Hello, Mr. Pretentious
Dibba, Vyabda, Bogda, Gyabla! Listen, why do you always carry on like this? Do your old torments still chase you around? What torments? You call that torment?
Nobody nobody
Nobody……bwahahaha! How many years has it been since the BCS results? Why do you keep bringing up the past after all this time? And that too after throwing yourself a birthday party?
When you’re happy, ghosts attack—
No! How much more happiness do you want?
With all this woe-is-me attitude
you write such philosophical stuff about life and death! What more is there to achieve? Or is all this just your act?
Tempted by tea, I could very well go through your wall and collect all your writings. Now here’s the thing: One. Will you make tea and serve it? Or buy it? How many spoonfuls of sugar will you put in the tea? Milk tea? Or black tea? Does tea mean just tea? Or will there be snacks too? Will you come here to serve me tea? Or do I have to go there to drink tea? Two. If I have to get admitted to a clinic from all the trouble I go through for you, will you pay the bill? The medicine costs too? Three. Do you need all the writings? Or will certain types of writing do? Four. Sorry buddy, I probably can’t do this job. I’m not a carefree guy like you, but I don’t even understand what keeps me so busy. I don’t get time to chat with my mother, I don’t get time to read books, forget exercising—I don’t even get time for a simple walk, I can’t practice guitar, I can’t watch movies, I paid in advance to learn French but haven’t attended a single class yet, my cousin had a baby and I don’t even have time to visit……now you tell me……though, I have an idea. You divide the work of collecting all your writings by year or month among your disciples, and give me responsibility for the year when you basically wrote nothing—I’ll do that job, and in exchange for one cup or one spoonful of tea, whatever suits you, give me that much for free!
Are you thirty or fifty, tell me exactly? Your writing is quite mature! Do you write it yourself, or do you steal someone else’s work? You can tell me, I won’t tell anyone. Absolute promise! I’m only 2 years 6 days younger than you, though according to my certificate I’m 4 years 57 days younger, yet the difference in our thinking is as vast as the ocean! All my sisters have reduced their ages by one year each, so if I tell my real age, they become liars in their in-laws’ homes, but then again, I can’t hide my age either. You understand, what a terrible predicament! When someone asks my age, I have to cleverly say, I’ve forgotten! You’ve never been in such a situation, so you wouldn’t be able to write about it… though this applies to others, it’s not right to say this about you, because writers can create situations through imagination. And listen, even if you had been Hitler’s child like me, your father would still have stayed with you, because you’re a son! If I were like you, would I have any sorrows? If there wasn’t room at home, I’d spend my life at the railway station! Even now, if someone could guarantee that nothing would happen to me, meaning no one would look at me with evil eyes, I’d go straight to the station. What diverse people come and go at the station! So many people’s sorrows, so many joys! How differently everyone sees life! Everyone’s way of seeing is right though! Each person lives in their own way. At the station, no one comes and tells another, mine is right, yours is wrong, so adopt mine! In matters of opinion or understanding, no one hurts anyone else here. The station has its own flow, and that flow is the life-philosophy of the station’s people. So many people laugh without eating, or eating only half their fill; and so many others cry even when they get to eat their fill! Many just keep waiting—waiting for one lifetime, and no one knows what that waiting is for. Someone is very busy, but doesn’t understand what that busyness is about. Someone thinks they have no work at all, yet they should have been extremely busy, they keep thinking, this tiny life will amount to nothing if lived carelessly. Someone loses everything and becomes a beggar, someone else has everything and is still a beggar! If only someone could understand what brings joy to whom! Someone misses their train and sits helplessly on the platform, someone sits waiting for a train to arrive; I even see some who sit there and don’t know why they’re sitting. Here are many whose lives seem never to pass, while others’ fly away! Station life sometimes sleeps, sometimes stays awake for eternity! I see someone searching! What are they searching for! Just searching and searching, they spend from morning to night and fall asleep right there at the station. That strange life draws me deeply. I want to leave this society and go to the station. But my fate, oh my fate!
Tell me, why are your younger siblings so quarrelsome? Can’t you teach them some manners? What have they started on your wall? You stay up so late at night—how do you manage to get up and go to the office in the morning? I’m such a fan of yours, I have two requests, will you listen? One day you’ll speak to me in Chittagonian dialect. I can’t remember the other one. (I forgot, I mean, that one’s pending. I’ll make that request to you later.) You’re the one who says women love to forget things—now do you understand the trouble! You get fed up with the trouble of your own curiosity! Anyway, one thing. Let’s leave aside those Indian boys from serials—they’re stupid types anyway. One of our friends has three boys dancing to her tune, and see how foolish those boys are—knowing everything, understanding everything, they still follow her around, wait for her like crazy, buy her all sorts of things! Now tell me, do only girls love to forget, or boys too? Right in front of me, she gave her phone number to two different guys on two consecutive days, and both asked where her previous boyfriend was. What she said in response—anyone could have caught her cunning from that, yet how beautifully those two boys continued the conversation, and it’s still going on! She doesn’t have any physical relationship with either of them—they’re maintaining relationships with her purely for mental entertainment. She takes help from both boys, takes gifts, and meanwhile continues at the same pace with her boyfriend too. Somehow, even understanding everything, they just won’t let her go. What can I say about those boys—I myself enjoy that girl’s company so much, she’s so funny and brings such joy that if I were a boy, I’d definitely fall in love with her! That girl isn’t fair-skinned, you could say she’s dark, five foot two inches tall, plump, walks in a peculiar way, but speaks amazingly beautifully, so polite and un-mic-like! (I mean, she can shout and talk loudly enough to crack her voice without a mic!) And she can mingle beautifully and cook very well. She cooks delicious food for the boys and they’re completely smitten by that alone!
Sir, are you overwhelmed by my friend’s story? I knew you would be… emotionally overwhelmed! That’s what boys do. Let me give you a quiz, shall we? Everything about you is public, messages can be sent too, so why was I interested in being your friend, tell me? Facebook friendship isn’t worth two cents. So why? Would you believe me if I told you the truth? Let me tell you then. So that if you died, I would know. Oh my! Don’t I have to feel sad if you die? There’s a certain courtesy, isn’t there?… Oh dear! Your eyes are already welling up! Oh my poor baby! So sorry! I really didn’t know you were this sensitive! Actually, I’m not like this. I’ve become hardened from being hurt. I wanted to close my Facebook for several reasons, one of which is that all the heartbroken people in the world come to my inbox and wail endlessly! I’m thoroughly fed up, exhausted, and impatient from consoling them all! You know what, actually? Both boys and girls are terrible—they can’t live without love, and they can’t live with heartbreak either. Yes, girls are a little less terrible. Boys break hearts because of physical urges, and girls break hearts because of emotional urges, and both break each other’s hearts because of family pressures. I’m done talking. And listen, tomorrow I’ll ask you a question in beautiful Bengali—answer it, okay?
Dear Granthik,
I’m really sorry that I’m asking this question four days later—I couldn’t ask it before. Actually, there were workers and repairmen all over the house, total chaos! I couldn’t even turn on the computer. Have you been waiting for my question all these four days? My middle uncle asked me this question. It’s a bit indecent, but not entirely improper. How does Uncle ask me such things, you wonder? Are we the same age? No. Uncle is at least thirty-three years older than me. But I can say things to Uncle that I couldn’t even say to my best friend. Does that mean I’m very casual with Uncle? Oh no, I fear Uncle more than a tiger. Uncle has a terrible temper—his slaps weigh at least seventeen kilos! So is Uncle very modern? Not really—Uncle won’t let us girls talk to boys, but he’s managed to have fifty girlfriends himself. (Uncle’s a bit of a hypocrite too.) Is he worthless? Oh my goodness, no. Everyone respects him. Anyway, Uncle had me ask this question, and I’m asking you. Suppose you’re married, you love your wife very much, you have a very happy little household together. And you love your family life very much too. Okay? You have to consider everything. Now you have to think about two situations that nobody wants. Just think about them, and assume that one of these two will definitely be your fate. You’re given the chance to choose. Which one would cause you less pain? 1) Your wife loves you dearly. She does whatever you say, a very “yes sir” type of wife. The girl is exactly as you want her to be. In her heart there’s only you, no one else. She’s devoted her life to the household too. But… oh dear… but she’s having an affair with some guy. Very rarely, but she does it—let’s say… she does everything. 2) Your wife fulfills all household responsibilities. She’s so loyal that even if she died, she wouldn’t go to another man—meaning she’ll maintain the family’s honor, but… but she doesn’t stay cheerful. She sleeps with you, but in her heart she loves someone else. She does everything with a sullen face or a forced smile, meeting all your needs and your family’s needs, but she doesn’t love you. (Who knows, maybe she’s even disgusted, or loves you only out of obligation.) She’s always missing someone else in her heart.
Don’t get angry now! It’s all hypothetical. Think it through and answer with a cool head. You absolutely have to select one of these numbers—if that’s what’s demanded, which would you choose? It’s not really happening. It’s just supposed! Don’t answer carelessly. Think about both situations and then respond.
You wrote,
One.
: Why don’t you dress up in front of me? Even when I take you somewhere, you don’t dress up much. But why?
: You’re out all day, I don’t get to have you near me. When you come back in the evening, if I spend all that time getting dressed up, it’ll be night already, you’ll fall asleep, and come morning you’ll be rushing off to the office again. I really want to hear you talk, I want to see you, I want to chat with you. I dress down in front of you to save time, and I give that time to you instead. I love giving you my time. To me, spending time with you is more important than getting all dolled up.
Two.
If I don’t die, what will I eat when I’m alive!
In youth he ate like a prince, in old age he saw only servants!
Question one. Are you getting married? I mean, have you found someone?
Question two. Did you just write those two lines in the second part randomly, one after the other? Or is there some connection between the two lines? The meaning of those two lines flows in completely different directions! So why did you write them consecutively? Or are you just writing whatever comes to mind without understanding anything, like me?
Give me an answer to question number two, will you?
Good Lord! What is this writer saying with all this stuff? All this “girl girl girl” talk—I can see the poor innocent boy has gone mad! Reading your writings still makes my head spin! Rethinking! Overthinking! Even Misir Ali can’t find anything! Come on, ta-tat-ta! There’s one thing I’m curious to know. Is that story about Uncle Rahman made up, or is it true? Whatever it is, you’re becoming something else day by day! Now’s the time for you to move from the soft world to the hard world—I mean, forget those cheap Facebook readers, brother; come from softcopy to hardcopy, brother; I mean print your sparkling words on gleaming paper, brother! The nation will read and cry out… “Bravo! Here comes a genius!” I’m overwhelmed! I’m running away!
Wow wow wow! The writer! What have you written! Those final soliloquies are extraordinary. I mean, I’m talking about Part 3! Even someone as extremely lazy as me finished reading all two-and-a-half of your soliloquies! Can you believe it? By the way, I actually didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘soliloquy.’ I learned it yesterday. Anyway, it’s so beautiful that I would have just kept crying while reading, but now what about everyone calling you ‘dadaji’? Today’s installment of the ‘Lipi-Shakot’ series was easier for me than yesterday’s. I understood it right away. But but but Bajrangbali bhai, I am the queen of ‘buts’! In your negative soliloquy you wrote girls/boys, but why ‘hi hi hi’ in the positive one? What would have happened if you’d written ‘shi’ instead of ‘hi’? Hmm? And after reading the next two lines I saw girl girl girl. Reading it does make the heart heavy, doesn’t it… or… I don’t want to spoil the impression. Well, let me see… first I have 50 ‘noti’fications coming in. (You’re a celebrity, you must get even more—how do you manage?) No full stops. After reading Part Four, I couldn’t recognize you in many places. Who are you actually in that piece? Or are you not there at all? The writer from yesterday’s or first-day’s chatting and the writer from the status posts are not the same person. I’m pretty sure of this! Oh my God! You’ve completely driven me crazy! Since when did you become such a sweet child? Many of my thoughts align with yours, I mean I too was once a goody-goody girl like you, I mean sorry actually I… they’re calling me to eat, I’m going, it feels terrible to leave without finishing your new writing completely, but they’re calling insistently, I have to go, and I have a bit of, I mean, I mean… I had a question… The most painful aspect of memory is not that memory makes us cry so much, but that memory makes us so alone. Loneliness hurts more than tears… How did you manage to write such a cruel truth? From experience? Or just by thinking? If it was just thinking… didn’t your heart tremble even a little while writing?
Dear Writer,
I don’t know if this message will reach you—all my megabytes are finished! And I can’t even remember where I spent my allocated 450 taka. That’s beside the point. You can buy 75 MB for just 28 taka, but I deliberately won’t buy it. I want to squeeze out sticky sugar from an ant’s belly, just like you. But wait, how did you learn this expression? I thought only we said this.
We actually say it a bit more slangy, of course. And I can’t remember where I made you laugh either. Understanding you—that’s not such a big deal, but I can’t recall what I said recently that made you notice that. Let me tell you about the book. That shopkeeper is quite the smooth talker. (You won’t understand what ‘smooth talker’ means, and you don’t need to.) After hearing from you, I asked him to get ‘Ghunpoka’—he led me on a wild goose chase for nothing, and in the end the bastard couldn’t deliver. But the guy does keep real books, not photocopies, I know that much. And when you place an order, he does bring them—I mean, he has before.
Let me warn you upfront—the guy talks too much. Since you also go to his shop, don’t get too carried away by his chatter. Anyway, you told me to keep sending messages, saying you’d answer my complex questions! I did send them. No reply, as usual! What was so complex about my questions that you couldn’t answer? Do you actually tell me those things just for the sake of it? And look here—I’m writing to you despite having a fever and feeling miserable.
What’s fun for you is serious business for me! I’m actually… I don’t know what… I don’t understand myself sometimes! Another thing is bothering me somehow. The rate at which you’ve started thanking me left and right makes me think you’ll cross the bounds of politeness in a couple of days! I’m scared! Okay, enough of this.
I’ll come to see you again in a few days—I mean, read you. You’ll keep writing, won’t you? I’ll come and read. Why don’t you write some stories? Write stories. Big ones, okay? Write more funny stories. Don’t just torment your heroes and heroines—let them win sometimes too. Look how Humayun Ahmed effortlessly writes out all the fantasies of young people? You write too—the public will eat it up! Until then? God be with you.
Hail
Bajrangbali!
Looking at me is
easy, yet I cannot be
seen………
Hearing my words is
permitted, yet they cannot be taken to
heart………
My alphabet moves
freely, yet it cannot be
received………
I have a home,
yet I cannot be given
shelter………
My pain is
hard to deny, yet it cannot be
remembered………
I exist,
yet I cannot be
acknowledged………
I can be read,
but not understood………
I can be liked,
but not
loved………
I can be accompanied,
but not made a
companion………
I can be kept
alive, but not allowed to
live………
I can be murdered,
but I cannot be allowed to die
by murder………
I can be used,
but I cannot be kept
close………
I am not incomprehensible,
yet I remain unfathomable………
I am not foolish,
yet I am negligible………
I am not poisonous,
yet I am untouchable………
I am not disabled,
yet I am helpless………
I am not mute,
yet I am voiceless………
I am not a burden,
yet I am
unwanted………
When your I
shackles my I
to its feet,
then my I
wraps garlands around
your you………
How you think of yourself
is how I learn to think
of myself!
………………………This is what loneliness is!!
Dear Writer!
I’m coming back to bother you again! My head’s spinning from reading my own writing! You write down my thoughts for me! Maybe I couldn’t have written it all so eloquently myself, but every single word of yours feels like my very own! It just makes my heart feel good. I think you write all your pieces thinking of me. How do you know what’s in my mind? Tell me, does anyone ask you even more foolish, pointless questions than I do? I mean, can anyone possibly ask such bizarre, meaningless, irrelevant, random questions? Well, whatever. Only God knows what a treasure I’ve found in you. You’re thinking exactly right—these days there’s no one closer to me than you for saying all sorts of nonsensical things. But see, I don’t actually torture people though! (If you can fit another ‘though’ into that last sentence, I’ll treat you to Movenpick ice cream.) Even when you don’t listen to me, I just keep babbling on and on, keep going and going—it’s just my habit, nothing more than that. The fact that you never reply to me, I don’t mind it one bit! I swear to God I’m telling the truth! I find peace just in speaking; whether anyone listens or not isn’t my concern. Anyway, taking advantage of your politeness, I felt like saying some more things, I mean a whole lot of things! So many things! Another thing is, seeing your accumulated statuses from these past few days, I ended up writing down a lot of my own thoughts! But I’m telling you beforehand, the things I’m saying are really quite pointless, just said for the sake of saying them! So don’t waste your time reading them. When you have absolutely nothing else to do, then if you feel like it, open my email. Or you might not. I won’t mind at all. I swear to God! If you do read it, I might actually feel a bit embarrassed! (Your assumption that I have no shame whatsoever is wrong.)
And there’s something telepathic going on between me and your status updates. (I’ve had proof of this before.) One of my friends has a boutique shop. She’s set up a stall at the ‘Textile Fair’ this time. So yesterday she went to Dhaka for some exam or other, leaving two of my other friends in charge of her shop. They called me today to come help them run the business! Why do they think I’m such an idiot! Listen to what they did… they told me beforehand not to open my mouth about prices. I have only one job—to bring down clothes from the high shelves that they can’t reach. I’m so excited about tomorrow! Last evening I spent ages at home convincing everyone with good words about shopkeepers, and the moment I opened Facebook, I found a shopkeeper in your post! How funny is that!
Ha! Ha! Ha! The Granthik! How is this even possible? I was thinking of watching a movie. I haven’t watched anything in this life! What should I watch, I was wondering. So I have that note of yours copied. The one about movies. You listed so many movies in that note, I haven’t even eaten that many plates of rice in my life! I thought I’d pick out an easy-looking movie from there. While reading it, I thought, let me count how many you’ve watched. When I started counting, I realized it needed editing. There’s too much conversation mixed in to count properly. I deleted all the words except the movie names. And I found two names I didn’t understand. Amélie and Hepburn. What kind of names are these again? So that’s my task! I was thinking of writing to ask you what those two things are! And look, you’ve started playing with movies again! Oh God! Now you’ll think I sent you a message by guessing after seeing your post, without even reading that note of yours, so I’m attaching the file as proof. Read it and see. But that’s not the point. The point is, how do you understand what I’m thinking beforehand? Either you’re a genie or in our previous life we were twins—brother-sister/brother-brother/sister-sister/sister-brother. Don’t twins think everything together? Though there too, I mean in that life too, I was intellectually disabled and you were an intellectual. Alright, ‘coming.’ (You say, ninety! Say it, say it! What? Don’t you get it? Oh you fool, it’s a game!) Alright, this time I’m really saying goodbye for God’s sake. Let me see if I can find something easy-looking from your list.
I read your story. So, what does this story mean? The girl is a disaster! Why wasn’t the boy reported to the police earlier, may I know? Does anyone tolerate this much? Okay, I mean the boy should have been killed earlier! It’s making my skin crawl! I feel like going and killing that boy myself. Serves him right! Both his legs should have been ruined. Couldn’t you have ruined his kidneys too? The first boy actually seems normal. What he’s doing is right. If there’s no love in the heart, why force it? That would be even worse. That’s deceiving someone. Gratitude and love aren’t the same thing. And you said you just posted an angry status randomly, but why do I feel like you’re depressed? I’ve set aside the humorous pieces, those are funny, I mean special. I’ll keep those to read peacefully with a cup of tea in hand after I’ve bathed and eaten. Bye.
My dear Gronthi!
I have a request. Please, please listen!
Please don’t put any of my photos on Facebook, just crop your own picture or cut me out of it. I beg you by all your beautiful girlfriends, brother! Even though I’m your open fan, you’re my secret enemy friend. So please, brother! Please! I know this message sounds like nonsense, but the request is genuine. Oh wait! I forgot to mention! You look absolutely skeletal in person, brother! And completely faded and pale! So you were telling the truth after all! And what should I call you? Brother/big brother/dada/handa/nana? Which one, please tell me quickly. And thank you so much for taking me around. Yes, you took me around. You could have wandered around without me, but I couldn’t have done it without you. Going anywhere with parents means carrying a ton of scolding on your shoulders while wandering around. Yes, you heard right! Even at this age, I have to endure a lot of tyranny. You have no idea about that. Plus a heap of rules…can’t eat this, can’t do that. Unbearable! So thank you very much. You showed me around, fed me, gave me rides, entertained me, and…with debt…you absolutely crushed me. Oh right, you didn’t make me laugh, but the boys made me laugh through you, and that brother is a good person. I liked everyone very much. But I felt bad that I couldn’t go to Shopuray with you all! That’s where my favorite shops are! And saris! Oh my! Saris! Watching someone else buy saris rather than buying them myself, and seeing various colored arranged saris is my favorite activity! Oh my! Why was I born a girl! Oh Allah! I got so carried away chatting that I forgot to say the main thing!! Listen, you said you’re from Assam! And what’s that brother’s name? Panth, right? That brother praised you so much! He really likes you, brother! Okay, bye-bye!
How are you?
I’m not well, because mother has come home and seeing the pathetic state of the house, she immediately started her ranting and raving, mother’s pressure has increased, I’m not feeling good about anything. Don’t you start such a ruckus after reading my letter either! Well, your followers have crossed eleven thousand! Congratulations, you rascal! Now I’m really scared of you and about you. I’m scared of you because I’m saying this to make you happy, meaning actually I’m not scared of you. I’m scared about you because when your followers increase, it also means your enemies increase. Followers don’t just follow, they stay behind so it’s convenient to stick a knife in your back. Keep this in mind. I saw your picture in the paper. What an attitude with that shawl on! Looking good, sir! One more thing. Why do I keep saying sorry to you? Why do I say sorry? I say it by mistake, you understand? Sorry for saying sorry. From today I’m a no-sorry tall friend. Why don’t you write anything? Facebook is crying not getting your writing. And what kind of beautiful profile pictures are you putting up? So beautiful that I don’t even want to look at them. Well, when was the last time a crow pooped on your head? If you remember, please answer, I need to know.
Good heavens!
Three days off! So will I get to read long letters this time? Won’t you fill in these gaps from the past few days?
And I heard something that really scared me. Have any of my words ever hurt you? If they have, please tell me. Everyone says I don’t know when or how or what to say to whom
and what not to say. Please, let me know
if I do something like that. But leave out things from a hundred years ago. Only tell me about recent ones.
I do joke around with you, you know. Boys generally have less
of a sense of humor anyway. So if ever one of my jokes
has caused you pain, then
please-please-please brother, tell me. I’m
never being serious when I say things. And yes, I act smart
sometimes, but I swear by God’s
wrath, not just you—
if my words or behavior
hurt anyone, I don’t feel good about it. I try to keep everyone’s spirits up, no matter what.
So how would I feel if you felt bad? You’ll tell me, won’t you? And please write long, beautiful,
elaborate stories, pleeeeeeeease. And
I couldn’t find that fake beauty in the desktop background picture. What should I search for on Google? Never mind. I won’t
search anymore. I’m thinking I’ll watch a movie too.
Will you believe something? Your favorite movie’s
hero’s character and my character are exactly the same! And yes, this is the end—Christmas greetings to you.
The Literary One,
Why are you so wise?
Oh right, I’m Shanaya! Seeing you all this time made me feel
insignificant about myself, but now even that doesn’t
occur to me. Because to feel insignificant, one must first exist, right? I can’t even find that
in myself.
Ugh! I’m getting annoyed! But I can’t imitate you, brother. I’m very lazy in that regard. But I can
give genuine praise and become a genuine devotee too. The problem is, though I’m far behind you
in knowledge, we’re about the same age. Otherwise I would really… what wouldn’t I do! I’d worship you!
Worshiiiiip! Though I do have some knowledge of Hindi, I mean old
Bollywood (?). The advantage of living in Rajshahi was that from small, I mean from birth,
we didn’t need dishes, we got all the Indian
Hindi-Bengali channels free in childhood. The downside was that I didn’t really watch
movies from my own country. Now
I don’t watch TV at all anyway. There I go chattering again. Alright fine, bye!
[Worship the guru with devotion — even if of bad character, abandoning the guru is forbidden]
Girindra —
Master! What if parents commit some serious crime, some terrible sin?
Sri Ramakrishna —
So be it. Even if mother is unchaste, don’t abandon her. When such-and-such gentleman’s guru’s wife’s character was corrupted, they suggested making his son the guru. I said, how can that be! Leave him and take his disciple? So what if she’s fallen? You know him as your chosen deity. ‘Even if my guru
goes to the tavern, still my guru
is Nityananda Ray.’
…………Shanaya understands all this
beforehand anyway. Still, many thanks to the Literary One for reminding me of it all again.
The posts of yours that I like, I share them on my wall to make them easier to find later—not because I’m in love with you or anything! I liked your last comment on your profile picture, so I’m giving you one piece of friendly ribbing! You know, I opened a fake ID where I have no friends—I am my own friend. I opened it to live utterly alone, without regrets. Why did you post my picture? If I’d known beforehand, I would’ve sucked in my breath and made my stomach look flat like you do. In that picture, oh no, my little belly is showing! So many likes are coming in and I’m feeling embarrassed. That girl looks so fake with all that kajal around her eyes and lipstick too! How ridiculous she looks! Brother, please delete the pictures I’m in, please please please! I’m commenting—you check your notifications and delete them, I beg you! If my family finds out, they’ll slaughter me! Well, there’s some kind of problem with all your photos. Not all of them—the ones where you’re being too dramatic. Listen, bookworm genius, you’re such a learned person, won’t you help me remember the name of a poem! A poem by Buddhadeb Bose or Sudhindranath Datta. Something about morning light coming and overwhelming the devotee—something like that exists! A roommate friend of mine used to recite it to me once, I feel like reading it, but I’ve forgotten both the poet and the poem’s name! When you have time, let me know sometime, okay?
I’ll tell you some things, listen.
1. What’s your problem, brother? You won’t delete a single picture! Every time my phone rings, my soul flies away with the fear that someone’s asking when I went to Nababganj! Please don’t tell me you haven’t had time. Nobody’s so busy they can’t delete one picture. And why do you keep changing your cover photo? You don’t look good with long hair. What will you do now? Start growing your hair out? Go ahead, let’s see how well you manage!
2. I’m in a bad mood, but still I’ll tell you one truth to boost your ego a little more. I’m not in the mood to say this, but I’m saying it anyway—that boy who tagged you in those pictures taken at the bookstore? Of all the pictures I’ve seen of you, you looked the best in those ones (except the single shot—you look somehow weird in that one!). I swear on my mother! I swore because sometimes I do lie, you know! I mean, this compliment is genuine.
3. It doesn’t matter to me whether your ego grows or shrinks. Since I’ve already inflated it like a pir’s shrine, shall I inflate it a bit more? Something’s happened to me… these days I keep listening to just one song over and over. That one—”Nayan Sarasi Keno Bhoreche Jole.” Everyone’s getting sick of it and scolding me. I’m forced to listen with headphones. Don’t be scared! It’s not any serious problem—it’ll pass. And besides, a person can very well like a song!
4. Let me tell you something funny? Did you have a fight with someone? Did anyone say something to you? You’re such a well-behaved kid, you can’t fight. So, if anyone says anything to you, tell me, I’ll give them such a thrashing, you’ll see! Of course, your Ipsita the bodyguard—oops, I mean Facebook-guard—can handle it alone! But if needed, I’ll give backup, just give me one little coooo call.
5. You mischievously gave me that Jhandu Balm, remember? (Say “Oh… really?”) My head is aching so much, but I’m not using it because it’ll finish and Bhutki (my elder sister) keeps using it up for no reason!! Grrrr… I can’t say anything, can’t bear it either! My mood is absolutely terrible!
6. Um… I mean… I opened Facebook and saw, as usual, I was being suggested to send requests to a few people. Among them I saw someone—another writer. Who is this guy, brother? He doesn’t just look like you, his parents also look like you. And I see he’s made you a friend! I wanted to befriend that person too! When you have time, please tell that gentleman! And please, spare some time to cancel my photos! Grrrr… I mean pleeeease! Listen, can’t you catch fake IDs?
I feel like dancing but there’s not a single song on my phone. How can I dance without music? I’ll call you when I go to Rajshahi. I’m taking an appointment in advance. Pick up the phone, you emotional box! Listen, I send you so many emails, and you don’t read them—don’t you feel even a little curious about what I write? Of course, they’re all silly emails, nothing worth reading, but still! Or would your prestige diminish if you replied to my emails, would your teeth fall out? In foreign countries everyone checks emails, replies. All their necessary and unnecessary conversations happen through email. In our country, world-famous public figures just open email addresses for no reason, never bothering to check their mailboxes. Many open them just to create Facebook IDs! And government employees are naturally completely famous for this—many don’t even have email addresses!
Oh my God! Your piece about the path to your office turned out so beautiful! I see you observe things just like I do! My fondness for you keeps growing… keeps growing… Who are you, brother? Are you even a resident of this world? I swear, it’s beautiful! But why did you compare grass to your beloved’s lips? Everyone tramples on grass with their feet! What kind of thing is that? And why do you share everything twice? Notes get shared automatically when they’re made public! You’re a Facebook expert! Don’t you even know that? Anyway, it turned out very beautiful. And… you don’t need it, I know, but still I gave it… thank you! Bye… Taaaaa taaaaa…
Grass is soft, so are a lover’s lips, so perhaps you made the comparison. But so many terrible things are soft too! Like, for instance, all sorts of filthy things! Just because the physical characteristics match, does that make it right? Snot is soft too. Would you therefore write, “Like my lover’s lips, I blow my nose in comfort”? The great writer! Douglas! You massive driver of songs and wisdom—I mean, ocean—give me some knowledge. I have a song on my computer that I listen to. It’s a tappa song, as far as I understand. “As she goes, she steals glances with her eyes,/ Those magical eyes of hers/ Call with gestures./ As if I don’t see though I do!/ Why should I tell her I’ve seen?/ Meanwhile, it’s so hard to keep the heart in check!…”How it feels when you hear it! That feeling can’t be explained in writing! A song in Bhairavi raga, in Akhilbandhu Ghosh’s voice. Words and tune by Ratu Mukhopadhyay. After listening to this song, tell me—when Ratu Mukhopadhyay was composing the tune, did he compose it with just his voice? Or did he use a harmonium to set the tune? For your convenience, let me mention that he himself said in an interview that he mostly composes tunes with just his voice. But Hemanta’s “Bontol phule phule dhaka,” “Ki dekhi pai na bhebe go,” or Dhananjay’s “Chameli melo na aankhi,” or Suman Kalyanpur’s famous songs “Mone koro ami nei,” “Badaler madol baje,” or Manna Dey’s “Rimjhimjhim brishti,” or Shyamal Mitra’s “Suryomukhi suryo khonge,” or Nirmala Mishra’s “Unmona mon swapne mogon,” or Mukesh’s “Ogo abar notun kore”—all these tunes could be composed by someone just singing them! Incredible! How is it possible? When you have time, could you explain this a bit? Please don’t think my simple question is about something else. Pratul Mukhopadhyay, that wonder and eternally experimental composer of our age and all time, also used to compose with just his voice, I hear. So despite thinking a lot, I can’t figure anything out. That’s why I’m asking you out of desperation. Boys always like to think about themselves in everything. Don’t be angry, I’m not talking about you, I’m talking about cartoon-type and complicated boys. Nothing personal, just like that; I know you’re wise, so I wanted to know. You can tell me now or later.
And what’s happening is, I’ve been thinking and coming up with many soft things to compare. One of them is a cockroach’s belly. Douglas’s lover’s lips are like a cockroach’s belly! I’ll end it here, won’t torture you anymore. One more thing—you do walk on grass wearing shoes, brother. What? You say you haven’t walked? But this is Douglas insulting women! Nobody walks around wearing shoes on a cockroach’s belly! So then? You could have written, lips soft as butter! My comparison is better than yours though! From now on, think before you write. Hmm? Listen, why are you always so angry? And when you sleep at night snoring, I’ll select a picture for you, put it as your cover pic as soon as you wake up, okay? I know you won’t use that picture, you’ll pretend to forget out of stubbornness, but still I’ll give it. Your current cover pic is totally famous!
The great writer, again so many things are piling up…
1. You’ve said so many things that were in my heart. I’ll never be able to write anything again. Because your influence will creep in.
2. When I used to nag you with “Why don’t you write, why don’t you write?” and wait all day for you to post something, you wouldn’t write a thing. But now when I can barely bring myself to sit on Facebook or want to leave altogether, you write so much! Your writing habits are just like women—sorry, like shadows. Why don’t you come off Facebook and write on paper for a change!
3. Please be so kind as to answer that tricky question my uncle asked. No particular reason—I’m just curious to see what your answer would be. You can respond later if you want, but please do respond. I just like to see how different people think! I’ve asked many girls this question, and you’re the first boy I’m asking.
4. Do you remember that time you asked about Raduga Publications books in one of your status updates? We have a little bookshop here, a tiny cramped place, and the shopkeeper brings original books from Delhi—though they’re a bit expensive. The man gets so excited whenever he sees me and just starts pulling out books to show. I don’t really buy many books though. I’m not a rich kid like you. My monthly salary is quite modest—half goes to internet and the other half to tea and such, so what can I really afford? Still, the man gets so happy when he sees me and brings out all his books. Maybe he thinks I’m a fool who can’t bargain properly. Maybe he thinks, “Found myself a sucker!” So today I told him to keep the books until I get a job, but he says they’ll sell out and won’t be available again because India is stopping their publication, so if I want them I have to take them now—they’re in high demand. I don’t know, maybe you already have all of them, since he only keeps bestsellers and popular titles. I was thinking, since you collect real books, wouldn’t it be better if these books went to you rather than some stranger? (That is, if you don’t already have them.) You’re a stranger to me yet somehow familiar. Wait, let me give you the shopkeeper’s number: 01512441139.
5. I have a question—please answer it. There’s a guy in my department who’s 7-8 years older than me, or let’s say 10 years, and he works at GSB. I don’t know when he joined, let’s say 5-6 years ago. He and I have the same designation—Assistant Director—so should I call him bhai or sir? I don’t know what to call someone who’s senior but has the same rank. Though apparently he was supposed to get promoted but it got stuck for some reason. I’ve never actually met him, but he’s definitely in my department. This has turned into a really silly question, but you must answer it! Tell me, you people with government jobs—if someone doesn’t call you sir, do all the hairs fall out of your head? Do you get so upset that you sit around brooding?
6. I’ve become your fan all over again. You really make my heart flutter. My keyboard isn’t working properly and I spent the whole day posing for pictures in the wind and now I’m getting feverish, otherwise who knows what else I would have said. God has saved you!
Oh my goodness,
Dagash! I am absolutely over the moon! Wonderful! I’m so happy. Really. Look how lucky I’ve been because of you! I’m saying prayers for you—may more such stories come! And may I torment you even more! Speaking of which, for the past few days I’ve been falling in love with your little sister Sutapa after reading her comments. That girl is even more mischievous than I am. Where on earth did you find this little devil? She’s another little firecracker! I’ve been feeling like writing to you again about Rajshahi and all that. Actually, I did write it. But I wrote so much that I’m too embarrassed to send it. Whew! I just love chatting with you—I mean, with the imaginary Dagash. Say, you don’t think I’m completely mad, do you? Everyone does call me crazy, but they say it lovingly, not seriously! I’m not crazy—I have plenty of sense. I know that. But nobody understands it! Actually, I think you’re the one who seems a bit foolish. Tell me, you don’t think I’m a complete ass, do you? I just call myself that for fun—brother, I’m not a real ass, I’m a fake ass. I truly understand a lot of things! Well, think whatever you like! What do I care!
Oh, I forgot to mention—I have loads of Facebook friends now. Crossed 100! God knows how! They’re all people I know, except for a few girls and three guys. The girls are idiots and the guys write well, so I added them. But they really do write well—don’t get jealous now! I’ve never had any interaction with them though. They have that whole attitude! They write these grand, philosophical things, and then send friend requests when they see girls commenting! One of them is actually a teacher. The girls on my list are cute and ditzy-looking. I like ditzy-type girls. I know guys prefer ditzy girls too. Tell me, what on earth possessed you to like that ghastly photo of mine—the one where I look like a vodka-soaked piece of meat? Aren’t you supposed to be this civilized person? Do you know how many friend requests I got yesterday after you liked it? Apart from one Kamran (I mean, Kamran), I don’t know any of them. Who do you even befriend? All these little boys! I got so scared I had to make my profile picture friends-only! Apart from relatives and close friends, I only sent you a friend request. I talk a lot, but I don’t like everyone’s messages or conversations, brother. In my opinion, the most irritating thing in the world is Facebook chatting! Ugh! Absolutely, completely, utterly unbearable! I’ve never enjoyed it! Except for one girlfriend, I can’t carry on conversations with anyone! Where do people get so much to talk about? My favorite activities: 1. Sleeping, 2. Eating, 3. Laughing, 4. Lying around, 5. Talking to myself, 6. Seeing you and reading your writing. Out of politeness, my friend list just keeps growing and using Facebook is becoming unbearable. I can’t help but give likes though. (I only give you mental likes. If I gave you real likes, it would boost your ego—I’ve noticed. But mental likes aren’t fake likes, you know.) But Facebook disgusts me. And yet seeing you has become an addiction. Like your heroine said, you’re a terribly annoying addiction! Why don’t you go somewhere else, brother! Go far away and… well, don’t die! Okay, you don’t have to die—just faint and lie flat on your back. Actually, you don’t need to faint—just pretend to faint. Don’t tell me you can’t even do that. You’re good at acting. Please get out of my head! You’re really bothering me. Don’t get into other people’s heads to torment them! Stop dancing around as you please! Go away, go away! Get lost! I’d be so happy. I really would be so happy. Give me some peace. Stop tormenting me!
Listen, I want to give you a piece about Rajshahi, but it’s pretty vulgar writing. I’m not ashamed to share it, but somehow it feels awkward. I don’t have much shame anyway. It’s not my fault—it’s my family’s fault, I mean my father, uncle, cousin, and two girlfriends are to blame. I think I’m writing too much. I won’t write anymore. I’m telling the truth this time. I swear to God. I won’t torture you anymore. One truth—two truth—three truth! I have no idea what you must think of me!
I read the interview with you and your father. Say, why are noodles your favorite food? Didn’t that come out a bit odd? Couldn’t you have chosen something else as your favorite? Are noodles even proper food? Making flour into long strands and eating it with oil, chili, onion, and egg! Ugh! And then your father’s favorite food is vegetables! Is that really true? Can anyone’s favorite food actually be vegetables? That’s something you’re forced to eat to stay thin! When I eat vegetables, I feel like a goat. God knows! Really, with all the beautiful foods out there, your favorites are vegetables and noodles! Come on! What a joke! I’ll leave your father aside—he didn’t understand what would make a good favorite food—but you could have at least made up something nice for the newspaper! Like, say, reshmi kebab, shammi kebab, jali kebab, that sort of thing!
Listen, why do you look less fair in all your photos? Oh, I didn’t mention—the other day, I mean in the auditorium, your face was absolutely glowing like a girl’s! Ask Ananta if you don’t believe me. Were you wearing makeup or something? Tell me the truth, brother! I almost forgot to mention—your profile picture turned out lovely. If someone’s profile picture is that sweet, their writing should be sweet too, you fraud! That business of cursing smugglers and writing about Bank of Asia Limited—if you keep writing like that, you’ll be insulting your profile picture. Either stop writing that stuff or change the picture. Though that’s your business. My job is giving free advice. Seeing the picture with your father made me want to take a similar photo! You posed sitting on the handle of your father’s chair—I could pose sitting on my father’s lap, but I was afraid his legs might break, so I let the old man off the hook.
Listen, I’m not going to write to you for the next few days, so I’ll call you after a few days. I have something to say. It’s necessary. Nothing much. Just something I want to ask. Anyway, may God protect you. Oh, that piece about Rajshahi is really quite vulgar writing. I’ll give it to you the day after tomorrow, okay? That’s the last one. I won’t give you any more after that. Don’t get angry when you read it. Even if you do get angry, it doesn’t matter, because you won’t be able to find me for a few days—by then your anger will pass, and then I’ll make you angry all over again. Listen, by vulgar I don’t mean the kind of vulgar that interests young boys. (Brother, I’m not that age anymore, and I have no interest in such things—in fact, I find them disgusting. Don’t you believe me? Well, if you don’t, you don’t. That’s your business!) This is a different kind of vulgar, I mean natural matters. Anyway, may God protect you.