PTSD Diary: January 26

Dateline: January 26, 2015

Stepping out of my room onto the long, stretched veranda and gripping the grille to gaze at the areca nut garden feels wonderful, soothing—because the red ants don't crawl on the grille. The trees are arranged in a delightfully haphazard pattern. After staring for a while, I start thinking it would be quite lovely to zigzag through that garden in a run. Why? In childhood, I'd gone to the cinema hall to watch 'Qayamat Se Qayamat.' There's a scene just like this. Of course, the hero wasn't running alone. One can run even through deserts when chasing beauties. Speaking of which, Mousumi could truly run back then, and when she ran, the dust storm that kicked up was nothing compared to the tempest it raised in young hearts. The earth beneath those areca palms calls out so strongly—I long to touch it, to smell it. This realm of slender sentinels looks most beautiful at dawn and dusk. Like miniatures of night jasmine! Standing on the back veranda of the room, everything comes into view. That endless corridor stretching ahead, beside it descends a grass-covered, uneven field with mango, jackfruit, jujube, and jamun groves arranged in crosswise rows. Looking that way, I think on this winter night, a barbecue party there would be quite festive. All the arrangements for burning wood (in the literal sense) are right there nearby. Ah! What natural beauty outside the room! Alas! What heartbreaking mosquitoes inside! Waking at dawn and pondering all this, I emerged from the inner room of the room.

The building whose outer plaster has peeled off—gazing at it through the dense fog of a Magh morning, after a while it begins to seem ghostly. If the building stands across a vast field and the fog's unclear, muddy white sheet covers the field's body horizontally, then that sheet will seem woven from dust, and I'll want to go stay in that ghostly house at precisely that moment. Humans want to live in spine-chilling houses. Remember Uttam-Suchitra's 'Ekti Raat'? The schoolhouse can be seen resembling that very house, and with such vision, the platoon of plaster of Paris statues marched ahead vigorously. Morning light has fallen on the bricks of one room. The burnt brick pattern makes the prematurely aged room's form look like an Ajanta cave fresco. Stepping slightly out of line, I went and touched it. The front steps of the house are so beautifully broken that seeing them makes me want to sit down with a thud, assume a suddenly wistful pose, quickly snap a photo, and immediately make it my Facebook cover photo. The side of the steps is damp with moss. The leafless tree in front gazes enviously at that moss-green and makes futile attempts to understand the Creator's mysteries. The balcony of the house that had hidden itself behind reddish vines these past few days—in this morning's dawning light, I clearly saw that color isn't color, it's rust. What blissful dreams I've spent all this time thinking rust was color! Before the sun's reflection could properly fall on the lake, we left it behind and headed straight to the tennis court. PT ended with laughter. After PT, one must laugh and tell the heart, "Dear heart, stay well."

Today there are two academic classes. The remaining three sessions are about telling others about our jobs. We have people from 18 cadres plus Bangladesh Judicial Service, totaling 19 services here. One person from each service will come forward and speak about their service in PowerPoint to everyone. The presentation session starts at 8:30. Common session for all sections in the auditorium. Walking down the corridor to the auditorium through the guard of honor of orchids on both sides, scanning the apple-cool garden—looking for any fruits hanging anywhere. Suddenly I see the row of bushes across the lake has shifted. Placing my right palm like a cap's brim over my forehead and opening my eyes wider, I realize that beyond the rose garden, the lake has somehow merged with the row of bushes through the line of palm trees, or the row itself has somehow moved toward the lake. How does this happen?

The punishment for arriving exactly on time to class is not finding seats in the back rows. So to sit later, one must come a bit earlier. I came and sat in the back. The presentation began. Standing in front of everyone and speaking is an interesting experience. The throat dries up, hands and feet start trembling, eyes start dancing more, glasses go up and down, arms and neck begin turning into Michael Jackson; even the 'visible' hair starts puffing up. Today there were 19 presentations in total. Many amusing questions arose, and amusing answers came too. I'm sharing my observations from today's presentation session:
# Some people engineer the Q&A session before the presentation itself. Meaning, it's predetermined who will ask questions and what questions they'll ask. Often these settled questions are a bit lengthy so that fewer people get the chance to question the presenter.
# During presentations, nervousness is like ancestral property—life may go, but everyone subconsciously clings to it. We received some amusing "Banglish" gifts today...meaning, I mean...the thing is, this problem can't be...
# There are some people who start suffering discomfort if they can't ask something. As long as they remain in class, they keep feeling they should ask something. Many of their questions are of the "Child, who is your father to you?" type. Let me share one question. After a BCS Roads and Highways Department officer's presentation, the question came: "Why are there so many cars on the roads?"
# One or two among us were asking questions to almost every presenter. The questions were quite sharp too! Proper professional questioners! There's something fishy... (How will they gulp down all those coffee treats at the coffee corner this evening?)
# In today's session I saw some applauders who made it seem like they had a 'Nescafé win-win contract' with the presenter, needless to say.
# I used to wear ties to match my shirts. Now I wear shirts to match my tie. At PATC, our ties are specified. What can we do—we have to wear matching shirts. Looking at today's presenters, it seemed the poor fellows had quite a struggle arranging shirts to match their ties.

Our 58th Foundation Training Course's slogan is, "Whatever you do, do wholeheartedly." I follow this advice literally when sleeping in class. I'm a person with the incredible talent of falling asleep anytime, anywhere. Today there were two classes, and in both I slept shamelessly (without snoring). The world's most blissful bedroom is the classroom. Daytime slumber in class is one of the world's most peaceful activities. There's no shame in it, no fear, no hesitation. And if the sir doesn't say anything, then sleeping in class is practically penance! During boring classes, even the clock runs slow. Several sleeps easily pass, yet the class refuses to end. Sleep breaks; instead of attending class, I look around to see what everyone else is doing. When adults go to class, they start playing like children, lost in their own world. Today I saw someone keeping a pen wedged between their lips, shaking it while making their eyes dance. Another was drawing Tom and Jerry's Jerry in their notebook. Jerry looked like a ninja. Another was making faces at someone sitting diagonally across. Someone rolled up a paper ball and tossed it into the open mouth of someone sleeping. Many such things.

In today's class I learned that government officers get a loan of 3,000 taka to buy a bicycle, which must be repaid in a 'maximum' of 36 installments. To buy land and build a house, government officers get a loan of 1 lakh 20 thousand taka! I was wondering, does it really cost that much to build a house? What would one do with so much money! At the end of class, a vote of thanks must be given. Today someone gave a vote of thanks who had severe symptoms of 'I am eager to speak the heart's words.' Such a lengthy vote of thanks! I was thinking, oh no! Has another lecture started?

Our classes are held on the 3rd floor of the Syndicate building. O-shaped building. In the middle is a huge Christmas tree. Around it, in a water body shaped like Chile's map, African catfish play. Leaning against the 3rd floor corridor railing, I can see the fish darting about, creating shade. I stretch out my hand to touch the 11 AM winter sun and watch them play. After class, returning to my room, I saw that toward the coffee corner, dwarf bamboo, crotons, and cacti were being gently moistened by the soft afternoon sun sliding and slipping over their tender leaves. On the other side, under the intimate shade of guava and perfumed cherry trees, an invitation to spend a lazy afternoon. Leaving all this behind, I rushed to my room, quickly changed clothes, and ran to the field. After the basketball session, Bhupen Hazarika sir gave some briefing. Both his words and his way of speaking are amusing. While speaking, he adds 'haaaa...' to almost every sentence. Today he was saying, "Your not coming means you are not here. We will still look for you. If you still cannot be found after this... then... (in a very serious tone) ...then you simply couldn't be found! Meaning, you are absent in sports!" "Our session starts with the whistle sound. That means you all will gather in one place on the field upon hearing the whistle. But one thing... you can't follow just any whistle, you have to follow the whistle from here." How sir takes simple things and keeps breaking them down in strange mannerisms, speaking and speaking—you can't understand it without seeing it.

Returning to my room after having afternoon snacks and coffee from the field. Meanwhile, in the last light of afternoon, twilight's invitation. Walking over a slightly raised mound, pushing aside dry leaves that crackle underfoot. Taking clods of earth in hand and throwing them into the lake water to see how far they go. Thus evening descended. I returned to my room. Cutting through the silence of dusk, crickets outside call continuously. Inside, the mosquitoes haven't stopped either. Only the longing to return home remains helplessly frozen.

The thing I wanted to say after writing all this: this afternoon, in the trousers I wore to play in the field, there was 1 cardamom and 3 cloves in the pocket. While listening to sir's briefing, I chewed and ate 5 tender, light green durba grass blades very thoroughly along with the cardamom and cloves. 'My feeling after eating?' ...Feeling smart cow cow... (I'm telling the absolute truth: if I ate that stuff with sugar, it wouldn't taste too bad, I'm sure!)