The Hero's Tragedy

Such is the way of this world…

The most beautiful people—none of us know them, because they don’t appear in films or theater.

Those who write the best have no published books.

The wisest, like Socrates, write nothing themselves.

Those with the most wonderful thoughts have no Facebook accounts.

Those with the most extraordinary voices—we will never hear their songs.

The smartest among them never appear in the media.

The most brilliant never went to school.

The one who speaks most enchantingly—we’ll never find their videos on YouTube.

The best dancer has decided never to dance before a camera.

The finest cook—none of us have yet tasted their food.

The person with the noblest heart and most generous soul—
none of us know them, because they work in secret.

Borrowing from Nazim Hikmet’s thoughts in
Subhash Mukhopadhyay’s translation—

The most beautiful sea

we have not yet seen.

The most beautiful child

has not yet grown up.

Our most beautiful days

we have not yet received.

The sweetest words I want to say—

I have not yet spoken them.

You might say, “There’s no such thing as ‘the best.’” Whatever I love appears “the best” to me. It’s because she loves him that the girl can unhesitatingly tell her boyfriend, the moment he returns from work and embraces her with fervent kisses, “You look impossibly handsome even in this sweat-soaked shirt!” Yet some people exist who, because of their unique qualities, shine forth secretly above everything else. It is the rule of this world that we will never know who cannot be contained within any grammar. For them, lawlessness itself is the only law. We will never have intelligence enough to understand how Ramanujan became one of the world’s greatest mathematicians. The Annapurna Devis have always sacrificed themselves for the Ravi Shankars. Einstein’s wife possessed such capability that she might have become greater than Einstein himself, had she not given up everything to allow Einstein to become Einstein. Who can say? History does not write the stories of true heroes.

On some ordinary afternoon in some village, when mothers’ work was sleeping, fathers’ work was working, and boys’ work was escaping their mothers’ watchful eyes and canes to run and play in the fields, seven or eight-year-old Ravi gave his mother’s vigilance the slip, fled from home, and sat by the pond throwing stones at some bird’s nest, trying to knock it down. His mother was napping with his little sister, his father busy with shopkeeping. Sitting on a tree stump by the pond, he would leap onto it now and then, making futile, tireless attempts to break the stump. The stick in his hand had a shed snake skin wound around its tip, and somehow he kept twirling the stick. Having just learned to whistle in new ways, he tried to figure out which bird call matched his whistle perfectly. Finding none that matched, he grew irritated and kept hurling stones forcefully into the pond water, again and again. Suddenly his eyes caught on a pink water lily. Stopping his stone-throwing, he began desperately trying to pull the flower toward himself with a long branch. But how could little Ravi know that the lotus was firmly attached to its stem below? Once something enters the mind of a boy that age, removing him from it becomes virtually impossible. After nearly twenty to twenty-five minutes of continuous effort, when he still couldn’t bring the flower to himself, without thinking of consequences, he jumped into the pond to pluck the flower.

Ravi knew how to swim a little—but not enough to survive twenty to twenty-five arm lengths from shore in at least five feet of depth. But a mischievous boy that age shouldn’t be expected to have such “presence of mind.” Before he’d gone far, he lost his balance and began screaming in fear, flailing his arms and legs as he drifted toward the middle of the pond. Soon several people gathered around. Everyone was just talking about why Ravi had foolishly jumped in there, why his family hadn’t kept him contained, how people often drowned in that pond, how no one even bathed there out of fear. Ravi’s second uncle was there. Just as he was about to jump in to save Ravi, his wife—Ravi’s second aunt—grabbed him firmly and began saying, “Have you gone mad? Have you forgotten there’s an evil spirit in this pond? Just the other day it pulled Dashu from that neighborhood underwater. Later they found him sitting! His whole body had turned hard as stone, even his eyes were frozen shut. Doesn’t your sister-in-law know about that incident? Who sleeps leaving such a devilish boy unwatched? Let that monkey boy die!” Perhaps these words were true, but during such danger, religious talk seemed terribly out of place.

Just as Ravi’s uncle was pushing his wife away and about to jump, from somewhere a man of about thirty to thirty-five years appeared, tucked up his lungi, and leaped bare-chested into the pond. Meanwhile Ravi, flailing his arms and legs, had disappeared near the middle of the pond. He could no longer be seen, but from the water’s disturbance one could guess where he was. The man dove underwater and after about seven to eight minutes brought unconscious Ravi to shore. Then he himself artificially restored Ravi’s breathing. After Ravi opened his eyes slightly, the man hurriedly threw on his shirt and rushed away on the bicycle he’d arrived on. He came like a storm and vanished like one. When the commotion died down, everyone looked for that man, but in the rush no one had paid much attention to him. Two or three people said the man was someone’s son from such-and-such village next to theirs, working as a gatekeeper at a primary school. Since Ravi’s family had become busy with him, no one paid much attention to that either. They carried Ravi home in their arms. People perhaps forget in just this way—once danger passes, they forget the very person who rescued them from it. Without him, Ravi could never have been saved, yet it occurred to no one to seek him out and offer at least a word of thanks. Alas! This is how it goes! This ingratitude has been mixed in our blood for thousands of years. History says Bengalis are often ungrateful, sometimes even treacherous! This lesson from history remains entirely accurate to this day.

When consciousness returned, within a few hours of overcoming fear and with proper food and care, Ravi gradually recovered. The first reception he received from his mother upon recovery was a tremendous scolding, several rounds of slaps and blows. This was nothing unusual. I myself, as a child, once got mischievous at our village home trying to ride a rickshaw, fell face-first, and scraped some skin off my arms and upper legs. As reward for this deed, I received repeated cane strikes right on those wounds. Of course, mother later cleaned those double wounds with Dettol and cotton, and bandaged them. The eternal Bengali mother’s trait—when a boy gets hurt through mischief, the primary treatment is beating, other things come later. Ravi’s mother was just like mine and yours. Anyway, a curfew was imposed on Ravi—if he left the house, he’d be beaten into a plank, and from that plank a sturdy chair would be made! On that chair Ravi’s mother would rest comfortably.

The next day toward evening, that man came to Ravi’s house after asking around and inquiring. Only two people recognized him upon seeing him. Later he introduced himself and said, “I came to see Ravi. How is he now?” Going to Ravi’s room and kissing Ravi’s forehead, he said, “All right, I’ll come again.” Despite much insistence, he wouldn’t eat anything, using the excuse “I’m in a bit of a hurry.” Later when Ravi’s father tried to give him a thousand or two rupees, wiping his eyes with his shirt, he said, “Sir, you are very kind. I am happy. I don’t need money. You take care of Ravi.” Saying this, without giving anyone in Ravi’s family a chance to say anything more, he ran out, got on his bicycle, and quickly rode away. The suddenness of it all left everyone somewhat bewildered.

The matter made some people, especially Ravi’s second uncle, feel very uncomfortable. He told Ravi’s father, “Brother, if he hadn’t been there that day, we wouldn’t have gotten Ravi back. He saved our Ravi’s life. We should go to his house and meet his family. And he’s so poor, we should give him some money too.” “I tried to give him some today, but he wouldn’t take it.” “That little amount won’t do, brother. What can two thousand rupees do in this market? You should increase it somewhat.” The next morning, after making inquiries, Ravi’s father and second uncle set off toward that man’s house with three and a half thousand rupees. The man’s house was in the next village. It takes about an hour and a half by van. The man had a mud house with a thatched roof. He was right in front of his house. Seeing them, he brought out a stool and seated them in the courtyard. He offered them puffed rice, palm jaggery, and water. The man himself wasn’t saying much, sitting with his head bowed. After talking for a while, Ravi’s father and uncle, without saying anything more, returned from that house with their heads bowed in terrible anguish and shame, tears streaming down their faces.

Through conversation they learned that the man’s only daughter was Ravi’s age. She had been admitted to the subdistrict health complex for some days. She had been afflicted with malaria. Her condition was improving somewhat, but that morning her fever suddenly spiked tremendously. It was a touch-and-go situation. The news reached him very late. As soon as he got word, he managed to get leave from school with great difficulty and was rushing to see his daughter. On his way, hearing the commotion by the pond, he stopped his bicycle, went near, and understanding the situation immediately, jumped into the pond and rescued Ravi. When Ravi regained consciousness, he quickly rushed toward that health complex. Going there, he saw several people standing around a bed where his wife sat speechless, the lifeless body of their dead daughter laid across her lap. Even moments before death, in her final moments, the daughter had been crying and saying, “Ma, won’t Baba come? Won’t Baba come? I want to see Baba. Ma, tell Baba to come. Ma, I’m going away, I want to see Baba. Let me see Baba, Ma!”

He has never been able to tell anyone why he was late that day. He could never summon the strength to speak this truth before everyone. He only knew that his greatest treasure of love had gone to the land of no return, and her last wish remained unfulfilled simply because of his being a few minutes late. He never had the courage to think beyond this.

Ravi now works for a multinational company. He earns a lot of money. But he doesn’t have enough money to give even a penny to that man—the man because of whom he has lived in this world since that day, got the opportunity to study at Dhaka University, and is working at a top corporate house like British American Tobacco. His second father is no less than his biological father in any respect. He was the one who gave Ravi a second birth that day! Even if all of Ravi’s wealth were gathered together, it would be insignificant compared to that day’s debt. Ravi has never earned enough salary to buy even a cheap lungi and shirt for his second father! Who else in this world could be more unfortunate than him? Today’s failure is not Ravi’s alone. After his daughter’s death, he quit his job as gatekeeper at the primary school because his daughter had studied at that school. Later, where he went with his wife—Ravi’s family was unable to find out, or they didn’t try to.

True heroes always make us lose them this way, disappearing forever from everyone’s sight while remaining great.