Thought: Six Hundred and Fifty-Two
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(There’s really no reason to preserve this Facebook status as a note. But seeing the number of likes and the nature of comments on the post, it seems the writing turned out well—let this too not be lost. How greedy I am, no? Greedy indeed! If no one liked my posts or said my writing was good, would I ever write at all? Friends say it’s good—whether out of love or not—they like, share, talk about my writing. That’s the only reason I write. If the day comes when no one wants me to write, from that day I’ll stop. Like many others, I too write for the greed of comments, likes, and shares.)
Over the past two days, one thing has lodged itself deeply in my mind. I will very likely die with a smile on my face. Even in the final moments of death, no matter how much pain there is, I won’t cry even a little, won’t even feel sad. I can endure this much suffering—I can’t remember the last time I felt this way.
I’ve always been accustomed to smiling through illness. Keeping people around me in distress—that’s not in me. Because I believe I alone am responsible for all my suffering. High fever, say 103°F, and yet I’m posting cheerful writings on Facebook—this has happened many times. What’s the point of saying “I’m unwell” on Facebook? Nothing comes of it. The prayers in comment boxes remain buried in comment boxes.
The desire to live long was never in me, still isn’t. What’s the point of living long anyway? Rather, I’ll live a small life with everyone, harmoniously, with a smile, and then leave. I’ll truly live during the time I’m alive—there won’t be regrets, or there’ll be fewer. Though some regrets will remain at the time of death. Like not being able to read more books, not seeing more good films, not floating in more beautiful melodies, not visiting more beautiful places, not being able to return even a little of the love from those close to me, not living a little more in my own way, not being able to cause a little less pain to fewer people, not being able to write something truly good, not being able to tell people I like that “I like you,” not doing my job with a little less drudgery—things like that. Perhaps even while eating the last meal before death, I’ll crack some jokes. No one will understand anything. Dying in sleep would be nice. I won’t suffer, others won’t either. Everyone will wake up to find I’m gone. Isn’t that amusing? I’m unwilling to see others suffer over me while I’m alive.
The night before last, I couldn’t sleep because of excruciating pain from my neck down to the middle of my back. Those who have never experienced back pain will never understand what it truly is. I’ve had this pain a few times before, but none as severe as that night. I don’t do much physical labor. My pain is caused by nervous strain. Last Thursday, I sat in front of my laptop for at least 12-14 hours, writing extensively. What agony it was!
Pain in the eyes,
pain in the nerves,
pain in the mind,
pain in the body!
Yet once I begin to write,
once the demon of writing possesses me,
stopping becomes more torturous than all the physical and mental suffering of writing itself. Those who don’t write, who only read or plagiarize,
will never understand this. They have no inkling of the terrible agony that writing entails. That day I kept feeling my entire body and mind growing numb,
my head spinning, as if I might collapse from dizziness at any moment;
yet I continued writing. When the mind refuses to heed the body’s demands, sometimes the body rebels so fiercely—I can’t quite remember the last time I felt such intense rebellion so vividly.
What’s curious is that that night, as I writhed from the pain in my neck and back, tears soaking my pillow, I was laughing to myself—just laughing. I had no desire to call my parents or my younger brother, though I usually don’t anyway;
I thought to myself,
let me see what this pain is like,
gritting my teeth a little. Such a strange sensation. It took me at least 15 minutes to get from my bed to the attached bathroom. Yet I kept thinking,
this too is part of life! I opened the window and gazed at the night sky, crying from the pain. Perhaps annoyed by my smiling face,
my body’s rebellion reached a fever pitch that night. I couldn’t sleep at all after that. When mother came to my room in the morning, I told her about the agony with a smile still on my face. I spoke to the doctor. He prescribed some medicines, along with massages with warm garlic and mustard oil on my neck and back, and hot dry towel compresses. My younger brother was giving me the massage—mother no longer has the strength for such things. My younger brother massaging me,
mother sitting beside me kissing my forehead, eyes, and face,
and I, in some strange bashfulness, laughing constantly—just laughing. Their pain was causing me more suffering than my own. Father kept saying, son,
don’t join work in Khulna on Tuesday,
do it a couple of days later. Mother was saying, absolutely not,
you won’t sit on Facebook! You never have to write anything again. My wonderfully silly younger brother said,
oh mother,
don’t scold him. If he doesn’t write, how will people plagiarize? And how will he drive himself crazy cursing at people?
I just kept laughing and laughing; occasionally, gritting my teeth from pain, I’d tell my younger brother, Pappu,
next time keep the towel in the oven for 30 seconds less, okay?
My skin is burning!
He said,
shut up!
Who told you to laugh like a braying donkey?
Life wouldn’t seem quite so wretched if we could give our families a little more time!
When we fall seriously ill, who else stands by us?
When we ramble deliriously in fever,
who else weeps for us but family? And for people like me, so self-contained, we can’t even tell anyone we’re feeling unwell. Only our family can sense that we’re not well. If others find out, they’d rather be annoyed,
though some will show sympathy, of course. That someone has fallen into trouble because of me and is showing care—
accepting even this becomes terribly difficult. These past couple of days I haven’t written much on Facebook, yet barely anyone asked
how I was! But life is like this. Everyone’s busy, who keeps track of whom? I don’t keep such close tabs either. So why would anyone keep track of me?
On the contrary, whenever I get the chance, I treat people badly. Don’t they suffer?
Don’t some of their curses come true sometimes?
Whether people’s prayers are answered or not, their curses often do come to pass!
Alas! People don’t learn to love until they become helpless. When people become helpless, they understand
what those close to them mean. How it feels not to receive love!
I’m feeling a bit better now. The anguish of not being able to come on Facebook,
of not being able to write, has been immense. I couldn’t even read books. Otherwise I’m quite well. Pappu is doing all my work,
even forcibly washing my clothes despite my protests! Mother comes and gently strokes my head. Father keeps asking,
how are you feeling now?
Some people, having heard the news, are calling to check on me. Honestly, even all this care is quite painful! What have I ever done for any of them? Nothing at all! Love causes such pain! Hatred can’t deliver even a fraction of this. How wonderful it feels to smile through suffering without any complaints or reproaches! When I’m gone, it won’t matter to anyone—this thought brings great comfort during illness. How strange we are! When we’re healthy,
we convince ourselves
we’ll never fall ill. When we’re sick,
we like to think we’ll never recover. I remember
once my voice broke. So completely
that I couldn’t speak to anyone for nearly two weeks. I was doing my MBA then,
living in IBA hostel. The agony of not being able to speak!
I kept feeling intensely
that I would never be able to speak again. During that time, no one but mother could understand me. When I went to eat at the canteen, I’d write on paper
what I wanted to eat. When I could speak,
thinking of all the nonsense I’d spoken, wasting the gift of speech, made me sad. Being able to speak seemed
the most beautiful thing in the world. When we’re ill, we realize how precious this body is!
I’m gradually thumbing my nose at all of yesterday’s worries and getting better. The full credit goes to the doctor, to the good wishes of some people who love me, to Mother, to Father, and certainly to Pappu. When you fall ill, two thoughts torment you particularly. First: the people close to me are suffering because of me. It would be far better to die quietly on some distant island than this. Second: there’s no one who would call and say, “If I see you active on Messenger even once more, I’ll absolutely murder you.” It’s not that no one said anything at all—that makes the pain even worse. Isn’t it self-deception to indulge a love that I cannot shelter? Love makes one far too guilty. Love is such a thing that not having it is trouble, and having it is even greater trouble! People wander about desperate in search of love, and once they find it, they spend their time running away. As long as humans don’t learn to feel love, they remain comfortable with it. Once they learn to give and receive love, all the guilt in the world comes and turns everything completely upside down!
Thought: Six hundred and fifty-three
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There was a time when I wore hand chains, wrist bands, bracelets on my hands. Not so very long ago—I think I was in my third year of honors then. I still remember how utterly indifferent my mother’s expression was when she threw my expensive magnetic earrings out the window, saying, “These things look good on slum girls’ ears; if someone finds them, they’ll be very happy, dear.” I never wore rings again. When I used to go teach at my own coaching center, dressed in matching sunglasses, jeans, t-shirt, sneakers, belt, rings, hand chains—surely some guardians must have thought, “What on earth will this strange-looking youth teach our son/daughter!” Many would come and tell me, “I’ve come to meet the Director Sir of Pals Coaching Home, call him for me” (seeing me, perhaps ‘Sir’ wouldn’t come to their lips).
When the number of students in my coaching center grew, I started keeping a cane. The students would say, “Sir, beating people doesn’t go with your appearance.” A boy in hip-hop getup thrashing kids like a schoolmaster—boys and girls, no one spared. How did that look? For MCQs, I would make them literally memorize books from cover to cover. Everyone called me the “Objective Guru!” I would make students solve massive English worksheets. Often I would weave various dreams before their eyes, teach them to dream of growing up, never let anyone think they couldn’t make it. I taught them to recognize the sources of strength within themselves. It feels wonderful to think that they have grown up now, are growing up. This feeling of joy is worth more than anything else. My coaching center had students from class nine up to honors level. During that time, I read voraciously—it felt strange to say “I don’t know” in front of students. Many of my dialogues are still repeated by students when we meet occasionally. “Sir, you used to tell me this, you used to say that.” Let me share a few.
# You will solve the math problem exactly as I have shown you—periods, commas, semicolons included.
(Proyas reminded me)
# If you don’t feel like studying, get out of the class. … Bring the payment tomorrow.
(Sultan reminded me)
# What is this? What’s your problem? … Do you know what a beating is? A beating?
(Ratul reminded me)
# Questions are neither easy nor hard, questions are standard.
(Pranta reminded me)
# There’s a concept behind everything.
(Tanvir reminded me)
# You must give every side note.
(Soumya reminded me)
# Talking in class doesn’t make you smart!
(Jevin reminded me)
# After giving someone a thrashing, you would say, “Oh! You seem embarrassed!?”
When we said, “No!”
you would say,
“Tsk tsk! Are you shameless?”
(Shubho reminded me)
# Two students came late. They were cousins, Toran and Turin; they always came together. “Turin, why are you late?” “Sir, I overslept.”
“Toran, why are you late?”
“Sir, I was delayed going to wake him up.”
“Oh, I see. You fell asleep with him while trying to wake him up, didn’t you?”
# I’ll slap you and throw you out the window.
(Can’t say who reminded me of this)
# I’ll take down the curtain rods and beat you with them.
(Can’t say who reminded me of this)
What else did I used to say; I don’t remember.
I was extremely strict in the coaching center, a veritable Hitlerian regime. I addressed boys as ‘tumi’ and girls as ‘tui’; I never explained this to anyone. Even now I laugh when I remember those things. I felt most comfortable teaching English and Bengali. The joy of reciting Bengali poems and teaching them with countless references—you can’t find that pleasure anywhere else in the world. Right then it felt as if I was creating it all over again! I taught other subjects with equal intensity too. During that time, I worked like a demon, staying up night after night preparing massive lecture sheets for students, giving them notes in difficult literary styles. Students still talk about those summary and essence notes. I would give English notes using GRE words in complex grammatical structures. On days when there were no academic classes, I would teach them for free for IBA, university, and engineering admissions, making them solve worksheets. Ah! Those days!! I have no count of how many hundreds of times I read and taught those matriculation and intermediate books.
2002 to 2011. Such a long time!! Everyone used to say I was wasting my life teaching students. Everyone had simply assumed I would spend my entire life as a teacher. Yet that work came easily to me, so I enjoyed it—studying never appealed to me at all. What was my fault in that?
Later I discovered that teaching had served me more than anything else in my life.
“Life’s treasures are never lost in vain—
however neglected they lie in dust and rain.” Where life takes us, how it takes us there—we can never even imagine it. Life is always stranger than fiction. I deeply miss those days. Teaching with everything I had before a classroom full of captivated eyes, touching some people’s lives, setting so many students on their journey of dreams—what an immense blessing! I find such peace in nothing else. That’s why even now, whenever I get the chance, I teach friends wallowing in despair to pledge they’ll touch dreams with a catalyst’s boldness; as much as I can, however I can, and as long as I can—I will keep teaching. Because whether anyone else knows it or not, from my own life I know what a terrifyingly painful thing it is to remain stuck in despondency!
Thought: Six hundred fifty-four
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(For those who think they can do nothing, who are in doubt about whether to start preparing for the BCS exam or not, and who are sitting around thinking coaching is everything………… I wrote this piece on May 7, 2015)
Tomorrow’s Prothom Alo will feature my article on preparation strategies for the Bangladesh Affairs section of the BCS written exam. Last week’s piece was on International Affairs. I’ve now written about all subjects for the written exam. If anything else comes to mind beyond these techniques, I’ll share it on my Facebook wall. Those who don’t have these articles collected can find them in my old posts on my wall. In a few days, I’ll write something in Prothom Alo about overall preparation strategies and exam fitness.
Here I am, writing about Bangladesh Affairs and International Affairs! The whole thing still seems unbelievable to me! Why? Let me explain.
I have no habit of reading newspapers. Before I started preparing for the BCS exam, I hardly read any part of the paper except the entertainment and literature pages. We kept two newspapers at home. I didn’t read either one. Compelled by BCS preparation, I started reading 5-6 newspapers online daily, and after getting the job, I stopped reading papers again. What’s happening in the country and the world, which way the political winds are blowing, the dynamics of business and commerce—I never had any headache about these matters, I knew nothing about them, understood nothing, and felt no regret about it either. My principle is: if I don’t need something or don’t enjoy it, I don’t bother with it. Why must one know everything? After knowing everything about the world, ‘let those who are happy remain happy.’
I began preparing for the BCS examination. I found I had only 4-5 months to prepare for both preliminary and written tests. (In fact, I had even less time.)
After starting my preparation, my first feeling was: everyone knows everything, I know nothing. I noticed many had completed honors-masters-PhD in BCS studies and were now pursuing postdoctoral work. In the coaching center’s international affairs class, a teacher made me stand and asked, “What is the name of India’s Foreign Affairs Minister?” (I later learned it should be External Affairs Minister.) A boy who felt proud knowing India’s Prime Minister’s name and would babble excitedly about it wouldn’t be expected to know this—and wouldn’t feel any guilt about not knowing! I couldn’t answer. Looking around, I saw laughter breaking out. I realized then, “This was supposed to be an easy question.” The teacher said, “Let’s see, can anyone tell me?” Everyone raised their hands and answered. Everyone knew!
I understood that at this moment I should arrange my face into something shamefully embarrassed. As I tried to transform my shameless expression into something bashfully modest, the teacher said, “I’ve heard much praise about you. You’re apparently a computer engineer, a good student. Why can’t you answer this? What’s your age?” I thought, what’s going on? Is he trying to arrange my marriage? But who would marry an unemployed boy like me? (I wasn’t actually unemployed—I had my own coaching center and other businesses; I earned plenty of money. But in our country, if educated boys don’t have jobs, everyone thinks they’re unemployed.) Lost in these thoughts, I told him my age. His reply: “Oh! You still have time. You can take the BCS at least 3-4 times. Keep trying. There’s no chance of passing the first time—maybe after 2-3 attempts you might succeed. Your basics are weak.”
I said nothing to the teacher. But I was deeply upset. All trust and respect for him vanished. He seemed like an irresponsible person to me. Someone who could make such a confidently wrong assessment on first meeting, without knowing me—there was no question of attending his classes, no matter how good they might be! I know I don’t know things—that’s why I came to coaching! Would I have come if I knew everything? Did I struggle, waste time, pay for transport to come from home to coaching just to hear I’m an idiot? I don’t need to come this far to hear that. Sitting at home, my mother tells me this at least 10 times a day! I decided right then—never again would I attend his classes. And I didn’t.
Later I learned he was a distinguished BCS specialist who had failed the BCS five times, exceptionally weak in math-English-Bengali-science but supremely learned in general knowledge. He could identify the causes of failure for everyone in the world except himself. He knew Sushanto couldn’t answer anything about general knowledge. But he didn’t know that Sushanto was no worse—if not better—than any honors-masters student in Bengali-English-math-science. He also didn’t know that being a parrot in general knowledge, sitting in various cages making charming calls in different styles might earn some applause, but won’t make you a BCS cadre. You might memorize the name of Clinton’s wife’s friend’s pet dog, but if you write “My grandfather was a black dog” for “আমার নানার একটা কালো কুকুর ছিল” in English, it won’t work.
I’ll tell you honestly,
nothing will work out.
In my first model test on international affairs at the coaching center, I scored 17 out of 100! Needless to say, mine was the lowest mark. The second-lowest was 38—
more than double my score plus 4!
You can imagine my state! The others had started long before me,
I had never even heard of BCS in my life, I was just beginning—I could have thought all these things to console myself. But I didn’t. I thought, fine, maybe I don’t know anything, but that’s hardly my fault. However, if I don’t do something to overcome that weakness,
if I just sit with my hands and feet folded,
that would surely be my fault! I began studying with tremendous effort, starting absolutely from zero. Instead of feeling dejected thinking about what others could do, I started working with two things in mind. One: How much do I really need to know what everyone else knows? Instead of studying blindly, I began to study with understanding. I cast off the notion that I must study everything that everyone else studies. Two: Instead of comparing myself with those good at general knowledge, I began comparing myself only with myself. How much more or less could today’s Sushanta do compared to yesterday’s Sushanta—that’s all I thought about. My competition was with myself alone. I tried to make ‘today’s me’ surpass ‘yesterday’s me,’ not anyone else. I did this every single day. Those who are good
didn’t become so good overnight. This skill is acquired through much effort and practice. If a student who gets 20 in math ever manages to get 24,
then they are successful. I know that 33 is passing and they’ve failed; still I’d say
they are successful. They’ve managed to surpass themselves. This way, one day they’ll score 100 out of 100!
For this, they’ll have to work tremendously hard with understanding and turn it into a habit. The interesting thing is, winning is a habit. Those who get one job keep getting jobs. Let me mention here that losing is also a habit. By the way, those of you coaching,
don’t feel bad if you get low marks in coaching tests. Many people get hold of questions beforehand to look like heroes in front of girls and then take the ‘exam.’
Getting coaching questions isn’t a big deal. I’ve seen many such fellows get caught red-handed in exactly this way.
If a boy who had never properly heard the name BCS,
who had never taken any job exam in his life, can become first in the BCS exam on his very first attempt,
then why can’t you? Whether coming first is destined or not,
if you try putting your heart and soul into it, you’ll at least get the job. Are you thinking
I became first very easily? Not at all! For this I had to spend many nights without sleep. I had to say goodbye to many small pleasures. I had to keep my mouth shut, digest people’s big words, and study.
I believe you can do it too. Those who get jobs
are not more qualified than you in any way. Have faith in yourself, respect yourself,
work day and night to fulfill your dreams. The rest is in the Creator’s hands!
Good luck!
Thought: Six Hundred Fifty-Five
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26 August 2015
I’m sharing a true story.
A girl from the remotest village. She scored 3.88 in her SSC—an average result. She enrolled in a fairly decent college near her home. “Near” meant four kilometers away from home. There was no transportation; she had to walk—through knee-deep mud during the rainy season. Many of her classmates had received proper teaching from childhood, had opportunities to attend coaching centers, and being children of conscious parents, already knew how to study effectively. The girl had never dreamed of any of this. She had neither the means nor the opportunity to take private lessons from anyone. One day, the English teacher at college said to her, “You should join my batch.” The girl immediately replied, “No sir! The students in your batch are very good at English. I don’t know anything, sir. I won’t go.” The teacher insisted, “Come tomorrow morning. We’ll see about the rest later.” The next day, the girl went to the coaching center with great hesitation. She was a village girl who barely knew how to speak properly, and on top of that, she was extremely weak in English. When she arrived, she found nearly thirty students in the coaching center—all of them far better at English than her. She began attending regularly. She was too shy to speak. She would go, sit quietly in a corner through the class, and then head to college when it ended.
One day something happened. She mispronounced an English word in class. At this, one of her classmates laughed so loudly that it still rings in her head. That day she was so hurt that after coaching ended, she didn’t go to college but came home, shut her room door, and cried for a long time. That very day she vowed to herself that no matter what, she would learn English! With tremendous willpower and hard work, she began to study. Her English teacher always encouraged and helped her. She had only one wish—that somehow, she would score even one mark more than her classmates! She tried as if her life depended on it. Through continuous effort, she came first in a term examination at their college. And from then on, she always came first. The girl who once couldn’t even pronounce English words, who couldn’t understand the simplest grammar, whose vocabulary was practically zero—that same girl scored A+ in English in her HSC; her marks were the highest in her college. She was determined to pursue honors and master’s in “that very English” from Dhaka University. And later, that’s exactly what she did.
Another incident had strengthened her resolve. After taking her HSC exams, before the results were out, she had enrolled in an admission test coaching center. She barely spoke in class. She would only answer when the teachers asked her something directly. One day in class, a teacher asked, “What does your father do?” She answered with pride,
“He does farming.”
The teacher then asked with contempt and disdain, “You mean he’s a farmer?” The girl said, “Yes, sir.” “Then he surely doesn’t know how to read and write. So who teaches you at home?” Hearing this, her classmates started laughing. Struggling to hold back tears, she said, “Sir, I study by myself. My older brother always encourages me.”
Having said just this much, the little girl sat down. After the admission test results, the coaching center had called her to take photos. She was the only one from their batch who had gotten into Dhaka University. Her picture with her poor, illiterate farmer father was printed in the coaching center’s leaflet. That day, a friend from her batch had scolded her, calling her foolish for revealing her father’s identity, saying it would have been better to ‘tactfully’ avoid that introduction. And now that same girl can speak with her head held high, with pride about her farmer father and her rural joint family. That little girl will spend her entire life taking pride in her extraordinarily beautiful rural family.
In a country where the children of farmers don’t receive their due respect,
where during marriages, those from high lineages with low positions and poor taste are given preference,
where students who graduate from ‘bad’ schools and colleges are assumed to be ‘bad’ students,
where people are still judged by their external glitter,
where shallow boys showing off fake external smartness are valued, where only the children of the rich get the big chair, where spineless boys sit around hoping to establish themselves after marriage with their wives’ fathers’ money, I believe,
such a country, whatever else it may be,
cannot go very far. This is truly shameful. Our mentality is responsible for this pitiful state of our country.
I myself was a student of one of Chittagong’s most ‘worthless’ schools—Chittagong Municipal Model High School. Everyone contemptuously calls the school ‘Balti School.’ I had to endure much belittlement. Today I am proud of my ‘Balti School’!!
You young people who talk big! Believe this older brother—days won’t always remain like this. When the time comes that you’ll have to walk with your head bowed before society, where will you run? While there’s still time, try now to strengthen your position. Think about what interests those who flatter you have in doing so. Life won’t always go on like this. Try to make your parents respected in society. I know very well how much shame and pain it is to live as a nobody in this world. Respect people, learn to be humble, and develop the habit of working hard. Now is the time to whip life into shape, not to enjoy it. Best wishes for all of you.
Audio clip of the writing:
Among all the audio clips recorded in RJ Salman’s voice, this one ranks 2nd in terms of how many times it has been heard (up until the time I’m saving this note). While reading this piece, he himself wept, and made us weep too.
Listen, and share it with everyone. Those who think they occupy very modest positions in life might find some inspiration to grow from this girl from a remote village.
Here’s the link…
Reflection: Six Hundred and Fifty-Six
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April 25, 2015
(This is still my most popular piece of writing. By the time I’m saving this as a note, across various sites, groups, pages, walls, and posts, this piece has accumulated approximately 200,000+ likes, 30,000+ comments, and 20,000+ shares. It has been read at least 350,000 times. The piece has been photocopied and distributed among employees of various organizations. Of all my writings that people have stolen and passed off as their own, this one has been plagiarized the most. Among these thieves are university professors from Dhaka University, directors of private TV channels, and certificate-obsessed complete fools. Many scoundrels have published this piece under their own names on various websites, blogs, and even national dailies. I’m not apologizing for my choice of language. I have not an ounce of sympathy for these parasites.
At friends’ request, I’m preserving this piece in note form. Perhaps it will be of use to some. Most of my writings have been lost anyway. I wrote this piece hurriedly on my basic phone while sitting in the office. If I could have sat at home with my laptop and taken proper time, I might have made it longer and better. I never imagined this piece would be so useful to so many people! Seeing my friends’ response, I now feel I shouldn’t have written it so hastily—it would have been better to take more time.
I’m providing the link to my original post below. You can learn a lot from the comments there as well.
https://www.facebook.com/sushanta.iba/posts/10153205370883771 )
When you’re 27 and desperately searching for a bank job, someone your own age is already sitting as a manager in that very bank. While your career hasn’t even begun, some people are driving expensive cars they bought with their own money, passing right in front of you. It’s not that corporations always promote based on looks. Times are changing, concepts are shifting. If you work just to get a salary, you’ll only get a salary. The question is: why does this happen? How do the best perform at their best? Several factors are at work here. Let me mention a couple.
First comes the matter of effort. Those who are ahead of you work harder than you do. Accept this. You cannot have both the pleasure of sleeping and the joy of witnessing dawn. Effort alone does not accomplish everything. If it did, the donkey would be king of the forest. The point is not merely to work hard, but to receive the rewards for that work. Only your results are rewarded, not your efforts. How can you stay an extra mile ahead without putting in extra hours? Everyone’s day has the same twenty-four hours. I’ve seen my friend working on outsourcing projects late into the night while others sleep. He reaps the benefits of staying up, naturally! What extra you do determines what extra you receive. If you cannot do something different, you will not get something different. Bill Gates did not become Bill Gates overnight. Simply dropping out of university does not make one Steve Jobs or Zuckerberg. Getting a 2.74 CGPA in honors like me won’t make you top the BCS or IBA admission tests. Read the book Outliers. Great people have great preparation behind them. If you read Nazrul’s essays, you’ll understand how self-educated he was. One doesn’t become Nazrul merely by working at a bakery. Nor can one become Rabindranath simply by not attending school or college. Not everyone working at a bookbinding shop can become Michael Faraday—most spend their entire lives just binding books.
Don’t lose sleep over what people said about you in student life. In our batch, there was a boy who couldn’t program at all — he now owns a software firm. The one no one ever dreamed about is now teaching thousands of people to dream. The guy who had no career plans was the first to leave for America to pursue a PhD. The boy who failed every exam with great enthusiasm is now a successful businessman. Don’t let others decide what you can or cannot do. Didn’t get into a public university? Studying at a private one? Or at a national university? Everyone’s saying your life is over? I say, hey! Your life hasn’t even begun yet. Who are these others to decide how far you’ll go? Is it their life or yours? Why must you become a doctor or engineer? And if you do study medicine, why must you practice medicine? I know a doctor who earns six to seven lakhs a month through photography. Wherever you study, your progress depends on you alone. You can’t get through life with just “oh shit,” “sorry baby,” and “chatting-dating.” Imagine your position without the person you’re dependent on. The car you take to university, that you drive around in — did you buy it with your own money? What sense does it make to show off with it? One day you’ll have to step out into the world. Start doing now what you’ll need to do then. To grow in life, you must read some good books, watch some good movies, listen to some good music, visit some good places, talk to some good people, do some good work. Life isn’t just for passing time with laughter and frivolity. When you one day have to face life head-on, you’ll see the ground slipping from under your feet, the sky crashing on your head. Skill development takes time. These things don’t happen overnight or in a day.
“What do I need to do to write like you? I want results like yours. What should I do?” I hear this often. I say, “You’ll have to work incredibly hard. No shortcuts. Sorry!”
The reply comes: “But I don’t enjoy studying. What can be done?”
I answer this a bit differently. When you were in school and college, while your first-ranking friend had his face buried in books at his study desk, you were standing outside the girls’ school. Now the time has come for him to stand there while you sit at the study desk. If you enjoy life when you should be whipping it into shape, then when it’s time to enjoy life, you won’t be able to — that’s only natural. Accept this. If you can’t accept it, turn around. Now is the time!
To become great, you must keep company with great people,
walk with them,
listen to their words. In this regard, choosing friends during university years becomes quite crucial. Your subconscious mind influences you through your friends’ actions. Without realizing it, we associate with people inferior to ourselves,
because then we can feel superior. This
tendency is suicidal. When you see no one around you growing great, the desire to become great never awakens. Many make another mistake—mixing with the children of the wealthy and beginning to think of themselves as rich. A person is influenced by their friends. In a barren forest, even the jackal becomes king. Do you want to be a jackal-king, or do you want to be a lion-king? Decide this first.
Knowing how to be humble is a great art. Many who are studying for their honors lack this quality. You still have nothing to be proud of; to the world, you are merely a nobody. Without humility, learning is impossible. One must learn from the teacher sitting at the teacher’s feet. These days teachers too don’t try to earn respect,
and students are forgetting to show respect. Accept it—
you are small. This alone will keep you ahead. There is no glory in disrespecting great people. Respect others for your own good.
Audio clip of this writing:
Among all the audio clips in RJ Salman’s voice, this clip has been listened to the most times so far (meaning up until the time this note was saved).
In this clip, Salman bhai has read my writing beautifully.
Listen, share it with everyone. Many say
that when they don’t feel like studying, when sleep comes, when they feel like stopping, listening to these words in RJ Salman’s voice cuts through all the lethargy of body and mind and enables them to start again! This starting again—that’s what matters! 🙂
Here’s the link……….
Reflection: Six hundred fifty-seven
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One.
26 August 2015
(I had posted this on 6 May)
Yesterday, after office and wandering about all day, I had to swallow my reluctance and accept an invitation in the evening. A gentleman from Beanibazar, Abdul Aleem Lodi. (Is he perhaps related to Ibrahim Lodi?) From his love of trees, he has created a garden of medicinal and fruit-bearing plants. He has an intense desire for this Lodi Garden to become known throughout the country. He shows everyone around his garden with great enthusiasm. Yesterday evening I was impossibly tired. Simply because I can never say ‘no’ to anyone, I went to Lodi Garden around half past eight at night, drawn by his request and eagerness. The garden is filled with many rare native and foreign trees. He was lighting his torch and introducing me to each plant. I too love trees, I feel a kind of tenderness toward them. But because of my extreme physical exhaustion, I felt terribly irritated. Still, I forced myself to smile and pretended to listen attentively to his words. Such a sweaty, forced smile—in every photograph he requested I take, I look like a pickpocket, the kind anyone would want to grab and thrash on sight. His tremendous passion and love for trees was truly something to behold. In this world, masterpieces can only be created with emotion and love alone. What’s also needed is the mentality to work tirelessly. Lodi saheb possesses all of this. With the right perspective, one can accomplish the impossible. Yesterday I learned this once again.
I returned to the resthouse around half past ten at night. My body seemed ready to collapse. There was a plan to go sightseeing again at seven the next morning — meaning today. Meanwhile, I had to prepare and submit an article on preparation strategies for the Bangladesh Affairs section of the BCS written exam for Friday’s jobs page in Prothom Alo by Wednesday afternoon. That meant the article had to be ready tonight, come what may. But with this body, it was utterly impossible. After finishing my bath around half past eleven, I called Prothom Alo. I told them to print something like: “Due to unavoidable circumstances, today’s article could not be published. The article will be printed in the next issue.” I said this because writing the piece with such an exhausted body would be very difficult for me. But they informed me that this was absolutely impossible at the moment. Everyone would be waiting for the article. Even if it was a bit difficult, would I please be kind enough to write it.
. . . . . . I truly felt helpless. You can’t just write carelessly when so many people will read it! On top of that, when writing this type of article, an intense sense of responsibility works within me. I was reading Shawkat Osman’s “Jonnoni.” I read a bit more of that and sat down to write around half past twelve. This sitting was not from necessity, but from emotion, from love, from boundless responsibility. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep much, that tomorrow I’d have to roam around practically from dawn all day, yet still. I put on slow instrumental music on my laptop and began writing. After some facebooking, when I finished the article and went to bed, the clock hands were nearly touching half past two. Before going to sleep, I swore to myself: no more for others, from now on I’ll live a little for myself. To hell with it all! I’ll throw everything away! What’s the point of all this? Not everyone loves you after all — some even curse you. What’s the need! Enough is enough!
. . . . . . . This anger at myself lasted only until dawn! I know I can never stop this ghostly unpaid labor due to people’s boundless love. Perhaps I’ll pause sometimes, but I won’t stop. I suffer most when I see someone making nonsensical comments about my work. Even physical pain doesn’t hurt this much. From all this writing, career discussions, motivational counseling — I’ve never taken even a penny!
I slept for about three hours. Set out to explore at seven. Now I’m on the road to Bichanakandi and Pangthumai. After this: Ratargul, Jaflong’s citrus gardens, the palace, Lalakhal. The view of vast wetlands and haors stretching across both sides of the road to Bichanakandi is worth seeing. The rows of gentleman-like trees along the roadside, rushing through their midst. Life is indeed rushing forward! Whether through beauty or ugliness. Life is not only beautiful — life is also ugly. My beloved poet Robert Frost comes to mind: What I’ve learned about life, I can tell in three words — life goes on. Even keeping Andy Dufresne’s words from The Shawshank Redemption in mind, life can be lived quite well: Get busy living, or get busy dying.
Two.
People who are completely behind in life often come to me for career advice. For two reasons. One: I don’t scold them even if they ask absolutely foolish questions. No one is more welcoming than me when it comes to asking all sorts of muddled questions. Two: They consider me one of their own. Which means they believe I’ve evolved from donkey to human being. Therefore, if they listen to my wisdom, they too can transform from donkey to human. This embrace of kinship constantly reminds me that no one remains an ass forever. And I also remember what a superior breed of goat I used to be. I keep smiling to myself—a smile of contentment.
When they come, no matter how exhausted I am, I make time, I talk with them. Someone came today as well. Today I returned from the airport at 10 PM, and I’ll have to rush out again at 5 AM tomorrow. I can’t say ‘no,’ so many people feel comfortable approaching me, sharing their sorrows. I listen attentively, convince them that they’re not the most miserable people in the world. Whatever I may write when I’m writing, my way of speaking is mostly of the silly, bumbling sort, so they can never think of me as someone distant. They feel peace, and so do I. If someone says they can’t do anything, I say only oxen can do everything. Ah! This makes them very happy. But I don’t just leave it at that—if you truly can’t do anything, I also give them the wisdom of how to avoid trouble even while being utterly incompetent. Why do I do this? Because I find joy in this very journey!
There are some benefits to this. Old memories get chewed over again. Just like today, a little while ago, while talking, I suddenly remembered that I used to be a shopkeeper once. I had a gift shop. Like any other shopkeeper, I would call out to people from the street to sell gifts. (I was only different in one way. You see, my damned education had inflated my prestige a bit, so I felt embarrassed calling out to people. If someone kindly came to the shop, I would start babbling and sell them things. But my shop, Dobhana, really had a good reputation. That was my gift shop’s name. I had huge and several rare collections. Some items were only available at my shop. Many regular customers of Hallmark and Archies became our regular customers—meaning we either lured them away, or they came running to us themselves. I sold the shop long ago. The shop is gone, but the memories remain.) I would buy things for one taka from Chawkbazar in Old Dhaka and sell them to people for two taka with sweet talk and bluffing. There was no difference between me and the class five-six pass shopkeeper next to me. They would also sell earrings to people with lies and persuasion, and so would I. Truly, there was no difference. They were my colleagues. My most learned colleague had passed intermediate on his third attempt, and since I had passed in one go (I hadn’t completed my honors yet. I had plans not to complete my honors), his honor after mine was universally acknowledged. There was only one difference between us: when there were no customers, they might apply nail polish, while I would read storybooks, listen to music, watch movies, write on Facebook. No other difference. That same street shopkeeper later came first in the BCS exam. So when someone says their subject isn’t good, their results aren’t good, I find it very amusing. Oh dear, the results I managed in graduation—mashallah—to achieve that, one would have to struggle hard running an anti-study campaign. To become that much of a donkey wouldn’t just require burning sticks and straw, but big trees and heaps of hay. The fact that people now speak to me with some respect—that itself is the luck of my seven, no, seventy million births! You fools! Keep trying! If you’re crazy, then I’m the emperor of crazies! You can never tell where life will take you and leave you!!
Today I was thinking about something and feeling quite peaceful. Later I realized there’s no peace written in my fate. Many people have been asking me in my inbox: Brother, are you unwell? You haven’t written anything? Listen, dear brothers and sisters, there’s something called writer’s block. When this happens, writers simply cannot write. They lose their ability to write, permanently or temporarily. Many big-shot writers around the world have fallen into this problem and left this world in frustration. I was thinking, let me rest a bit—maybe I have that too. That means I’m also, well, a writer. The public’s love won’t let me play at being a writer anymore. Cruel, merciless, heartless, stone-hearted, aesthetically bankrupt public. What a pity!
(This piece was written on November 20, 2014)
Thought: Six hundred fifty-eight
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Dear Ribhu,
I simply never learned how to want, and so everything somehow comes before me and then goes away. I know you have no time to listen to my words. Still, I will speak. Just one request—please don’t be annoyed. Oh, and another thing: you’re not angry that I called you “dear,” are you? What should I do, tell me! I simply cannot not call you that! Though I no longer have the audacity to believe that you still have time to be angry at my words.
How the word “marriage” suffocates life itself! Do you know when a girl stops being a girl? When she reaches marriageable age, or when everyone in the house wants to see her in someone else’s home. Everyone’s elaborate preparations to marry me off keep reminding me again and again: I am not a girl, I am a dark girl, I am a dark girl! Why can I no longer dwell in the kingdom of my imagination? I have decided to run away. I know no one will come with me. Still. Far away, very far. To some ashram in a distant mountain corner. I will live like Shakuntala. But tell me, will they not accept a dark girl? Will they too turn me away?
Listen, Ribhu, can you not hear that I often cry out to you, “Give me a little time, I will become truly worthy of you. Just stay beside me… save me from these cruel people.” If you cannot indulge me, can you not at least give me shelter? What? You cannot? Not even a little? When people find a puppy on the street, do they throw it away? The Creator has surely given you at least that much capacity. In my case, as much as He has been; in your case, He is surely not so miserly. For this ordinary girl, can you not at least defeat the Creator in His parsimony?
Alas, dreams! I no longer call dreams “dreams.” I call them sin. Yes, that is sin. Mother said that the other day, in my fever, I was crying “Ribhu, Ribhu.” Is that a dream? It’s sin, isn’t it? Ordinary girls make the mistake of thinking sin is dreams. Dreaming causes me far too much pain. I will dream no more.
At this moment, if only I could break this cell phone in my hand into pieces! Ribhu, can you not understand that your very existence renders me non-existent every single moment? These days I no longer feel hurt with God either. What’s the point of being hurt with someone who doesn’t relent? I feel shy even asking God for anything. After returning empty-handed so many times, how can I ask again, tell me? When even God cannot grant refuge from this form, how can you? I have no more complaints against you.
The parrot says my Krishna is the soul of the world. The starling says my Radha gives life as gift; does she keep any life for herself?
A song written by Gobinda Adhikari. The way it’s sung is a little different, with some variations here and there. Have you heard it? If not, listen to it in Lopamudra’s voice. Kanika has sung it too, but Lopa’s version is sweeter. Believe me, it will fill your heart. Could you take the trouble to listen to it in the early morning? Don’t worry, this dark girl won’t call and wake you up. Today is the full moon, you know? Will you go to the terrace? Do go! What beautiful moonlight has risen. I don’t go to the terrace to watch the moonlight anymore. So my room gets covered in a blanket of soft light. Nature never envies the beauty of the unbeautiful. You know, Ribhu, I’m remembering my childhood. On such moonlit nights when the power would go out, father would say, “Reba, Keya, Lata! Bring the harmonium, dear.” We would understand that we wouldn’t have to study today. How delighted we would become! We’d blow out the hurricane lamp and rush to the terrace on the second floor. Father couldn’t call just one of us, or wouldn’t. Yet my elder sister was eleven years older than me and my younger sister nine years older; when they were in honors, I was in fifth or sixth grade. Now I often look up at the sky and ask, Father, if you were going to leave me and go away, why didn’t you leave someone with the responsibility of loving me? Are you laughing? Are you thinking, is love also a responsibility? Do you know what it means to feel with entitlement? Do you understand? I know. Watching father, I learned love, learned to love. Taking younger sister’s harmonium, we would spread a cool mat on the terrace and sit scattered in the moon’s gentle light. I miss my mother from those old days very much now. Mother hadn’t yet learned to call my enthusiasm mere theatrics. I would sing, “The dam of the moon’s laughter has broken…..” This was always there. Father wanted it to be there. I would sing, and father would stretch out his hand as if touching that old evening’s cool breeze, the sweet fragrance of jasmine filled with light white as milk’s cream. Mother would hold a garland of jasmine flowers in her sari’s end and rest her head on father’s arm, listening with such peace. I would feel like I was a girl filled with moonlight, a girl filled with moonlight. Father would say, Renuka, you see, whichever home our Lata goes to, there will be a full moon every day in that home. Alas! Father, can you see how helplessly your Lata searches for a home today? Younger sister would sing, “Will you forget those old days, oh heart…..” Mother would join in too. Little me would curl up and hide in father’s lap, looking at father’s face, watching evening stars play in father’s eyes. Father would move away the hair scattered over mother’s face with his fingers and wipe his thick black-framed glasses with mother’s sari’s end. Now I hum, “My days did not remain in the golden cage…….” I miss that lap so much. I’ve perhaps grown old enough to learn to disbelieve that there exists any other shelter so safe, untroubled, unworried, and secure. Ribhu, I’m not telling you all this. Not at all! You’re not listening to all this, are you?
On this very day, my father left me behind. I no longer feel like saying ‘us’ anymore,
so I said ‘me.’ The absence of love makes people terribly selfish. One whom no one loves becomes the most unburdened of all. To be selfish, one must be unburdened. I don’t even wish to die. What meaning could death have for one whose very living has no meaning? Even to die, one needs someone to resent. Father’s black frame sits on my desk at this moment, on top of Rabindranath. Today, after all these years, I understand why father would ask me to sing those two particular songs when there were so many others!
Moonlight, it seems, reminds one of so many things.
Why am I telling you all this!
I can no longer think as I used to. I don’t even try. Let whatever happens, happen! How much could really happen anyway?
How much could possibly happen?
How much ever does happen? Sometimes everything around me seems false. Like now, as I write to you, perhaps in a little while my thoughts will turn into something else entirely. How strange,
isn’t it? Why does this happen? I cannot even think. My head throbs with terrible pain. My hands, feet, my entire body and mind grow numb. Lately I want nothing,
feel nothing. I think, what’s the point? I just do whatever everyone tells me to do, without desire—that’s right, isn’t it?
I won’t think so many thoughts anymore,
won’t stay with a heavy heart. I don’t care anything! Let it go!
Only sometimes I feel,
there was something I was supposed to do, there was something I was supposed to do!
For two days now, out of study, out of everything. I don’t understand the pace at which my mind moves.
Even as I write to you like this, while writing I’m thinking, what pointless work I’m doing! You’ll never even know how many days I’ve written like this and not sent them to you. …. I know,
this too won’t reach you. The moment I think of sending, I start wondering,
what’s the point of all this! What will you think of me!
Ugh! I can’t anymore! Think whatever you want…… as if this dark girl is even worth thinking about!
So much work lies pending. I’m going………