# The Mirror Peddler in the Land of the Blind The first mirror I sold was to a man who'd heard rumours of his own face. He came to me on a Tuesday—though in that town, all days felt like Tuesdays, grey and indistinguishable—groping along the edge of my stall with the careful deliberation of someone reading braille from the world itself. His fingers brushed the air before him, and I watched how they trembled, not from weakness but from the terrible precision of their task. "You sell mirrors?" he asked. Not a question, really. A hope dressed as grammar. I nodded, then caught myself. "Yes," I said aloud. Here, in the Land of the Blind, speech was the only currency that mattered. "How much?" His hand found the wooden frame of my smallest mirror—a palm-sized thing, foxed at the edges, its silver backing flaking like ancient skin. "Fifty rupees," I said, though the price was negotiable. Everything was negotiable here. Worth itself was negotiable. He paid without haggling. I watched him turn the mirror over in his hands the way an archaeologist might examine an artifact whose purpose had been lost to time. His fingertips traced the frame, found the glass, and stopped. There was a moment—I've learned to recognize these moments—when the impossible became real. "How does it work?" he whispered. "You hold it," I said. "You'll see." "But I can't see." "Not yet," I said. "Not with your eyes." --- That was seven years ago, when I first came to this town with a cart full of mirrors and a head full of impossible theories. The townspeople thought me mad. They still do, probably, but they've grown accustomed to my madness the way one grows accustomed to chronic pain—aware of it always, but no longer actively objecting. The Land of the Blind wasn't always blind. There were stories, of course. There always are. Some said a plague had taken their sight. Others spoke of a curse—though they never explained who had cursed them or why. A few of the old ones, the really old ones, said that blindness was a choice, that the people had closed their eyes so tightly and for so long that eventually the gesture had become permanent. I prefer the stories that hurt less. By the time I arrived, blindness had become the architecture of the place. The streets were laid out in perfect grids, easy to navigate by counting steps. The buildings had bells instead of numbers. The market stalls announced themselves in song. The people had created a world that didn't need eyes, and they'd done it so thoroughly that the idea of sight had become almost quaint—a legend from other lands, like dragons or mermaids. I was selling the impossible. And they were buying it. --- The second customer was a woman who brought her daughter. "Show me your face," the daughter had demanded one evening, and the woman had no answer. She couldn't describe what she looked like because she'd never known. Her own mother had been blind too. And hers before her. The girl was the first in four generations who'd thought to ask. "A mirror," the woman said to me, her voice careful, measured, as if she were discussing a dangerous thing. "Can you—do you have anything that works?" I sold her the largest one I had—a full-length affair with an ornate frame that had survived the journey from the city wrapped in cloth and prayer. She held it as if it might explode. "What do I do?" she asked. "Face it," I said. "Stand in front of it." She did. Her daughter stood behind her, hands on her mother's shoulders, and they both waited in the darkness of the shop as if dawn might break at any moment. When it didn't, the woman's face crumpled. "There's nothing," she said. "It doesn't work. It's just a piece of glass." "No," I said. "No, it's working perfectly. You're seeing everything there is to see." "But I see nothing," she said. "I've always seen nothing." "Exactly," I said, though I knew how cruel that sounded. "Now you know what nothing looks like." She didn't buy it. No one buys the truth the first time. But she came back three days later with money she'd saved, and she bought it anyway. I watched her carry it home like it was made of glass—which it was, of course. It was always made of glass. --- By the third year, I had regulars. There was Manohar, who visited every full moon, looked at himself in the hand mirror I kept for repeated customers, and reported on any changes he thought he'd noticed. His hair growing greyer, he said. His cheeks hollowing. I never confirmed or denied. He needed the illusion more than the truth. There was Priya, a merchant's widow, who came to see her own grief reflected. She would hold a hand mirror and cry—really cry, deep shoulder-shaking sobs—as if seeing herself made the sorrow more real, and the more real it became, the lighter it seemed to grow. There was Ajay, a young man who used a mirror to seduce himself into the idea of his own beauty. He would stand before it, undressing slowly, touching his own chest and shoulders as if meeting himself for the first time. It took me a long time to understand that he wasn't vain. He was lonely. He was trying to become someone he could love. And there was old Krishnan, who came less frequently, who held my mirrors with trembling hands and spoke to them in whispers. I once heard him say to his own reflection, "There you are. I've been looking for you for so long." He didn't buy anything. He just came to remember. --- The town's leaders were patient with me at first. Then they weren't. A delegation came to my shop on a Wednesday—I remember because Wednesday was when the baker brought his bread to the market, and the smell of it was everywhere, mixing strangely with the sandalwood incense the delegation burned as they walked. "You're teaching them dissatisfaction," the chief minister said. He was old, his sightlessness absolute, his manner the kind of quiet authority that comes from being right about everything for too long. "I'm teaching them mirrors," I said. "Exactly," his wife said. She spoke rarely, but when she did, people listened. "Mirrors make people want. Want makes people unhappy. Unhappiness causes discord. Discord is dangerous." "Perhaps," I said. "Or perhaps clarity is dangerous. Perhaps people who've learned to see themselves can't be controlled as easily." The silence that followed was the kind that settles like dust. "You'll leave," the minister said. Not a question. "I'll stay," I said. "Then we'll take the mirrors," his wife said. "Burn them. It's not difficult—glass burns the same in any light." I think about that phrase still: *glass burns the same in any light*. It's not actually true, but it's poetic. That was probably why she said it. --- I left the next night with as many mirrors as I could carry, which wasn't many. I walked to the edge of town where the roads stopped being grids and became suggestions, where the bells faded and the only sound was my own footsteps, counting the distance I'd traveled. I didn't know where I was going. I'd come to understand that this was the constant condition of my life—always in motion, always carrying glass, always trying to sell people the terrible gift of their own reflection. But when I reached the boundary—that place where the town's careful blindness ended and the wider world's chaos began—I turned around. I went back. Of course I went back. Because I'd realized something in those three years: the mirrors weren't the point. The resistance to the mirrors was the point. The town needed someone to resist. Needed someone to insist that it was possible to know yourself, even if knowing yourself hurt. Needed someone to keep offering, keep pushing, keep refusing to accept that some people must live forever in the dark. So I set up my stall again, in a different part of town, in a smaller shop, with fewer mirrors. I sold them quietly now. One to a customer. One recommendation to a friend. No advertising. No noise. Just the steady, stubborn presence of someone who believed that blindness was not inevitable. The minister never came again. But his wife did, months later, at dusk, when the shadows made it harder for the sighted to see and easier for the blind to move undetected. She stood before my largest mirror for nearly an hour. I didn't ask questions. Some silences are sacred. When she left, she didn't buy anything. But she came back the next week, and the week after that. She never purchased a single mirror. She just stood there, in front of the glass, for an hour at a time, communing with the stranger who lived inside the frame. One evening, very quietly, she said, "I can feel myself. Even without eyes, I can feel myself looking back." "Yes," I said. "That's how it works." "It's terrible," she whispered. "Yes," I said. "I think," she said, "I think I'm beginning to understand why." --- The mirrors I sell now are simple things. Some are cracked. Some are ancient. Some reflect not quite accurately, catching the light at angles that distort what you see. But that's all right. The truth was never meant to be perfect. Just reflective. Just real enough to change you. The Land of the Blind has learned to live with a few more mirrors than it used to. We've reached an accord, the town and I. We don't speak of it, but we understand each other now. They allow me to work. I allow them their blindness. And those who choose to see—those people I serve with every mirror I possess, which is the only honesty I've ever known. Every evening, as I close my stall, I look into my own mirror. I see a man growing older. I see someone who travels without destination. I see a peddler of impossible goods in a land that's forgotten how to want them. And it's enough. Because at least I can see myself seeing. In a country of the blind, even a mirror peddler with doubt can be a kind of light.

 
Suppose you've been helping people day after day, with no thought of gain, no payment, no conditions—merely because your heart moves you to it. There's not a trace of financial motive behind what you do. You help people for one reason alone: the joy it brings you.


Everyone calls you blessed, blessed, and you too whisper it to yourself in quiet moments. You post grand statements on Facebook—look how many likes, how many comments, how many shares! You're so great! Ah, what beauty! The world is beautiful, truly. The world is beautiful. It keeps occurring to you: Oh God, why am I so good? Why is saving the world such sheer bliss?


But on the other side, some people despise you. They despise you without end. Why? There's no reason your small understanding could possibly grasp. Remember this: people's reasoned love for their benefactor and their reasonless hatred both grow at equal rates. And the fury of loud hatred cuts far, far deeper and has far more bite than silent affection ever could. You don't believe it? Wait, my friend—the picture's not over yet!


Then one day, trouble finds you. Real trouble, the kind that darkens everything. Why would it find you? In this wretched country, has anyone ever helped others and escaped calamity? Name me one example, just one! No—as punishment for serving others, you will fall into trouble. And when that day comes, you'll have no one to stand with you, no one whose presence could pull you out.


Why won't you? Have people turned into monsters?


No, no. It's not that. Think about it for a moment, won't you?


All those you've helped day after day—they were helpless people. They can barely stand by themselves; how can they stand by you? And remember: the helpless are usually ungrateful. Sometimes they're worse than ungrateful. If they're neither, they're forgetful, doubtful, indifferent. They come seeking help, and once they get it...it's done, goodbye! There's something else interesting about them. They have no fixed colour or character of their own. They're not yours, not mine—they belong to whoever feeds them butter. Even those who put you in danger, you'll find them standing beside that person too! Yes, you will! It's darkly amusing, truly. Don't worry though—once you're free of trouble, they'll be 'by your side' again. Right there, ready to serve! After all this time, why reappear? Hehe... don't you see? You're a milk-giving cow, and they're the ones who trade in milk. Still don't see it? You really are a sweet creature, aren't you? Such a gentle beast.


Those who could ease your burden even a little, whose presence might bring you some peace—they're busy with their own affairs. Or they've got no spare oil to burn, no reason to run toward someone else's trouble. Why should they? What do they gain from it (and what's their angle)?...Humanity? Compassion? Values? These are lovely words, sweet and cute, they make you feel warm inside. Post them on Facebook and you'll get plenty of likes (likes that'll eventually trade into a ticket to heaven, who knows?). The words are in the dictionary too. For humanity, compassion, and values, go consult the dictionary—don't look for them in people. That's the natural order. Why should anyone strain themselves for something you can find by simply opening a book?

# Is There Nothing Else for People to Do but Eat and Gossip?

You know it well enough—some people simply cannot abide you. Not because you’re a bad person, and not because you’ve wronged them. Truth is, you haven’t the time or the taste to hound anyone. But here’s the thing: just because you lack the time and taste doesn’t mean others do. Believe it or not, most people are the idle, good-for-nothing sort, with endless, endless, *endless* time and appetite to chase someone’s shadow. Among them are the educated and the uneducated, the half-educated and the highly learned, the busy and the unemployed, the creative and the sterile—every category under the sun. You rise a little, win some applause, earn a few words of praise, and through these unforgivable crimes alone, you become the object of hatred for countless souls. Perhaps they too once wanted to walk the path your intellect has taken you down, but they couldn’t. Stupidity’s failing always makes the stupid more arrogant and reckless instead. Yes, they hate you in their hearts. In good times, you won’t quite grasp it, but when hardship comes, you’ll feel it bone-deep, vein-deep. Then you’ll see how they’ll do everything necessary to snap your spine for good. They’ll exhaust every ounce of their capacity trying to destroy you. What’s in it for them? In their eyes, you’re turning to dust—and that sight, to them, is one of the world’s most beautiful visions. The price of that envy-born joy? A million taka! You alone are the world’s only thief, and the righteous will surely wish to see a despicable creature like you burnt alive before their eyes. And here’s the thing—many of these people, you’ve known as your devoted well-wishers. Wicked natures always dress themselves in grace and courtesy.

Do you see millions standing beside you now? Don’t let the chatter unsettle you. They’re there hoping to gain from you, or to deafen your ears with their shouts of “Brother, keep going—we’re with you!”, or to wave their memorized slogans about consciousness and ideals in your face to goad you on. When trouble comes, you’ll see what happens! If you find even a handful—say, five people—truly at your side, count yourself blessed; your human life will have meant something. Then you’ll notice: those one or two who do stand by you, you’ve never once counted them as friends, let alone well-wishers, in all your days. They’ll come from nowhere to stand beside you, and the moment your trouble passes, they’ll vanish back into thin air—you won’t even get the chance to say a simple thank you. They’re angels; they can’t be held or touched. You must feel them; thinking of them fills your eyes with tears of gratitude and love, yet you’re never given the chance to repay them, not with the smallest stick of kindling.

But endless talk about all this gets us nowhere. Let me be brief.

In this country, the wages of helping others are paid out in sin, and the wages of harming others in virtue—both are cash payments. I’ll share something I hold dear, something from Shakespeare: “Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.” That “some” means us. In Bengali: “Some rise through wickedness, some fall through virtue.” He wrote *Measure for Measure* in 1603 or 1604. And Bangladesh was born in 1971. How’s that for timing?

# How Much Can Be Found!

Remember this: the activity of your two enemies is far more powerful than the inactivity of two hundred thousand friends. Good people are not destroyed by the blows of bad people—they are destroyed by watching good people stay silent.

Of course, what else can good people do but stay silent? If they speak up, they become the next target. And then who will stand by them? A few horse-stamped Facebook statuses? We must remember this: we have plenty of people who will provoke us, but nobody to stand beside us. (And standing beside someone doesn’t mean writing two lines on Facebook!) You’re not afraid of death? Well, that’s wonderful, splendid, I’m glad to hear it, brother! But you are afraid of getting beaten, aren’t you? Aren’t you? Wait a minute! Are you sure? You better think again! Have you ever been beaten to know what it feels like? From my small experience, I believe this—being alive is far more important than becoming immortal. *”No expectation of immortality, no claims or demands…”* I love this line from Suman’s song “Jatismor”! Nobody in this country has become immortal before dying—we haven’t let them.

Believe me, ninety-nine percent of the people who talk big on Facebook are either hypocrites, putting on airs, or at the extreme end of the scale, swindlers and con artists. Some are paid content-creators—benefited by money or privilege in some way or another. Their main purpose is to get some likes, comments, shares, to increase their followers. Nothing else, nothing else, nothing else! Beyond those posts stuffed with big talk, there’s no consciousness or awakening in them. If you want, go ask around, mix with them a bit. The distance between what comes out of their mouths and what’s in their hearts is light-years apart.

I’ve said all this, and now many will come to contradict everything I’ve said. When you listen to them, you’ll think—yes, that’s right! I have endless friends in the sky and air! Brother, from experience I tell you: this procession of protest voices only marches as far as Facebook! Haven’t you seen a dog? In its own neighborhood it barks so much, it turns the whole place upside down! Outside its territory, it can’t even manage a cat’s meow. We honored Facebook-dwellers are the same thing. On our Facebook walls we go about saving the entire universe, but outside Facebook, not even the street dog cares about us!

We are blessed with a remarkable observation from the venerable Bengali Dr. Muhammad Shahidullah: “As much as we are Hindu or Muslim is true, it is more true that we are Bengali. This is not a matter of ideology; it is a matter of fact. Mother Nature herself has stamped Bengaliness so deeply into our faces and language that it cannot be hidden beneath garlands, tilaks, tikis, or beneath turbans, lungis, and beards.”

Doesn’t it sound lovely, brother? Yes, our greater identity is that we are Bengali. And who better than our people’s leader, the greatest Bengali of a thousand years, Bangabandhu, understood what Bengalis are like? We must return again and again to his observation: “There are two aspects to us Bengalis. One is that we are Muslim, and the other is that we are Bengali. Envy of others’ fortune and treachery flow in our blood. Perhaps no language in the world has this word—*parashrīkātar*. One who becomes distressed seeing another’s good fortune is called *parashrīkātar*—envious. You’ll find envy and malice in every language, in every people there is some of it, but Bengalis have this *parashrīkātar*. Brother, when we see our own brother prosper, we are not happy.

And that is why the Bengali people, despite possessing all manner of virtues, have had to endure a lifetime of oppression at the hands of others.’

A final word: In a land of the blind, you cannot peddle mirrors without paying the price in full and on the spot—not a single mirror more, not one more, not one! For all is said and done, we have but one refrain—do you understand me now?

Forgive me, I have spoken at far too great a length.