PITC Diary: February 22

Dateline February 22, 2015

No winter here, but sleep remains. Can't sleep though—no rules for that. Here, not breaking rules is the rule. Lying in bed, I keep saying I'll get up, I'll get up, while thinking of Sunil. I used to recite this poem once upon a time:
Like breaking glass bangles, I sometimes feel like
breaking a few rules and regulations
hurling the crown from my head beneath my feet
climbing atop the heads of those beneath whose feet I lie
Like breaking glass bangles, I feel like carelessly
pissing in the middle of the road at Dharmatala in broad daylight.

Everyone who knows me is quite surprised that I still haven't been shown the door. I suppose I'm learning to follow rules. Had to wake up at dawn. I was walking and sleeping, or sleeping and walking. Dragging my body along. Why isn't there an exam today? I want there to be an exam every day. What good is a career that steals sleep?

A great flock of small birds flew overhead. Not hundreds but thousands of birds in that flock. It felt as though all the chirping and chattering of the kingdom was laughing at, passing over PATC. I thought the most beautiful sight in the world must be birds flying about at dawn. This training doesn't always leave you completely empty-handed. I felt like loving the birds; so I did. Do you remember Buddhadeb Dasgupta's film 'Charachar'? There's a scene of birds flying away so joyfully like that. A festival of birds across the sky. Seeing something like that this morning, I smiled to myself, thinking something or perhaps nothing at all. In this smile, the eyes smile more.

PT ended with sleepy eyes. Seven o'clock. It takes 2-3 minutes to get from the PT ground back to the room. Classes start at 8:30. What I do every day after returning from the PT ground is listen to some songs on my mobile or laptop. This listening to songs feels like prayer to me. If you don't pray daily, body and mind don't become pure. I want to make my mind peaceful and composed at the start of the day. I'm sharing the songs I listen to most:
Make me pure, make me blessed, wiping away the stains of my sullied heart... Light the auspicious lamp, fill both my eyes with light in the darkness, Lord... Friend, there is no sleep in my eyes... Alone I set afloat my boat of songs on the waters of my tears... Let it fall like the cascade of Sravan... Though I am worthless and lowly, you have not loved me any less... Let me hold your feet... You play with this universe... The sky full of sun and stars... There everyone weeps in desperation... Wash me in this fountain of light... Birds call, open your eyes... Mother, in the morning light, in birdsong, you are everywhere, Mother... and some other devotional songs.

This initiation into listening to songs at dawn came from my parents. I grew up hearing these. Mother would put me to sleep with songs too. At dawn, songs would play on Radio 21, and I'd wake up rubbing my eyes. These childhood songs—I feel them as much as I hear them. The songs I sleep to, wake up to—those are the songs of the soul. I used to see in childhood, and still see now, tears streaming down Mother's face when she sings 'Make me pure.' Tears of devotion. Whenever I hear that song, I feel that tune, that emotion, that yearning very deeply.

Well, I noticed something mood-spoiling. On YouTube, 19 people have disliked 'Make me pure,' 41 have disliked 'Light the auspicious lamp,' 2 have disliked 'Friend, there is no sleep in my eyes,' 13 have disliked 'Alone I set afloat my boat of songs'... enough, I won't say more! I would have found great peace if I could have picked them up and smashed them down. I demand one month of hard labor for these stupid, heartless, tone-deaf donkeys! Let them do a hundred sit-ups holding their ears. (Wait, did they think that was a download button?)

But that's not the point. The point is, after listening to these songs, when I go to the bathroom, somehow some other songs come and possess my head. Today I listened to Pandit Ajoy Chakraborty's 'Dawn has broken, Bibhabori,' went to bathe, and into my head flew 'O priya, jaani kaisa bheega bheega bheega' by Milind Ingle from the movie 'Yeh Hai Prem.' Floating in such songs, I went to class. My mind is already quite flighty, and when there's someone beautiful nearby, how it feels! What a sweet girl! I just keep looking, hiding and seeking. When she smiles, dimples form on her cheeks, her eyes become even more mischievously bright. I keep watching her and thinking, why does a girl need to have such a sweet face? How strange!! Don't people have work to do?? Beautiful classmates and teachers are both particularly harmful to concentration in class. Today, while going to another class, I saw from afar that same lady standing in the corridor. In some embarrassment, I started walking with my head down, all hunched up. She was still standing there. As soon as I came close, she asked, "Have you hurt your foot?" I became very flustered. Stammering, I replied, "No no, nothing's wrong. I'm fine!" and immediately fled quite rapidly. I began to feel very regretful—alas! Why didn't my foot hurt? What harm would it have been to have a little pain? Then I wouldn't have had to say 'no' to her. This opportunity to say 'yes' to a beauty was carelessly lost to the Creator's cruel gesture. Can I also say 'no'?!

In class, a teacher said, "You are the future of the country. Much depends on you. You are Bangladesh." And meanwhile, all the Bangladeshes were steadily sleeping. This teacher is very good. He teaches well, doesn't scold, keeps teaching with a smile even when students fall asleep, and when someone wakes up from sleep, the magnanimity and mental maturity needed to look at them with a 'nothing happened' expression and continue speaking—he has that in full measure. Quite simple, sympathetic, good-hearted. "It's a law class, you'll feel sleepy—that's natural. You go to sleep, no problem, but definitely don't be naughty in class." That was another teacher's words. The teacher knows how to dance and teach quite well. Today the teacher was teaching, and in my head was playing 'pyaar hua ikraar hua' from 'Shree 420,' and I was seeing Raj Kapoor's dance without Nargis. I felt like remembering Lata and Manna a lot. We owe much to these people.

During honors, I generally didn't pay attention in class, but as soon as a teacher said, "This question is important for the exam," everyone's ears would perk up. There's an exam tomorrow. An 'extra problem-solving class' was given today after lunch, keeping the exam in mind. When asked what problems everyone had in class, we said, "Sir, whatever you think is important for us to know, please explain everything." In that class, everything that 'might come' in the exam was explained. Everyone listened with ears perked up. No one slept. The teacher teaches well too. I can't remember paying such undivided attention to any other class since coming to PATC. I haven't taken notes for any class until now. Today was the first time I took 'class notes.' Before this, I've always taken 'PATC diary notes'—meaning I take notes about what happens here. Otherwise, it's not possible to remember and write so much. My capacity for forgetting is infinite.

These past few days I've been browsing through books bought from this year's book fair. This evening too I was reading a little. I feel like saying something:
"When a true genius appears in the world, you may know him by this sign, that the dunces are all in confederacy against him."

When Swift wrote those words above, Facebook didn't exist. If it had, he might have said:
When a genius appears on Facebook, you may doubt him by this sign: that the dunces are all in confederacy against him.

John Kennedy Toole, after knocking on publishers' doors trying to get his writing published, finally unable to bear any more rejection, committed suicide at age 31 in profound disappointment. His mother, Thelma Toole, took his torn, dirty manuscript to Percy Walker. Mr. Walker taught college and wrote a little. At first he refused to read the manuscript. "My son took his own life in great distress because he couldn't get this writing published. I'm leaving this with you; please read at least a few pages. If it's not worth publishing, don't send me word—just throw it away yourself. I'll take comfort in thinking perhaps you just didn't have time to read it." Saying this, the mother placed the manuscript on Walker's desk and left the office without any hope, the way a helpless mother leaves her child at an orphanage hoping that if not well, at least it will survive.

What happened next is known to all. Eleven years after the writer's death, the American comic masterpiece 'A Confederacy of Dunces' was published, and the author was posthumously awarded the Pulitzer... I remembered a song sung by Santosh Sengupta... Those you didn't garland in life, why do you come to offer flowers in death...

Kamalakumar and Jibanananda—forget being published, no one would ever even read them, yet knowing this, what enchantment drove them to write novels with such devotion and love for writing? Those who are writing now, please think about this a little? We readers sit down to read with such hope!

The book fair comes, so many write. We readers also wait for this time. We see books, buy them, sometimes read them. Lately, after reading, I often feel like saying like the mouse in the Ratatouille animation, "Anyone can write, that does not mean that anyone should." Tell me, just because you're alive, must you write? Who gave you such a divine mandate? You're writing, fine. Why are you publishing too? You probably assume no one will buy your book anyway, right? Or if they do buy it, someone will buy it who doesn't read books much—essentially an immature reader, is that it?

Among the total 178 books bought from this year's book fair, I bought at least 40 books by new and somewhat unfamiliar writers. I read new writers' work. I want to see who's writing how and in what way. There's no one I met or who met me at the fair to whom I didn't give books. Giving books is a very favorite activity of mine. The problem is, to some of them I gave books by some new writers after buying them. Now reading those books myself, I'm thinking what foolishness I've done! Not many people read books given as gifts. If one or two of my well-wishers actually read those gifted books, what will they think of my taste! Just thinking about this makes me feel very embarrassed.

Jibanananda wrote: Not everyone is a poet, some few are poets... I say: Not everyone writes, some few give birth... Reading some older writers' work, I've felt that they've stopped writing books and started giving birth to books.

Reading someone's book, you think, "Can't we just give this bastard a Nobel Prize right now and shut him up?" Of course, quite a few good books have been bought too. Many of the newcomers are announcing that they won't disappear.



Lately, due to busyness, I haven't been able to write the 'PEATC Diary' properly. Several entries have piled up in the meantime. How many, I wonder? I've forgotten. Ugh! How do people manage to write while working! Today I wrote yesterday's diary entry. Now I have to sit down to write for 'Prothom Alo.' They've asked for an advisory piece for the 35th BCS preliminary exam candidates. It will appear in the paper on February 27th, exactly one week before the exam. I found out I had to write this at 2 AM last night, seeing a post on my wall. They had tried to contact me much earlier. My mobile is often switched off, and when it was on, I didn't answer the phone myself, so contact wasn't established. They also made a request on Facebook. I rarely check my inbox, and when I do, I check only about 10% of the messages, so I didn't notice. I'll write for the candidates. I'm thinking of writing something for three types of candidates—those whose preparation is 'nonexistent, not good, and moderate'; those whose preparation is good won't need to read that day's piece. After shaking off the fatigue from a full day's training program, I now have to sit down to write. My entire body and mind are broken, and I'm desperately sleepy. Damn it!



The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.