It seems like the guards standing watch before a palace have been beheaded; yet the lifeless bodies still stand. Such loyalty, even after death! So I suspect they must be standing there cursing!
Through the gaps in the dark-shadowy leaves above, the dawn moon's last peeks. In the chirping of birds, it gazes at us with sleepy eyes and a cool stare. The newly bloomed cauliflower fields are having their morning romance. In this winter—rice with ghee, and mother's hand-made fried eggplant, and potato-cauliflower curry. Ah! This winter is meant only for eating and sleeping. But what am I thinking of all this! Those whose sleep is broken every day by the continuous bell's mad chiming shouldn't have such thoughts!
All seniors believe that "by virtue of position" they understand more than you. Some even sit taking all the credit themselves. The office boss does everything. All achievements are his alone. A VC of some public university used to love claiming credit for all the university's work. When the dogs on campus had puppies, everyone was saying, "All credit goes to VC!" I'm just saying this casually, I mean, just talk. Not the flip side of talk, mind you! Now, the thing is, if that's going to be the case, then why should such thoughts whirl around in my head when I'm sitting in the coffee corner during class break? I sit here to see how it feels to sit with a completely empty mind, not looking anywhere, just staring fixedly. PATC's coffee corner doesn't have one corner, but several. Where I sit, fewer people tend to sit.
I sit in the coffee shop—I mean where the paper cups of Nescafé fill up with warm steam on top. This side doesn't get direct sunlight. Still, I sit here. Sitting here, sipping coffee, I can see the trees. The trees are very dear to me. In the sun, the shadows of trees dance and rise. Carefully arranged jackfruit-guava-rose apple-haritaki trees stand beside white sandalwood, croton, and thuja gardens. Between the orchids, the leaves of weeping deodar cry with wet bodies in the soft afternoon sun. So much catches the eye from here! Various kinds of people walk through the corridors; some walk while walking, some sing, whistle. Watching them, I too hum, "Does the sky remember the songs of the world..."—I gaze fixedly somewhere. I begin to feel as weightless as a bird's feather. The kingdom's birds keep calling. At the beginning of such a sun-broken afternoon, in front of Curzon Hall, with a fluttering heart, a lover with one hundred and one bright red roses told his beloved, "I love you." What did the beloved say? She said, "Wait, let me count the roses first."
An off-key memory comes to mind. When I used to teach students in batches, I would make them solve test papers. Every day I'd give them loads of homework, check their lessons, and beat them soundly if they couldn't do it. One day I asked an objective question: "A lover's letter to his beloved's father"—what type of letter is this? I gave options: personal letter, application letter... Most answered, "Application letter, sir..."
Today was Sir Parvez's last working day at PATC. He bid us farewell in class with moist eyes. Sir has been posted to Jessore. I felt strangely bad about it. He was our course coordinator. I had him for a little less than a month. In this time, I was enchanted by his personality, his charming way of speaking, managing skills, smartness, and such. Out of necessity, he would keep very angry eyes; but his heart was good. On paper, he never harmed anyone. Most of us will remember him. Actually, whether a person gets a PhD from Harvard-Stanford or MIT, or does nothing at all, doesn't matter to anyone. We've been given this life not to get PhDs from great universities, but to live beautifully. You might become a very important person, but what does that matter to anyone? At the end of the day, how others feel after talking with you, mixing with you—only that remains, survives. Whether people will remember you or not depends on whether you've done something worth remembering. Your social position, educational qualifications, professional status... while these might matter greatly to you, they really don't matter to anyone else.
If someone asked me right now to remember someone I'm fond of, I would only remember those who told me during my difficult times, "Don't get lost, you can do it"; when I reached out and only emptiness crowded in, those who extended their hands and said, "Don't be afraid, I'm here"; whose single word helped me even in very small tasks in my life; seeing whom I thought that losing oneself before finding life's meaning is absolutely not the way, I too will live well; seeing whom I learned to believe that I'm definitely not living unwanted in this world. While working, this much stays in my mind: after my retirement, no one will remember me. Take this for instance—if I suddenly die while still working, then that's the end of everything. Except for close people, no one will even remember the day I died. After my death, whether someone remembers me or not, at least let them not say, "Thank God, we're saved, the nuisance is gone!"
None of us are officers for life. Again, none of the others are nobodies for life. I keep in mind: what have I done that people will remember me even after death? People remember only this much—how much I extended a sympathetic hand in their journey. I'm highly educated, occupying a very high position, very handsome—what do these matter to anyone? We have to wear name badges when going to dinner. One day I forgot and went without wearing the name badge. Sir Parvez saw it but said nothing to me. This violated rules a bit, that's true, but Bangladesh's future certainly wasn't threatened by it, nor did he have to do anything that would embarrass him. Being strict within rules is your duty. Why would people remember this? If bending the rules a little saves someone, that's your achievement as a human being. Just as you seek forgiveness from the Creator for your deeds, if you can't grant such small forgiveness to others, the Creator surely won't forgive you, and you'll receive punishment for your actions in this lifetime itself. You might get a hundred opportunities a day to trap someone, but you might not get even one opportunity in a hundred days to show someone a little favor and rescue them from trouble. If you're a hundred percent inflexible, you'll receive a hundred percent inflexible treatment too.
I've done a lot of pontificating. Forgive me. Now let me do some un-pontificating to balance things, how's that? This evening I saw people going crazy studying for tomorrow's public exam; most have sat down with notes and sheets. Before this, they sat in the library going through reference books, prepared notes by searching the internet, Wikipedia-Banglapedia, and now the fourth revision of those notes is going on. Some are reading sheets while walking through corridors on their way back to dormitories from the cafeteria. I saw one person bump into a hanging orchid pot in the corridor. Oh no! I hope the pot didn't break! I carefully checked whether the orchid was damaged! That lady will bump into orchids on pre-exam evenings in the future too, so that orchid needs to stay alive just for that reason! While drinking coffee, one person's eyes were on the sheet. Carelessly, some coffee splashed onto the sheet. I saw someone eating rice at the dinner table with a sheet beside them. Just to see this scene, one could come to dinner! Tomorrow's exam syllabus: Module 1. While seeing all this, I still didn't even know what was in 'Module 1.'
I returned to the dormitory. I looked at the Module 1 syllabus. It seemed that this exam was possible to take just by knowing how to construct sentences in English. I decided right then to take the exam without studying anything at all. Let's see what happens! Actually, this isn't anything new for me. I've taken countless exams in my life this way and sometimes even passed. Life didn't come with any user manual. Let me live it a bit as I wish and see what happens! Besides, this exam needs nothing but common sense—and I do have a little of that! I thought it wouldn't be right to let this opportunity slip away. I sat down to watch Uttam-Tanuja movies on YouTube. Then I made a Facebook post. Sharing it:
There's an exam at PATC tomorrow.
I'm not studying.
Won't study either.
What would happen if I studied?
I'd pass.
I've done that plenty in life! What happens if you pass?
Do you get the princess?
No, you don't! All the non-passing crowd has got hold of the princesses. Now I understand—parents used to make up all those lies! Well, I've grown up now!
To get princesses, you don't need to pass—you need to say "I want you, I really want you!" and make them understand it. Princesses understand love, not good results. What fools, all those who kill themselves studying to get them. Damn!!
You can pass by studying. You can pass without studying too.
Studying doesn't guarantee passing.
You can't study if you want to pass, that's not it either.
Passing doesn't get you the princess. Not passing doesn't get you the princess either — that's not it either.
Studying is hard work, isn't it! What comes of hard work? Raw banana. That's why I find joy in this very not-studying...
Study, grow up. What's the point of growing up? What does it even mean to grow up, when and where it happens! You'll be so thrilled about growing up that the horse will lay one extra egg. Oh what joy in the sky and air!...what nonsense!
So? What's the point of all that studying and such?
Nothing will come of it, never has.
But I absolutely must have the princess! Whatever you all say, brother, I need my princess...
How will I get her?
No! Can't be had.
Can't be had? Sure?
That's what it feels like!
Your head! But I found her...just browsing YouTube...how easy it was.
I'm alone in my room with the 'princess' and saying, Tanuja, I love you.
I thought about it — these princesses are better, they never leave and go away, they stay right there on YouTube! You don't need to know the art of mending hurt feelings to keep them close, you just need money in your pocket to pay the internet bill.
Damn it all! I'm quite well off like this!!
Oh right, good point. Today is supposedly Propose Day? I feel like posting an old status again. Should I? How about it?
Today is February 8th. The great Propose Day. This day holds special significance. Seven years ago on this very day, with a heart full of hope, I proposed to my respected project supervisor Saki Kausar sir; I mean, I submitted my thesis proposal paper. Sir naturally refused me. That's where it all began. I'm still getting refused. Getting refused and refused until now I'm exhausted...
Someone had perhaps hoped I would propose to her; like in stories and movies. Before this day could come, she left. Ah! Saki sir's after-effect! Even after seven years!! I remember, getting rejected by sir again and again, wearing down the soles of Bata-Apex shoes until finally I completed the project wearing iron shoes. Alas! Now I don't have iron shoes anymore, they're lost.
I feel like saying in Hillol-da's style...I don't feel like saying stay happy. Still, be well.
Yesterday was Rose Day. In honor of that, the day before yesterday a beauty removed me from her friend list. She had perhaps understood that even if I tend to roses and tuberoses, I'm essentially a gardener, not a lover. Today on Rose Day I just want to be a flower seller; hearts may not meet, but at least some money would.
Oh God! If you had to send me to this world, why didn't you make me a little more handsome for love? If you gave beauties so much intelligence, why didn't you give me a little wisdom for love? Why why why???
You've seen 'Three Idiots', haven't you? The book it was made from is called 'Five Point Someone', written by Chetan Bhagat. J.W. Yeager advised, "Never judge the book by its movie." I quite agree with him. I won't get into the debate of whether Chetan Bhagat's book is better or Rajkumar Hirani's movie is better, but I'm telling those who haven't read the book yet — read the book. Perhaps you'll have some beautiful moments in your life...the moments when you read the book. If you do read it, you can share your feelings with me in inbox after reading. I'm ending today's writing by sharing some parts I really like from the speech Chetan Bhagat gave to new batch MBA students at Symbiosis International University in Pune, India on July 24, 2008:
Most of us are from middle class families. To us, having material landmarks is success and rightly so. When you have grown up where money constraints force everyday choices, financial freedom is a big achievement. But it isn't the purpose of life. If that was the case, Mr Ambani would not show up for work. Shah Rukh Khan would stay at home and not dance anymore. Steve Jobs won't be working hard to make a better iPhone, as he sold Pixar for billions of dollars already. Why do they do it? What makes them come to work every day? They do it because it makes them happy. They do it because it makes them feel alive. Just getting better from current levels feels good. If you study hard, you can improve your rank. If you make an effort to interact with people, you will do better in interviews. If you practice, your cricket will get better. You may also know that you cannot become Tendulkar, yet. But you can get to the next level. Striving for that next level is important.
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One last thing about nurturing the spark – don't take life seriously. One of my yoga teachers used to make students laugh during classes. One student asked him if these jokes would take away something from the yoga practice. The teacher said–don't be serious, be sincere. This quote has defined my work ever since. Whether it's my writing, my job, my relationships or any of my goals. I get thousands of opinions on my writing every day. There is heaps of praise, there is intense criticism. If I take it all seriously, how will I write? Or rather, how will I live? Life is not to be taken seriously, as we are really temporary here. We are like a prepaid card with limited validity. If we are lucky, we may last another 50 years. And 50 years is just 2,500 weekends. Do we really need to get so worked up? It's OK, bunk a few classes, goof up a few interviews, fall in love. We are people, not programmed devices.