Reflection: Three Hundred Twenty-Three
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One.
When I was in college,
I had given a poem to a journalist,
he didn’t publish it.
In that poem I had written about a street boy. On my way to college I would see him
begging on the bus. A small child. Such a tender, compassionate face. I wanted so much
to run my fingers through his hair,
to touch his cheek. I never could! I miss him terribly. By now he must
have grown up so much,
don’t you think?
His mother died when he was very young. I wonder so much if
he gets three meals a day now? Does his stepmother still beat him?
Does he still cry for his mother before falling asleep at night?
How is he doing? Is he
still alive? Or did he get hit by a car on the street……. I had wanted so much to buy him new clothes some Boishakh,
but I never saw him again. Ah, if only I could have met him suddenly at some Boishakhi fair!
He would have come up to me out of nowhere, smiled with his crooked teeth and said,
Apu, don’t you recognize me? I’m Sanjid, the one you said……you would write a story about!
When he was very young,
his mother died. His father remarried. That new mother had two more sons. When a mother dies, the father somehow becomes different. When a father dies, a child is safer with the mother, but when a mother dies, a child is not as safe with the father. His new mother used to beat him terribly. Sometimes she wouldn’t give him proper food. He
would beg. But I could see
the boy didn’t even know how to beg properly!
All his suffering would gather in the pupils of his eyes…….
I saw it,
in the depths of his eyes, deep in his chest, the mark of an indistinct anguish. He
couldn’t speak much, would just stare blankly. Perhaps he was searching for a little tenderness. When some child’s mother would lovingly say,
my dear, eat this,
eat that,
he would gape at that mother’s face. He would
forget to beg then, forget to say he was hungry,
forget to say ‘give me two rupees.’ Perhaps he wanted more than a handful of food—a piece of pure, unadulterated tenderness!
In this world, if you ask for food you might get it, but finding genuine tenderness is very difficult.
Two.
I never once dreamed I would work in government service. To tell the truth, I haven’t been able to figure out even now what I want to become! What I want—that’s the crucial thing to discover. If I don’t know what I’m chasing after, then all that running is just a waste of time. Yes, I did have one wish: to go abroad to study. Then find work there. To be completely settled, as they say! But to call even that a goal would be wrong. Because if I’d taken it as a goal, I would have chased after it. Truth is, I never really chased after it that way. I’ve never pursued anything in life with real determination, so I’ve remained a straggler. Just as I’m quite short in height—maybe five foot two and a half—you could say I’m short on results too. A’s in SSC, B’s in HSC, and probably scraping by with a 3.0 GPA in honors. I’m studying at a private university in Khulna. Actually, it would be wrong to say I’m completely without direction. My father is an engineer with the railways. From that came the desire that I too would become an engineer. But somehow that never materialized! After poor results in intermediate, I changed course myself. I’m doing my honors in law. But I probably won’t make it as a lawyer. I don’t look convincing, and I have a speech impediment. My father understands this. So though he’s said nothing to me in twenty-one years, never imposed anything on me, this time he’s made a request. He asked me to seriously try for BCS and BJS. He wants nothing else from me. If I speak about my father, he was a very talented and hardworking student. But luck didn’t favor him. Otherwise he would have held some high government position. He passed matriculation from Railway Government High School. Then Chittagong College. His dream was to study at BUET. But not all dreams are always fulfilled. There were seven siblings in father’s family. Grandfather was also with the railways, but he wasn’t in any high position. So he struggled to keep the household running. That’s why father and uncles had to study while living in hostels. When father graduated from Chittagong College, his dream was to study at BUET, and that’s when my grandfather died. My father was the eldest son, with one older sister. That elder sister and father’s younger sister had already married. But the responsibility for the remaining five fell on father. And so he had to bury his own dreams and take charge of the family. He did become an engineer, but a diploma engineer. He graduated from Chittagong Polytechnical in electrical engineering. And that’s how he joined the railways as a second-class officer. My father never told me to study here or go there. He always gave me freedom. That’s why I want to fulfill this one request of his. Not for my own goals—this time I want to fight to fulfill my father’s dream. In my life, I’ve succeeded brilliantly only once, and that was getting into class nine at Nasirabod Boys School. I’ve indulged in enough emotion; now let me come to reality. I’m going to sit for an exam like BCS, and I have no preparation for it. I’m a final semester university student. I haven’t taken any advance preparation. But the dream is enormous. Though anyone hearing this would laugh, perhaps think I’m talking like a madman. The dream now is to come first in BCS.
Someone has to be first,
so why shouldn’t that person be me! I don’t know if I’ll be able to prepare for the BCS in one year. But I do know this—I have to succeed. And I have that confidence in myself that if I work hard, I will make it. Reading a piece called ‘Life of a Snake and Ladder’ on Facebook taught me to think about myself anew. It occurred to me:
What if this person I am—whom everyone assumes at first glance
will never amount to anything—what if he could do something remarkable and astonish everyone?
How would that be? From today, I’m setting out on the path to secure first place in the BCS. No matter what storms come in this journey, I will not stop,
I will not retreat. I will leave no stone unturned in my effort. I will try with every last drop of blood in my body. The rest is in God’s hands. Let’s see where He takes me. But I will work so hard
that even if I fail, I can stand before my father and say with honesty: Father,
I left nothing undone in my effort, I cut no corners. I could not succeed
perhaps because it wasn’t in my destiny. There’s no greater pain than being unable to forgive oneself. Today I take this oath:
I will not commit a single act of negligence in the coming year that would make me unworthy of my own forgiveness.
Reflection: Three Hundred Twenty-Four
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I was twenty-five or twenty-six when I sat on the wedding dais. I was terribly busy with court proceedings then. Two years after the wedding, Adrita told me she was expecting. Hearing this, a strange intoxication of joy spread through my entire world. The Creator didn’t give me enough power to describe that feeling in words. The first fruit of my and Adrita’s love was coming. I couldn’t even imagine that someone would call me father! The city where we lived then didn’t have very good medical facilities. We were two people living with small dreams in a small town. Still, I tried my best to arrange whatever medical checkups I could for Adrita. She would sometimes say, “Why are you so caring, hmm? Is this love of yours for me, or for your baby? Tell me honestly—for whom? When the baby comes, won’t you love me the way you used to?” Hearing such questions from her, I would search for answers within myself. I already love Adrita so much—so this extra love, extra care, extra worry, are they truly for whom? Thirty-four years have passed since that day, and I still haven’t found the answer.
When you first started moving your hands and feet, I would place my hand on your mother’s belly and touch, trying to feel you. It felt as if I could actually touch you. Sometimes I would press my ear to your mother’s belly to see if you were crying. Adrita would say, “You fool! Does the baby even know how to cry yet? Let him come first!” As you grew bigger in your mother’s womb, your mother looked even more beautiful. When she would part her wet hair after bathing and put vermillion in her parting, how magnificent she looked! Even Suchitra Sen might have hidden her face in shame seeing your mother’s beauty then. There wasn’t much ultrasound technology back then, and we didn’t get one done either, so we had no idea whether you were a boy or girl. But I had decided in my mind—if it’s a girl, I’ll name her Maya. Hmm… Maya! Because even before coming into this world, you had bound everyone in such threads of affection that no name other than this would have suited you. And if it’s a boy, your grandmother would name you—that was our agreement. Your mother often said, “All this suffering I’m going through has so much happiness hidden within it, you know? Present suffering is the birthplace of future joy. Now I’m alone most of the time. You’re at the office, and no one comes to stay with me much. Then I think—this present loneliness is so that lifelong loneliness will be dispelled forever. I’ll have a lifelong friend, and in this joy, staying friendless for a while is bearable, isn’t it? I feel so good with the baby, you know? I could never have imagined this feeling before. No one but me can understand how lost I am in dreams. Everything feels good to me now. Even someone’s harsh words don’t hurt me the way they used to. Whenever I think anything, I feel that all my thoughts will affect my baby—that a world of thought is forming in the baby too, modeled on my own thinking. Thinking of the baby, no complaints, pain, sorrow, or baseness ever works in my mind.”
And so nine months passed in the blink of an eye. November 2nd. Your mother went into labor. I was terribly anxious about you and about her. How deeply I love your mother! She never knows how to complain, never knows how to ask for anything—she only knows how to love. Tell me, how could one not love such a person? Suddenly your cry floated through the air. I never knew before that hearing someone cry could bring such joy. Your grandmother placed you in my arms. A newborn divine child in my hands! My child! Just thinking about it sent such tremors of wonder through my entire body—even now I find myself smiling unconsciously at the memory! Your face was so sweet that gazing at it, I forgot all my anguish in that moment. That day witnessed three births—yours, mine, and your mother’s. I became a father, your mother became a mother. Your tiny hands, feet, eyes. A doll-like, enchanting little body. How you blinked and gazed at everyone around you. Seeing those serene eyes of yours, your grandmother named you Dhinetra. That precious little golden one—you began to grow bit by bit. You started walking, one step, then two. When you cried, my heart would break. How cleverly I would soothe you, holding you close to my chest as we slept!
Once you had a terrible fever. You were crying so much. You kept saying over and over, Papa, I’m in such pain. Watching you, I couldn’t hold back my tears. I had become like a madman. Your grandfather would laugh seeing me in such a state. He’d say, Son, be calm, everything will be all right. Your grandfather was a very good man—he could understand my anguish. Your smiling face was the most precious thing to me. I felt I could do anything for that smile. The day I first heard you call me “Papa” in your half-formed words, I will never forget that day. It seemed like the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. I would hold you close to my chest and say, My little darling, say it again! And you would say it again. What joy that gave me! You grew up before my very eyes. I have never seen a more beautiful sight than watching you grow before my eyes. You came and changed our entire lifestyle. You weren’t like other children. From early childhood, you were curious about everything. Papa, what’s this? Papa, what’s that? Why, Papa? How did that happen, Papa? So many questions like these! I had told your mother that whenever you asked questions, she should never scold you. I don’t know where you brought such a treasure trove of questions from! You were quite mischievous in your childhood too. Your mother would be in quite a state trying to manage you. When I’d return home, I’d see what a state you had left your mother in! Your mother’s eating, sleeping, comfort, normal way of life—everything would be turned upside down in caring for you. Seeing all this, I would fall in love with your mother anew. No one makes greater sacrifices than a mother in raising a child. Let me tell you something, son—keep my words. Whatever you may be today, know that you became so because of your mother. Whatever else you do in life, never cause your mother pain, son. One day your mother will grow old, and she will become quite childlike. Just as your mother endured all your innocent disobedience and raised you, you too must accept all your mother’s childishness, son. If you cause your mother pain, then all her sacrifices will become meaningless, my child!
Five years passed. Sumedh came to fill your mother’s lap. You two brothers were like friends from childhood. When you both would talk together, play together, watching from afar filled me with such joy. I would think, who could be happier than I! Your mother loved modern songs very much. I preferred raga-based Bengali songs and Urdu ghazals. Music would always be playing in the house. Melody has no literate language—melody’s language is woven only in melody itself. Songs don’t belong to any language; songs exist only in feeling. From childhood, you grew up under your mother’s strict discipline. Your mother always kept you focused on studies. You got good results in SSC and HSC. Following all our wishes, you got admission to medical college. From then on, I don’t know why, your mind drifted away from studies. Your entire time would pass with movies, music, books, but you wouldn’t even touch your textbooks. You tutored students, later opened a dress shop. I could understand you weren’t well during that time, my boy. You’ve been so reserved by nature since childhood that you never told anyone what was in your heart, but looking at your eyes, I could understand everything. The entire structure of your eyes’ language formed before my very eyes. How could you become incomprehensible to me in that language? How many people have hurt you in life—you never let anyone know about that pain. You never let me or your mother understand what terrible suffering you were living through! I am grateful to God that He brought you back to the right path, gave you the respect that was your due. This time in your life needed to come—it was essential. You worked so hard. You would shut your room door and immerse yourself in studies. At one point, you became somehow different. You wouldn’t talk to anyone, just study continuously in your own way, hidden in some quiet corner.
Now you are a great surgeon of the country. I watch your interviews on TV, see how many places invite you to speak. You travel to various countries, teach everyone to dream. I hear you have many admirers. So many people love you, change themselves by listening to your words. I don’t get to have you close, so I watch some of your programs on YouTube with your mother. You know, son, your mother still sometimes cries thinking about you. Before eating anything, she wonders whether you’ve eaten or not. She takes down your framed photographs and wipes them with the edge of her sari. Your mother is such a simple person, son! Still quite sensitive, just like a little child. Sometimes you talk to mother on the phone. Just that little bit makes your mother so happy. Your wife is also very good. We don’t want anything from her, we just want her to keep you well, for you to be happy with her. You know, son, when you come home, your mother starts planning a week in advance—what to cook, what to feed you, all of that. You don’t stay home, Sumedh has to be out for various work, your mother stays alone at home. I’ve grown old too, my blood pressure fluctuates often, sugar is also high—how many more days will I live, tell me! I don’t think about myself anymore, I think about you two brothers’ happiness.
Will you grant me one request,
my son? On the day I leave this world behind,
when you light the fire upon my face, you two brothers must not weep. Everyone must depart someday, but no one else can die having been your father. You are my children—
with this fulfillment I shall depart with a smile. Looking back at life, I feel
I have received the fullness of every joy from you both. Now I am ready for death. Stay well,
my son. My blessings and love remain with you.
Thought: Three hundred twenty-five
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One.
: Mama always gives you more attention in everything,
listens to everything you say………I don’t give you any attention at all!
: Ha ha ha……that you don’t pay attention,
that’s great! But
how exactly did you become so certain that your attention would even be acceptable to me?
(Ah!
My expression at that moment!)
That desert—
which through eternity
lives in daily friendship
with harsh storms of dust,
however much
water may fall upon it,
what—
what does it really matter to that desert after all!
Two.
My mother is impossible! I’ve lived with this woman for so many years………one day or another the call from the other shore will suddenly come,
so for the convenience of whoever will look after this impossible woman in my absence,
I’m writing down a few things. (Something like a note to my successor)
1. Mother has exactly three sources of entertainment—going out to eat,
shopping, and watching TV. These must be attended to.
2. If the cooking doesn’t turn out tasty, Mother mentions it at least ten times,
so if after cooking something you sense
there’s a risk it might not be good, keep your ears properly prepared!
3. After using any electrical appliance,
especially the iron, don’t just switch it off,
be sure to unplug it too,
because Mother can’t remember any switches. To turn anything on, she persistently turns on every single switch!
4. Any bad news, unless absolutely necessary,
should be told to Mother as late as possible.
5. Don’t tell Mother anything worrying at night, because
she’ll think about it all night long.
6. If any guest is expected at home
whom Mother doesn’t like, tell her about their visit just the day before they arrive.
7. Always keep household items or food in abundance at home. It doesn’t matter if you use less—no problem there—but there must be plenty available. For instance, suppose Amma notices there’s little soybean oil left at home. Now, even if you secretly bring oil from outside and use three times the necessary amount in cooking, Amma will still say, “There’s no oil left!” But if there’s a huge gallon of oil available, even if you use less than required, Amma will think, “That’s just right!”
8. Take Amma out to eat once a month, and bring food from outside to feed her two or three times a week.
9. Buy Amma sarees on various occasions. Whether she wears them or keeps them folded away in the wardrobe…
10. Amma might use perfume, lotion, face wash, and shampoo only two or three days a month, but in just those three days, the bottles are empty! This is Amma’s style when it comes to using anything! Remember this!
11. Be a bit careful when going shopping… because Amma will quickly enter a shop, quickly grab a saree, and say, “I’ll take this one. Pay for it!” Now, even if the shopkeeper asks for 6,000 taka for this 3,000-taka saree, Amma will never leave the shop without buying that saree! Instead, she’ll say, “Oh, my dear children! Don’t say another word—my daughter has become the world’s miser! Do you understand?… Here! Give them, give them 6,000 taka.”
12. Sometimes Amma will shout and make a commotion for several days straight, for no reason. If possible, try to keep your head as cool as you can during those days.
13. Sometimes Amma talks to herself alone at night. Try to listen secretly—what subject is she talking about? Although eavesdropping on someone’s personal matters is wrong, you should do this for Amma’s own sake. Because long ago, one day I noticed Amma saying something very pitifully to Allah. I tried to listen. I heard her saying, “Allah, don’t take me now. Take me later—I’ll tell you when.” How terrifying! This means a profound fear of death was working within Amma. A few days later, I tried to explain to her through conversation that there’s nothing to fear so much about death—everyone will die, death is beautiful… because we belong to Him, and death is simply going back to Him.
14. Amma has an extraordinarily irritating habit. If there were a competition for annoying others, she would surely win a prize. So prepare yourself for this aspect.
15. Her words have no consistency whatsoever. For example, today she might say to fry the noodles more when cooking. Another day, when you fry them more, she’ll say, “Do you fry noodles this much? They should be fried less!”
16. Sometimes Amma walks around in dark rooms in the middle of the night or toward dawn! When you hear footsteps in the darkness at midnight, don’t mistake her for a thief and chase after her with sticks! But then again… don’t mistake a thief for Amma and keep sleeping!
17. Amma always prefers to use beautiful glasses, mugs, plates, bowls, and spoons. Never, by mistake, serve Amma food in anything old or unsightly.
18. Most of the time, Amma eats with a spoon. She has a specific type of tablespoon and fork—give her those… give her two of each.
19. Amma regularly drinks chocolate bars and Seven-Up… always keep these two in stock… and she eats chips occasionally…
20. Often Amma drinks Tang syrup. Make it with seven spoons of Tang in one glass of water… then be prepared for one comment—”It’s not sour at all!”
21. Sometimes Amma unknowingly says things that come across as showing off… (which she herself doesn’t realize isn’t quite right to say that way)… if she does or says such things, immediately seek Allah’s forgiveness on Amma’s behalf…
22. Sometimes fight with Amma for no reason at all!
Yes, do fight,
but be careful that it only goes as far as making her annoyed with you, and stops there—don’t let it reach the point of causing her pain. Since I’ve spent the most time with my own mother, I’ve also behaved worst with her. Not even five percent of the bad behavior I’ve shown her have I ever shown to all the people I’ve met in my entire life… (What can I do! Amma raised a bad daughter!) If Allah forgives me… I don’t want anyone else to treat Amma so badly.
(There are many more things… but I didn’t include them as they’re Amma’s very personal matters.)
Thought: Three hundred twenty-six
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One.
The building where I live is four stories tall. For security, we have a large gate in front. The gate is always kept locked. You have to unlock it to enter, unlock it to leave. No young men live in our building.
A few days ago I was walking on the roof. It was 9:30 at night on my watch. I stayed there for almost two hours. I had earphones in, listening to music and occasionally checking Facebook. A new building has been constructed in front of ours. Five stories. Bachelor boys live there. A boy from the fifth floor comes out onto their balcony. Seeing a girl walking alone on the adjacent roof so late at night, he starts whistling, and loudly singing obscene songs. His intention was to get my attention. For two hours I didn’t pay any mind to it. I was scrolling through my newsfeed, listening to music. For some days now, reading various incidents of harassment of women on Facebook had left me mentally quite distressed. Around 11:30, when I was about to come down from the roof, I saw that man again looking at me, laughing loudly, whistling. Suddenly I became extremely angry, thinking that we women never say anything, we silently endure everything without protest, which is why so many incidents keep happening. I felt I should say something to him.
Hey brother!
Yes! Are you talking to me?
Yes. Why are you whistling like that?
Meee…? Whistling…?
I’ve been watching for a long time—you’re whistling, singing songs. Why? Do you feel like doing these things whenever you see a woman?
What are you doing on the roof this late at night?
Do I need to justify to you
what I’m doing on my own roof this late at night?
Whether I whistle on my balcony or sing songs—
that’s my business.
Insolent! Didn’t your family teach you manners?
………Right after this exchange, I was coming back down, and then he started laughing even louder, whistling again.
I ran back up to the roof and said,
Whistle one more time and you’ll get a beating, you wretch! It’s because of people like you that so much is going wrong in this world!
He shouted back,
Sister, you should watch your language.
After that I came down without saying another word. And he kept hurling big words at me loudly. I told my friend about this incident. She turned around and said to me,
“You made a mistake. The boy was trying to get your attention,
and you helped him do it properly. Your foolishness made him successful. Do you understand?”
“My point isn’t about making him successful or unsuccessful. When so many girls in our country are being harassed,
shouldn’t we women say something against it?” “If you bark at the dogs, you will only ruin your peace.” “I think, given the current situation in the country, if all women become defensive,
then at some point they won’t have the courage to disrespect women anymore.” “Everything in this country is personal. If you get harassed,
that’s personal, and if you can save yourself from harassment, that’s also personal. Nobody cares much about this—it’s better to avoid trouble as much as possible and save yourself. Saving yourself isn’t life, fine, but if you deliberately increase trouble, you’ll have to solve that trouble yourself later. If you hadn’t given that wretch any attention on your own, he wouldn’t have gotten the chance to harass you.” “Wasn’t what he was doing harassment?”
“Yes, that’s true. But it was not personal until and unless you responded! You created the trouble yourself!” “Indeed, everything in this country is personal. My hurt is my hurt, your hurt is your hurt, their hurt is their hurt. Everything is personal!
You can’t protest,
this country is for living by acceptance. Fine,
I understand.”
Two.
To enjoy life, one must do something for others.
A very important truth.
And if that other happens to be a Bengali,
then one needs mental preparation to receive one or several severe wounds.
So what’s the solution?
One must live joyfully!
I’ll work for others, yes, but I won’t trust anyone. The task is difficult,
but workable.
The advice to be tolerant toward dissenting views and to coexist harmoniously with those who think differently sounds quite appealing. However, we as a people suffer from the psychological malady of “we are all kings.” The curious thing is that we don’t even recognize this as an illness. Therefore, no matter how tolerant you may be toward different opinions, you will inevitably be wounded! If someone remained indifferent to your views or refuted them impersonally with counter-arguments, there would be no problem. But when we dislike an opinion, we resort to personal attacks. That’s the last defense for the helpless! Even if a Bengali child returns from Harvard, they still refuse to free themselves from such weakness.
We are ungrateful, treacherous, hypocritical, foolish. So we may carry excellent certificates and jobs in our pockets, but we will never become human beings. It’s the fate of this nation.
Thought: Three hundred twenty-seven
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The date was October 30, 1950. The headmaster of Maheshkhali Model High School entered his office to find the school’s assistant teacher, Mr. Joynal Haque, sitting in his chair. (This name is a pseudonym.)
Why? For an apparently reasonable cause. The headmaster was a member of the local administrative unit, the Union Parishad, while the assistant teacher was the council’s chairman. As a people’s representative, the assistant teacher’s position was above the headmaster’s. Therefore, everyone in the council was of the opinion that he should be the school’s headmaster. His rank was the highest in the entire union! Why should a UP chairman work under a UP member? Never mind that the headmaster had completed his honors and master’s in Bengali literature from Calcutta University with record marks, while the assistant teacher was merely a BA pass—still, his social status was higher, wasn’t it? The headmaster came from a hereditary landlord family, so he had perhaps donated the land for Maheshkhali Model High School, established the school, and provided the lion’s share of the school’s assets (the role of Maheshkhali Model High School in illuminating Maheshkhali is undeniable; this school has alumni in almost every district of Bangladesh and in various countries around the world); all of this was fine, but it could never mean that he, as a UP member, could leap over a UP chairman to become the founding headmaster! Such a thing could never be allowed! The headmaster might be the first university graduate in Maheshkhali’s history, and his contributions to the area’s welfare might be the greatest; fine, all of that could be accepted, but how could a UP chairman possibly work under him? Impossible! Unrealistic! This was nothing short of anarchy! This was what the area’s influential people believed.
That day, this deeply wounded headmaster simply said to the assistant teacher seated in his chair: “Since you have chosen to sit in the headmaster’s chair, I shall never sit in it again. Farewell.” With those words, he left the school, didn’t even return home, and departed directly from Moheshkhali for Rangpur. There he joined the Bengali department of Carmichael College. About a year later, he moved to Sir Ashutosh College and went to Kanungopaŕa. There he worked until his death. He lived in the teachers’ quarters. He never returned to Moheshkhali in his lifetime. As a teacher, he was revered like a deity by his students. His personality and nobility were legendary. People say no one ever saw a speck of dust on his dhoti and punjabi, never saw a wrinkle. Throughout his life, he gave generously and without reservation. His contributions to educational reform in Kanungopaŕa are still remembered with reverence by all.
He was simultaneously a playwright, director, actor, and elocutionist. He directed many plays in Calcutta and numerous other places, and acted in them himself. He was perpetually indifferent about publishing his own writings, so none of his manuscripts ever saw the light of day. He always felt most comfortable playing negative roles. On December 4, 1964, the very day he died, he performed the role of Mir Jafar in his own adaptation and direction of ‘Nawab Siraj-ud-Daula.’ (That story appears in another of my writings.) He was fifty-three years old that day. After his death, all his books and writings were brought back to Moheshkhali. In 1971, during the Liberation War, Pakistani invaders and local collaborators set fire to his ancestral home, and along with thousands of books from his personal library, all his manuscripts turned to ash.
The name of this erudite man with fierce self-respect was Avinash Chandra Pal. On the honor board of Moheshkhali Adarsha High School, established in 1946, the first name in the list of teachers who served as headmaster reads: Babu Avinash Chandra Pal, M.A., B.T. (Term of service: 01-01-46 to 30-10-50). My mother was his youngest daughter. When grandfather died, mother was three and a half years old.
There was another teacher at Moheshkhali Adarsha High School also called Avinash Sir, who after ’75 took a vow that he would not wear sandals until pro-liberation forces came to power. He truly went to school barefoot. Finally, in ’96, he put on sandals……
Postscript. October 30, 1950, to May 23, 2018. A gap of nearly sixty-eight years. In this long journey through time, we have advanced considerably in various fields. But have you noticed something curious? In our mindset, we remain exactly where we were, and quite possibly, sixty-eight years from now, we’ll still be in precisely the same place. Such mentality is our tradition. We have always been devoted to preserving our traditions.
Reflection: Three hundred twenty-eight
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One.
The picture is fascinating……those black shapes that appear to be camels are actually shadows. When you zoom in on the picture, the matter becomes clear.
Much of human life is like this picture…..the falsehoods loom so large that………the truths get obscured…….you understand life when you zoom in on it. But how many can manage that zoom?
There comes a time when a person loves everyone around them except themselves, wants to love them, and wants to receive love from others as well.
In giving and receiving love,
one runs frantically in all directions of life…….then no one loves them, doesn’t even want to receive their love……….
Running endlessly, receiving people’s disdain and neglect again and again, at some point they grow weary, and simultaneously realize,
people in this world are more selfish than one could ever imagine………here,
even breath is trapped in self-interest…….loving anything other than oneself—utterly worthless. In this world, no one is dearer than oneself.
Then gradually they shed their fascination with everything else, and begin to love themselves……..give themselves time,
become conscious of all their own affairs and start taking care of themselves…….
Through continuous proper nurturing, they eventually bring themselves to such a position that everyone’s attention is drawn to them……….people then begin to love them, or rather,
actually love their position and their work…….in this love……there are lies, there are truths…….people want to love them, and also want to receive love from them……..
Ha ha ha……but by then they no longer trust any love……with the world outside of love, they develop a different kind of love……..
Now they no longer want to love,
nor want to be loved…….they have no need for any love whatsoever……..
The love they once yearned for,
thirsted for,
today they push away with their feet with a knowing smile……
On a radiant beautiful sparkling afternoon………sipping tea through its steam,
looking into an invisible mirror they exclaim—I love!….Life
is beautiful.
Two.
I absolutely do not like changing a book’s cover design and republishing it. Not only do I not like it,
it also causes me some pain.
Just as discarding the old cover and printing the book with a new cover doesn’t make the book new,
similarly……the previous book also seems to no longer exist.
As soon as a book is published, its cover, whatever it may be, relevant or irrelevant, fitting or unfitting, whatever it is, develops a deep relationship with the story inside.
Later when, after some time or a long time,
that book is printed with a new cover,
it’s as if there’s a disruption in that relationship……even though everything inside remains the same, there’s an inexplicable lament!
From an idealistic perspective,
I don’t know what changing covers amounts to, but to me it seems like a kind of crime.
Long ago, whatever cover an author lovingly chose to print their book with, no matter how many copies of that book are printed throughout their lifetime,
it should be printed with that same cover……
Of course, my
saying ‘should’ wouldn’t be right………because, if an author wants it, they can certainly do so………they might even like the idea of changing it.
But if I were a writer, or rather an author,
I would never, ever allow
my book’s cover to be changed!
(Duality says, “Hey helloooo! Brother, you don’t need to say all these things! You won’t become a writer, and there’s no possibility of that,
no possibility at all…….so,
just shut up and go……hee hee hee…..”
I say,
“Ohhhhkkkk, shhhhuuuuttt uppp! Get lost!
Away with
you! Go live somewhere far away………heh heh,
I didn’t tell you to die…….because,
if you die, it won’t work—some torments need to be kept alive—for the very need of staying alive myself! Just staying a little away is enough!
It’s impossible for humans to live without torment!………heh heh heh…..)
Three.
When those close to our hearts—
relatives, non-relatives, friends,
acquaintances—whoever they might be, become ‘special’
or start becoming so, while it can sometimes bring joy, it mostly brings sorrow.
As they become someone special, they somehow gradually start moving themselves far away…….the responsibility for this isn’t entirely with their new position or the surrounding environment and circumstances,
nor is it entirely their own either.
They don’t just move themselves away; alongside this, they don’t let others come close either.
Then even if those close to them want to, they can no longer love them as before, because,
for some strange reason…….many of them simply assume that
people love them only because they are someone special……..or that behind all this care and standing by them in times of trouble, people surely have some ulterior motive!
Yet they know,
this love,
these affectionate feelings were there even before they became someone special,
and will remain even after their current specialness fades away.
Still, they somehow remain trapped in that same mindset.
Nevertheless, may they be well. Rather than their minds becoming small in contrast to their big or good positions, may their minds move parallel or become even greater.
Because no joy in life can be properly enjoyed or understood with a narrow mind.
May everyone be well……..
Reflection: Three hundred thirty-nine
…………………………………
One.
Sometimes I feel like………walking around with a whole bunch of mirrors.
There are some people………absolutely bizarre from head to toe!
Shocking! Outrageous! Absurd!
Extreme! Curious! Weird!
They come out with all sorts of getups,
I’d catch them and hold up a mirror to them…….
I’m certain,
the mirror these people look into before leaving home isn’t a real mirror,
it’s some imaginary mirror from a fantasy world……a mirror that when you look into it,
shows you everything in the world except yourself!
Duality, you shut up! Watch out,
don’t open your mouth at all…….(This one will start babbling right now, so I’m stopping it. Heh heh………)
Everyone has different preferences; any person can go wherever they want, whenever they want, dressed however they wish—I’m saying all this knowing this!
Two.
What is happening to me, I don’t know. Just three years ago, life was never like this. I only know that besides this one person in the world, I cannot accept anyone else as part of my soul.
No, I truly have nothing to give her, nothing at all—except eyes brimming with tears. I don’t want to burden her with such melancholic words either.
She is my love, my affection, my fondness,
my world;
my everything. Perhaps no one would believe it,
but every moment I breathe with life in the rhythm of that one person’s footsteps. My entire world trembles when she is in danger, everything blurs when she suffers for any reason, when she grows anxious about something, I spend the whole day restlessly searching for ways to heal it, hoping that if I could take even a particle of her restlessness into myself, I might give her a little peace! But where is such power in me!
So infinitely small am I that I keep getting lost again and again in her vastness! I only want to see her happy, fearless and truly joyful. A joy that would transcend all old pains and sorrows! That one person who is only you!
Perhaps you will never know these
words, yet I wish for you to be well,
I will live merely as your shadow. I will never ask for anything else. Just let me live for you in dreams or nightmares, if not in the inner chambers of the heart,
then at least in the attic.
Delusion…..
Our blood groups are the same; when your body needs blood, I can give you blood,
my blood will flow in your body,
my blood will merge with your blood,
there will be no sin in that. But when my heart wants to take the warmth of the beloved,
I cannot take it, because
that would be sinful.
What strange rules this society has!
Religion, society, customs,
morals…….so many
things that chain love! Yet love never abides by any of these!
Three.
When a foolish heart
grows restless in silent screams
of pain and weariness, imagining
its (B) beloved
person (A)—
at exactly that moment—
that very person
(A) is perhaps with their
(A) desired someone
(C), calm in joyous cries of the affection given by them (C)……ah!
When someone
(B) drowns their chest in tears of anguish for their beloved (A), perhaps at that very moment ‘someone
(C)’ is drowning in ecstasy and passionate release from their (A) caresses…….
Foolish hearts are like this…….because life is like this……..
Or, when the heart is foolish,
life becomes like this………
………………………………..
From your other side
there is nothing
called ‘me’!
Truly so—
One who does not even exist,
what more
can you do with them, tell me!
That’s why
you did nothing,
nothing at all,
absolutely nothing!
Whatever happened,
was all done by
my false imaginings alone……..
I remember,
one day you said with utter disdain—
“………………………”
I had said, the fire of pride does burn out—you didn’t believe me that day.
Truly—shamelessness refuses to leave me be!
Four.
Feelings?
Hmm, they’re all there! Only when pain and anger strike,
to hurt myself further—blindly, frantically I keep deleting messages and photos………
I keep everything—in love,
in tenderness, with care.
Only you snatch them away……..snatch them and hurl them aside.
They suffer so,
suffer terribly; even if they’re mere objects, still…….
For taking them away like this, I will never forgive you!
(Taking them away means, you cause me so much pain, then I start deleting everything……..so much has been lost this way…….how much it hurts for their sake…….sigh………
You’re a veritable king of demons! I’ll catch you and devour you whole,
or else I’ll beat you to a pulp!)