In this soil lie mingled the remains of my ancestors.
Here I was born, in this air I first drew breath. That’s why this path feels like the way home to me. Returning to this earth brings such joy. Right in front of my house there was a river, beside it fields of crops. The scent of that river still brushes against me now and then. When I remember all of that, I think, Oh! What have I left behind! What have I left behind! That’s why coming back brings such happiness.
I was barely hanging on in the bus, swaying and lurching my way home, about to fall at any moment. Suddenly the bus hit the brakes, then didn’t quite, and I was getting off—I mean trying to get off—the bus hadn’t fully stopped yet, wasn’t exactly moving either, somewhere in between. I fell, and just then the bus came to a complete stop. It stopped, so I was saved. Otherwise, that very day I would have fallen under the wheels. I wouldn’t even have lived to tell this story today. At that moment some people called out, Sir, you should have died. Why did you board the bus like that? Hearing those words, I didn’t feel angry at all. I was just thinking, people weren’t supposed to live with such indifference.
People are multiplying, and along with them, indifference toward people is multiplying too. But this wasn’t how things were meant to be. How casually people have grown accustomed to wishing for death. When will this end?
You’ve come to hear about my life. I’ll tell you.
Though my life isn’t anything so extraordinary that you simply must hear about it. Whatever work didn’t appeal to me, I didn’t do. One such thing was studying. My attention was elsewhere, not on the syllabus books. I did read, but not the class texts. What this meant was that I wasn’t building anything resembling a career. A meaningless life, purposeless days. I was even afraid to fall in love. I would think, who am I that anyone would love me? Fearing rejection, I didn’t love. But after a certain age, one woman, moved by compassion, mistakenly fell in love with me. Later she understood this too, but by then it was quite late. She continues to pay the price for that youthful mistake, still with a smile.
There was a time when I was naturally melancholic. Certain philosophical questions pursued me relentlessly. I would think far too much about what, why, and how things came to be. All of this somehow left everything inside and outside me feeling hollow. During that period, being alive felt utterly joyless. An identity crisis had enveloped me completely. I felt as though I had no sense of self whatsoever. I would run to my mother, seeking refuge. This condition visited my life several times. In those moments of extreme anguish, I had once decided that I would no longer remain in this world. This decision brought me considerable peace. The thought of death offers profound satisfaction and tranquility to a person when they can no longer bear life’s torments. Like a cricket player who leaves the field injured without finishing the game—that was my state. I was contemplating leaving life before the game of life was complete.
Then came my encounter with my spiritual guide, Anukul Chandra. He gave me, as it were, a rebirth. He taught me that one must carry on with life’s pain, suffering, and struggles. He said, “Go, nothing has happened to you. Play again. Go, and see the light again.” He convinced me that even if I was incapable, even if I couldn’t become one of the brilliant people in this world, I could at least try being a dim person and see what happens by staying alive a little longer! That’s how I survived. I wrote—I mean, I began writing. That was at twenty-two.
My first story wasn’t published by Desh magazine. I thought, let me send another and see. If they don’t publish this one either, I’ll accept that I have no right to write. There would be no point in my continuing to write. They graciously published the next one. That editor’s encouragement was my beginning. I’ve been going ever since. In the early days, not many people read my writing. What I wrote was a construction of my mind. I would break down people and the world around me into fragments, then piece them together in my own way. Nobody would accept this, so my first novel ‘Ghunpoka’ wasn’t selling either—all copies lay unsold. Nobody was reading it, or if they read it, they didn’t understand. Nobody praised it, nobody criticized it either. When I wrote ‘Durbin,’ I had assumed that nobody would read this either. This was going to be another Ghunpoka. After writing, I never understand what I’ve written, how it turned out. I’ve written this way, I continue writing this way. What I’ve received is more indulgence than achievement. Most of the time I don’t even remember that I write, that I am a writer. When I see all of you waiting so kindly for me, I’m reminded that I must write, that I do indeed write!
My work for Thakur often takes me rushing from village to village. The people I rush to meet know nothing of reading or writing. They don’t recognize me as a writer. Perhaps they don’t even know what a writer is. Once I went to a remote village in India. I sat down at a small eatery to have breakfast. It was the kind of place where coolies, laborers, and drivers eat. I went and sat beside them. I was the only one dressed somewhat respectably, which made me stand out a bit. The woman who ran the shop was an uneducated village woman in her forties or fifties. She kept hurling vile abuses at everyone in Hindi. I sat there for a long time, and she wouldn’t even turn to look at me. Many people came after me, ate, and left, but I couldn’t get anything to eat. Meanwhile, I was getting terribly hungry. I was wondering what to do when I remembered something my Thakur Anukul used to say. Thakur would say, all women are mothers. He would tell us to address women as ‘Ma.’ But looking at this woman’s language, her clothes, her behavior—nothing about her made me want to call her ‘Ma.’ I don’t know why, but I thought, let me try calling her that! I looked at her and said, “Ma, I’m very hungry, will you give me something to eat?” What happened next was truly magical! That woman herself came with a plate of hot rotis and curry, set it before me, and began saying, “Eat, son, eat. Don’t pay the full amount, just give me half.” I simply couldn’t bring myself to pay her the full price. Where was her rudeness now? Where was her neglect? The truth is, we never really know what hunger someone might be suffering from. Who could have known that even this woman harbored within her the eternal hunger to give a mother’s affection?
Shirshendu spoke these words on that rain-soaked evening of the 30th, and I’ve written down the above portion somewhat in my own way. Perhaps I could only write these particular words because they resonated so much with my own life; I don’t remember the rest as clearly. If people born on November 2nd were to suddenly declare that just by being alive they had received far more than they ever should have—those who had assumed that their days would simply pass by somehow, only to discover later that their days weren’t merely passing but were filled with meaning—I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised.
That day at Batighore, Shantanu-da (he’s a singer) was saying, “This man does so much himself, yet in the end he gives all the credit to Anukul Babu!” I had replied, “If one can become so accomplished by giving all credit to someone else, then so be it, dada!” My mother too has taken initiation from Thakur Anukul Chandra. She too believes that in life’s most critical moments, it was Anukul who gave her refuge. Just being alive is such a tremendous thing! If during this time of being alive, one can merge with so many other people’s time of being alive, then these questions of belief and disbelief don’t matter, dada.
Preface: Shirshendu is coming to Batighore this Saturday evening. Before him came Samaresh. Before that, many others.
I was there that time. I’ve been there before. I’ll be there this time too.
I learned from my father that one must learn from teachers and great souls by sitting at their feet. One must cast off all ego, bow one’s head, and learn. They won’t teach you; they don’t have that kind of time. Even if they did, why should they bother? With insignificant me? Who am I? Why should anyone spare time for me? Yet one must learn all the same.
Shirshendu and I share the same birthday, November 2nd. Shakespeare had Juliet ask, “What’s in a name?” It’s not really a question, but a soliloquy. Many might ask in the same vein, “What’s in a birthday?” I would say, nothing at all. Still, this shared birthday fills me with a certain joy. A precious kind of joy, more valuable than money. I love Shah Rukh’s acting, and he too was ‘graciously’ born on that very day. If I speak of it this way to please myself, what harm does it do to anyone! There’s no reason this fondness should matter at all; yet it does. How much can one align oneself with beloved souls! Shirshendu was born in Bangladesh, as was I. He rose from very dire circumstances in life; so did I. Could anyone write a novel like “The Swimmer and the Water-Nymph” without passing through such wretched conditions? Such a small novel, yet how weighty it is! Many things small in size are not small in measure. Hemingway’s six words—”For sale: baby shoes, never worn”—have been accorded the dignity of a novel! Can you imagine! Even if I were granted six centuries of life, could I ever write like that? Even carrying the anguish of a hundred lifetimes, one cannot pen words so steeped in sorrow. Good writers match the magnitude of our sufferings. These six words are worth more than ten shelves of books by many non-writers. What does size matter? If one were to list the very short yet philosophically profound novels of Bengali literature, Shirshendu’s “The Swimmer and the Water-Nymph” would rightfully be among the first. This book costs eighteen rupees in Indian currency. After reading it, I felt that this book alone could teach one to contemplate life. Before saying ‘no’ or ‘goodbye’ to life, one could at least live by accepting this truth: “Just staying alive accomplishes a great deal.” These are Shirshendu’s words. To catch even a moment’s glimpse of the man who could utter such words, one would gladly travel from Dhaka to Chittagong.
So I’m going; on the night train.
Dipankar-da, the lamp you have lit, continue to light—please never let that flame go out. Stay with us always, just like this, merged deep within us. Dada, thank you.