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Thought: Eight Hundred and Thirty-four
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One. If you wish to write, you must first bring what you want to write into your own experience. Then you must give form to your feelings through words. The honesty of feeling breathes life into writing.
This might seem easy. But it isn’t.
Most people think they can feel. Some believe it, others simply assume: yes, whatever I’m thinking at this moment, that’s what feeling means. But all of this is actually thought, belief, or knowledge.
Feeling is something different. Without knowing how to feel, one cannot write. Yes, one must learn to feel. This can be learned, but it cannot be taught.
You can think with your intelligence whenever you wish, you can believe from experience, you can acquire knowledge through study or learning. But you cannot feel something simply by willing it. Yet once you learn to feel, you cannot refrain from feeling. It’s like a spell.
Someone can teach you how to think, how to believe, or how to know. But no one can teach you how to feel.
When you’re thinking about something, you’ve surely chosen a path of thought that isn’t your own creation. What you believe, many others have believed before you. What you know, you aren’t the first person to know. But whenever you feel something, you do that work of feeling with your entire being, where no one but you plays the slightest role.
Those who cannot feel in their own complete way find writing nearly impossible. We live in a world that constantly teaches us how to be like this person, what to do to become like that person. So the struggle to live in one’s own way here must be fought against the world itself. This war of remaining completely honest to one’s own intimate feelings is eternal. Those who never discover this struggle suffer much less in their living.
It’s easy to say what others think.
It’s easy to write what others write.
It’s easy to live as others live.
It’s difficult to write what others could have felt.
It’s difficult to write what I myself feel.
Writers can do the last two things. The work isn’t easy. If understanding and writing one’s own and others’ feelings were easy, the number of sorrowful people in this world would become countless.
The suffering a writer must endure in the beginning of this work of writing—those who cannot write could never even imagine it. Once one becomes accustomed to it, the work, if not easy, at least prepares the writer’s mind gradually for doing it.
A writer’s mind doesn’t match others’. By “others” here, I also mean the person the writer is when not writing. That is, when a writer is writing, what they are then, they are not at all during other times.
A writer’s daily existence is one of melancholy. Before their eyes: a white page and the entire world. The writer must establish some kind of relationship—of love, rebellion, or indifference—between these two.
This is a trap of illusion, one in which he willingly remains ensnared until death.
Does the task seem difficult? Perhaps it is!
Ask this question to a writer. His answer will be something like this: the task seems easier than death.
If the answer is something different, then he is probably not a writer at all.
Two. Most of us make a mistake.
We suspect those who are truly uncouth of being uncouth.
We suspect those who truly hate us of being haters.
We suspect those who are truly harmful of being harmful.
We suspect those who are truly foolish of being foolish.
We suspect those who are truly worthless of being worthless.
We suspect those who are truly senseless of being senseless.
We suspect those who are truly petty of being petty.
In my own experience, I’ve seen that almost always, what our sixth sense suspects of people at first consideration turns out to be true. When someone seems uncouth, there’s no point in questioning whether they seem uncouth or not—they are simply an unadulterated uncouth person! There’s no point in giving space to the uncouth. In about 98% of cases, what our sixth sense tells us about people proves correct. So it’s better to take whatever first impression you have of someone and prepare yourself mentally accordingly—so that when they throw a brick and crack your head open before running away, you can hurl a stone and break their leg.
You might ask: what about that 2% when the mind is wrong?
The answer is this: if in the process of removing 98 uncouth people from your life, 2 good people mistakenly get removed along with them, there’s no problem. Because those 98 good people have neither the ability nor the inclination to provide even half the benefit that just 2 uncouth people can cause harm. Good people are generally harmless and self-serving by nature. I’ve said this in a previous post, and I’ll say it again: we fall into trouble not because of the vocal few bad people, but because of the silence of countless good people.
If you keep someone in your life who doesn’t need to be there, you’ll have to pay a steep price for it. Without thinking twice, remove them from your life, or if that’s not possible, distance yourself from them. You’ll see—you’ll be better off.
Three. It’s better to appear arrogant in people’s eyes than to be miserable.
Humility that brings sorrow is not humility, but weakness.
Four. As many people, so many paper lanterns!
Five. Let me teach you a simple life-hack, shall I?
Never give any information to someone who doesn’t need it from you, or who has no business knowing that information.
This is why I get extremely annoyed when strangers come to my wall or inbox trying to discuss my personal matters (job, family, etc.). And once I’m annoyed, I don’t give them another chance to annoy me. You only get to know as much as I choose to share myself. Those who get to know more than that—you’re not among them.
You might try following this technique too. It could bring you some peace.
**Thought: Eight Hundred Thirty-Five
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One. How strange we are!
The one who wants to escape, we won’t let escape.
The one who wants to return, we won’t let return.
The one who wants neither—we just keep kicking them, endlessly kicking!
People say, “When you’re happy, ghosts come to torment you!”
Complete nonsense! The truth is, when we’re happy, we torment the ghosts!
We can’t tolerate happiness, we can’t tolerate sorrow.
We simply don’t understand what we should tolerate and what we shouldn’t!
Two. My complexion may have been a bit dark,
People often called me a crow!
Together we two could match your husband’s belly,
And I see his head’s gone bald too!
You’re so allergic to darkness, that’s why
Your husband’s fair head has not a hair in sight!
Three. Why do you show such logic, seek freedom,
Make excuses to forget?
I’m now a distant person,
No longer your own!
Four. Eid Mubarak! Eid Mubarak! Eid Mubarak! Eid Mubarak!
I’ve received countless greetings from all of you. Thank you everyone. I didn’t get a single invitation from anyone. If I had, I would have been overwhelmed with joy. And if I’d received even a hundred taka as salami from someone, I would have literally wept with emotion!
I love you all very much. Next time, remember—take my love, give me salami!
Your dry love has brought tears to my eyes. Shedding tears, I’ve thought—everyone who loves me is so stingy! Not one exception! Stingy in front, stingy behind, stingy on the right, stingy on the left! Ah, ah, this must be what they call the spiritual bond among loving people! I’m crying even as I write this post…I don’t know when these tears will stop! Long live the love of stingy people!
Stay well, everyone.
Five. To that closed number, I used to send “Happy Birthday” on a special day, sent it for many years. In the exquisite light and breeze of the moment just before rain falls, sitting to one side of a rickshaw, I would wander alone through that person’s favorite streets for many, many days. Though I don’t enjoy vegetarian food, I would go to vegetarian restaurants and sit in that old chair by the window, eating rice with vegetables at least once every month. This same me would put on a large red bindi that I disliked and stand silently before the mirror. Once upon a time, someone wanted to see me in a red bindi. And yes, I still don’t wear high heels—high heels were something that person found terribly annoying. I still suppress my infinite desire and only watch the rain, never get wet in it. Standing on the roof, that person didn’t like me getting drenched in the rain.
I haven’t worn my favorite nude lipstick since the day he said, “When someone with such beautiful lips wears lipstick, it’s an injustice to their own beauty.”
Someone had jokingly asked me to dress up like Michael Jackson and take a photo. I had done exactly that, and took the picture too, but hid it away fearing someone at home might see. Whenever I open that 2016 diary, I find his scent lingering on every page—front and back, in commas and periods, in the ink of my pen, in every single word. I had sworn not to change as I grew older, almost forcibly binding myself to my former age. I was afraid—what if that person returned? What if he came back and couldn’t accept my transformed new self and left again?
But these days, many things trouble me deeply.
I think now: is there any reason to ignore the rain for someone who never even noticed me despite my kohl-rimmed eyes, despite speaking while looking into his eyes?
What’s the point of keeping my hair loose with such care, wandering around like a vagrant, for someone whose nostrils never found the path to catch the fragrance of my open hair?
Why had I stopped wearing my favorite lipstick for someone whose heart could never be touched by the tenderness of the alta on my soft feet?
What’s the explanation for my vegetarian diet while remembering someone who never knew how to kiss away the vermillion from my forehead?
Why should I scream and cry so much for someone who couldn’t spare even a moment to listen to me on a single holiday?
Shouldn’t I have thought once more before swallowing a handful of sleeping pills and writhing on a hospital bed for someone whose love began and ended in bed?
People fall in love with the wrong person. So did I.
People cry for the wrong person. So did I.
People listen to the wrong person. So did I.
People follow the wrong person’s path. So did I.
People live with the wrong person. So did I.
People learn life’s most important lesson from the wrong person. I did too. Having learned it, I no longer make mistakes in understanding people. I used to think I had lost that person. Now I understand—that person lost me! I used to feel sad thinking about my fate. Now I feel pity knowing about that person’s misfortune. There’s no greater foolishness than shedding tears thinking about someone who never had a place for me in their eyes!
Six. Don’t force someone out of their comfort zone to show love or respect. Even if they can’t say anything outwardly, they become very irritated inside.
If someone wants to eat rice and lentils, don’t force them to have biryani.
If someone wants to wear a t-shirt, don’t force them into a suit and tie.
If someone wants to ride in a rickshaw, don’t force them into a car.
If someone wants to drink plain tea, don’t force cappuccino on them.
If someone doesn’t want to share their phone password, don’t strain your precious eyes trying to figure it out.
If someone wants to sit on the floor and eat with their hands and feet spread out, don’t force them to sit at the dining table.
If someone is used to eating light meals, don’t invite them home and force them to eat more.
If someone wants to stand on the street and eat chatpati and puchka, don’t drag them to an air-conditioned restaurant.
If someone cannot take a joke about a particular subject, do not joke with them about it.
If someone does not wish to hear your advice, do not force it upon them for their own good.
Such behavior breeds irritation in people; out of politeness or to avoid trouble, they may say nothing. If someone falls ill or mixes with you carrying a burden of annoyance just to spare your feelings, is that a good thing? What is the point of force-feeding someone delicious food and upsetting their stomach? They are the ones who must suffer, not you.
I often see people who visit others’ homes and, without properly washing their hands and face, proceed to caress a small child. In showing love for the child, they make the child sick! The family, trying to preserve the guest’s feelings, pushes their own child toward illness. Even if that guest happens to be the child’s grandparents, the situation remains intensely irritating for the child’s parents! When the child falls sick, it is the parents who must suffer, not the guest.
Everyone has a personal comfort zone. Remove them from it, and they become irritated. The best way to show someone respect or love is to let them be as they wish to be. Only they know what brings them joy. Everyone else’s assumptions in this regard are false. It is better to ask where someone finds happiness and offer them joy precisely there. Without doing so, even the most sincere efforts fail.
Reflection: Eight Hundred Thirty-Six
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One. Birds somehow know when it is time to leave. Humans cannot know this. Humans wait and keep on waiting. Waiting for what? Humans do not know the answer. When it is time to leave, birds simply leave. Yet even when it is time for us to leave, we remain. Staying when it is time brings as much joy as staying when it is not time brings suffering. Humans wait and keep on waiting. They do not themselves know what they are waiting for. Not knowing is precisely why they suffer. Those who do not know how to value waiting are the very ones for whom others wait.
Birds can sense when darkness will fall. Humans cannot. Because they can sense it, birds keep themselves away from all the blows of darkness. Life is the name for passing through darkness! Yet humans surrender themselves to darkness’s embrace. After making all arrangements to embrace darkness, when darkness arrives, humans think this must be fate! Even while drowning in darkness, humans think: light lies just ahead! Light within arm’s reach! From darkness that cannot be moved, one must move oneself away. Birds know this simple truth; humans do not.
Birds leave behind all the needless burdens of life. Because they make themselves light, they can fly far distances with ease. Humans do not know how to let go; they prefer to keep themselves heavy. What to cherish and what to release—birds understand this, humans do not. Because they cannot understand, humans suffer more. When memories and mementos prevent forward movement, they must be discarded. If creating new memories even slightly coats the old ones, what need is there to live in old memories and keep oneself in suffering? Memories do not vanish, but they certainly do fade. That effort must surely be made! When will we ever learn from the birds?
Birds understand there is no such thing as an end. They know that changing places makes survival easier. They know how to shift location. But shifting location doesn’t mean abandoning the old place forever. When a trusted and familiar place turns hostile to survival, that place must be given time to become favorable again. Birds know this, understand this. Meanwhile, humans think, “This is it! This is the end!” This shelter is their life’s final refuge! Birds move to other shelters before it’s too late. Humans don’t leave, and because they don’t leave, they slowly suffocate and die in the wrong shelter. When a house catches fire, one must abandon attachment to that house. Those who cannot let go will burn to death. There is no such thing as a trustworthy address. An address where someone cannot live well has surely lost all its trustworthiness!
Birds draw other birds close. They know that to live means to draw others near. The same mantra lives in all their hearts, so they have no trouble surviving. Birds don’t draw near because they understand each other—they draw near simply because they are birds. On the other hand, humans keep other humans at a distance. Coming close means having to share. Unlike birds, humans haven’t learned to give up their portion. So when someone comes close, humans view them with suspicion instead. Humans decide whether to draw other humans near or push them away based on understanding. Here there is no justice. The verdict is shaped by understanding who is being judged and whose hands hold the judgment. Not events, not truth, but rather human understanding creates both justice and injustice. Therefore, living alone in suffering is humanity’s destiny.
The death of one bird touches another bird far more than human death touches humans. Birds have learned to feel this spiritual bond. And because they’ve learned this, their hearts contain love. This love spreads among all of them. Birds never need much to feel love. But human love works only for those who are close. Whether someone distant remains in this world or leaves it makes no difference to humans. Humans lack this humane quality that birds possess. Somehow birds have stolen away all of humanity’s humaneness!
Even when they reach the world’s farthest boundaries, birds remember exactly where their journey began. Humans, the moment they move to another room, throw all the happy memories of the previous room into the garbage.
Two. Then tell me, how many screenshots of my various comments and fake posts made about me have you carefully saved on your phone to show at your job interview? Remember to print them out—if you can’t show them to the interview board at the right moment, they’ll kick you out of the room.
Don’t stop, keep up the research. Let’s see what you find! Not everyone is unemployed—some are just pointless! If you have pen and paper nearby, write this down somewhere right now. This person you’re chasing after—you’ll still be trailing behind them five years from today. Someone who’s ahead or has the ability to get ahead never chases after anyone. This futile mentality of trailing behind will keep you behind for life.
Three. : Are you awake?
: Did you just notice today? Or is today the first day your new conversation partner has vanished?
Four. My peace is more important than your love.
Love me or hate me, don’t destroy my peace. I feel attraction only towards them who give me peace.
I feel more comfortable in the peaceful no-love zone than in the disturbing love zone.
Not love, peace and only peace is the last word for me.
Five. Dear Prashanto and Shatabdi,
The ghostly labor you two have put in these past days has left me profoundly inspired. That old version of myself keeps returning to my imagination—the one who once dreamed of doing business, who at one time worked with unbelievable intensity day after day. Not everyone will understand this passion of yours, because not everyone has walked this path.
What I could not accomplish, you are achieving. It is beautiful to witness. The victory of hardworking people feels like one’s own victory! This ability to toil so much is an enormous blessing. Working requires opportunity, requires worthy cause. Not everyone has these; many search earnestly but never find such a platform! You have found it, and you are using this time properly.
There is no greater fortune than being able to work hard. Whoever possesses the capacity and will to spend both sweat and intellect never falls behind. I have saved the Roupyarup page to my favorites, so I see all your posts. Seeing the satisfaction and enthusiasm of your customers brings immense joy. Customers are like gods; keeping them happy is the fundamental work of business.
Never compromising on product quality, delivering goods properly in the shortest time, maintaining complete harmony between word and deed, being able to select the most beautiful ornaments with care—for these reasons, Roupyarup has reached the pinnacle position for silver jewelry in Bangladesh within just a year and a half. Roupyarup is like your child; may your child grow strong and prosperous.
When others are walking, you must run! When others are running, you run on a different path! Even if you sell water, sell it in such a way that no one even thinks of coming close to your level. Be unique, be insurmountable.
I do not pray that you merely hold your position.
My prayer is that you surpass yourselves every single day.
With blessings—
Your elder brother
Postscript. When making nasty comments about Roupyarup or giving ha-ha reacts, keep in mind that you have no need for Sushanto Pal, and the likelihood of needing him in the future is extremely slim. You came to my page for your own purposes; no one invited you here. Everything you get here, you get completely free. On my page’s wall, I will promote my younger brother as much as I please. I’m not going to your wall to promote—I never have and never will, rest assured! I don’t care for anyone’s advice about what I should or shouldn’t do. My days haven’t become that desperate yet. If you object to this, please leave immediately. When blocking someone from the page, I don’t think twice even for a second—you all know this. The page’s block list has millions of members, because I have absolutely no time for unnecessary pain. You don’t even have a lungi to wear, yet you come to teach me how to wear pants! This isn’t arrogance; this is a preference for peace.
Thought: Eight Hundred Thirty-Seven
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One. I have heard that you are bad. Therefore, you are bad. Hearsay can never be false!
I know that I am bad. Still, I am not bad. Known truths can certainly be false!
Two. Ordinary people pursue only those they know.
They only recognize those who serve them in some way or other. They never pursue the rest, no matter how many reasons there might be to pursue them. How can they pursue someone they don’t even recognize? It’s only on familiar faces that we notice the blemish marks most clearly!
To help others means to endanger oneself. That’s why it’s best to help in exchange for money. Then ingratitude and betrayal no longer sting. Even the stench of filth flees before the scent of money! Funny thing is, even when you help people for free, they’ll think you surely have some ulterior motive! It’s far more comfortable to help while actually having an agenda. In the petty person’s judgment, even nobility is a kind of pettiness!
“None came upon this earth to trouble themselves over you,”
Trouble yourself over others, and you’ll die from the wounds of the ungrateful!
Three. The highly educated petty person and the uneducated petty person—they’re the same thing. The first group commits pettiness while speaking high-sounding words, the second group commits pettiness while speaking cheap words. At day’s end, both groups have exactly the same mentality.
Four. Many people become happy when they hear abuses like “son of a dog,” “son of a pig,” “son of a thief,” “son of a monster,” thinking, “Good! The insult fell on my parents, not on me!” Others get angry thinking, “How dare he! He’s dragging my parents into this to insult me!”
Both groups have some misunderstanding.
When someone calls another person “son of a dog” or something similar, one must understand that the insult is actually directed at that person, not at his parents. How so?
Dog, pig, thief, monster—among the Bengali words widely used for hurling abuse, people don’t mean anything good by those words. You might say that dogs are wonderful creatures, so using a dog’s name as abuse isn’t really abuse at all. You must also understand that the person who mentions dogs while hurling the abuse doesn’t keep the good qualities of dogs in mind during the insult, but rather their dirty or bad aspects. This dog is certainly not the beloved dog from Ishwarchandra Gupta’s verse: “How much love I show, holding our country’s dog dear, while abandoning foreign gods.”
Therefore, when people abuse someone by calling them the offspring of such creatures, they assume that their children or offspring will be just as bad as them. You might say that children don’t always turn out like their parents—sometimes they’re different! Yes, that’s natural! But you must consider the belief or reason behind the abuse-giver’s words. People hurl such abuses believing that the offspring of base creatures are also base. Dog-like behavior, pig-like behavior, thief-like behavior, monster-like behavior—abuse-givers certainly don’t think well of such behaviors. Those who do think well of them don’t use those terms as abuse.
So if someone calls you their offspring as an insult, you must understand that in their stereotypical thinking and belief, considering how such offspring turn out, they think of you as exactly that bad, vile, base, evil, dirty kind of person. To someone for whom “son of a dog” is an insult, they usually don’t think about the offspring’s father or mother, but rather about offspring with certain bad characteristics. Parents are dragged into this because when people insult someone directly, they get somewhat angry, but when parents are brought in for the insult, they get much angrier. This serves the abuse-giver’s purpose.
Abuse is nothing more than a technique for making insults stick properly.
So when someone calls you son of a bitch, son of a pig, son of a thief, son of an inhuman being, etc., there’s no reason to think the abuse is directed at your parents—rather, you yourself have truly received the abuse. No one abuses by dragging in your father and mother; they abuse you directly. “Son of a bitch” means someone possessing the genetically bad traits of a bitch. Again I say, here the dog’s loyalty, simplicity, devotion to master, etc., are not taken into account. To put it even more simply, when someone abuses us by saying “Damn you, gentleman’s son!” then in their mind are only those gentlemen whose children didn’t turn out right, couldn’t become gentlemen like their parents. Bringing in the parents is nothing but strategy.
So in abuse there are never anyone’s parents, only the person themselves. But yes, there is one exception! When people abuse by saying “thief’s father,” “thief’s mother,” or something like that, then something different happens. The person whose father or whose mother they’re referring to—the abuse is given with that person in mind. Even if the thief’s father or thief’s mother might be good people, the abuser wants them to feel shame about their child upon hearing that abuse. Here in the abuser’s eyes, they are failed parents; they may not be bad as human beings.
On the other hand, “son of a thief” is a completely solid abuse with no adulteration. The person to whom the abuse is given is the sole target of that abuse, not their father or mother. Here in the abuser’s eyes, they themselves are bad, their characteristics are bad, they are bad as a human being; bringing in their parents is to hurt them mentally.
So if you’re a son of a bitch, it doesn’t mean your parents are dogs—you yourself are the dog. That dog doesn’t come close and wag its tail happily, but runs up and bites without reason. That dog doesn’t sit in your lap eating biscuits but rummages around eating garbage. When your friend or loved one sometimes calls you “son of a bitch” affectionately, you’d be wrong to confuse that affectionate “son of a bitch” with the abusive “son of a bitch.” Therefore, even someone who respects your parents has every right to give you that abuse comfortably. Upon hearing the abuse “son of a bitch,” there’s no reason to get angry imagining your parents’ innocent faces and consider yourself free of abuse.
People give the abuse “son of a thief” looking at the child, not looking at the thief; they give the abuse “thief’s father” looking at the thief, not looking at the father. The person who calls you “son of a thief” may not even know your father; but the person who calls you “thief’s father” certainly knows your child.
**Thought: Eight Hundred Thirty-Eight
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One. This country is not for gentlemen. I lost the right to live in peace the very day when, after the doctor pushed an injection into my bottom, little me said “Thank you!” despite my face crumpling with pain.
Dear parents, where do I go now?
Two. Almost everyone embraces even the worthless person from the street, if that person speaks ill of someone they dislike; even if that bad talk is false to their knowledge, there’s no problem. This is how the street person rises in status, and the other falls in status or reveals their true nature.
Looking at those who pursue you, you’ll see that in old age, they have only that one achievement in life to tell stories about to their grandchildren: “You know, my whole life was spent pursuing people!”
How many people have I troubled in this life! Can you show me another such blessed human birth?’
Three. If life is the greatest teacher, then that teacher’s most important class is love. Love arrives, then after tumultuous love comes the breakup. What happens next? Various feelings and experiences teach life many things. A single breakup changes a person profoundly. This breakup teaches us to view life’s different aspects and thoughts from another perspective. One’s inner strength increases considerably. However, overcoming the initial shock is truly very difficult. I have read the tales of separation of thousands of people over many years. Many have shared the pain of this phase of their lives with me through letters, emails, and phone calls. I haven’t always been able to counsel everyone—due to lack of time or opportunity, I couldn’t help many, but I have listened attentively to each person’s story and read every letter. Remarkably, most wounded hearts, even knowing they might be bloodied again, become eager to embrace love just as before. Viewed this way, one might say that love addiction is no less intense than drug addiction. True love is created through accepting both the good and bad sides of someone. Not pretense, but if someone can love you by accepting you exactly as you are, then that is genuine love.
Four. When someone cannot pay equal rent while sharing a room with others and thus has no say in decisions about that room, they are called a poor student.
When someone pays the entire rent while sharing a house with others, yet the person paying has no say in decisions about that house, they are called the head of the household.
Five. Marriage is like a fishing net—good people get caught, bad people get caught.
The fishing net makes no distinction between big fish and small fish; everyone gets caught. Not a single fish escapes!
Marriage too makes no distinction between good and bad people; everyone gets caught. Not a single person escapes!
Six. I feel,
each breath, obstructed by you, returns to me…
yet there is no one called you.
Seven. (If anyone can translate this post into Bengali, they will be awarded the Nobel Prize.)
: How are you, baby?
: How else would I be? Just like people live without love, that’s how I am.
: Don’t be angry, baby. You don’t like me, do you?
: I don’t know.
: Do you have good-bad people? Should I give tomorrow?
: Everyone has good-bad. Give the day after tomorrow.
: Haven’t you found your job yet?
: I will find it, I’ll find it even if you stay behind me. Wait a few more days, baby.
: Listen, what will you do at night?
: I won’t tell you, I’ll do what I want.
: What? Hey, hey, what are you saying?
: Nothing. Why are you talking so much? I don’t understand anything.
: OMG, what did I write wrong?
: Here baby, tell, wrong, good-bad, what, all this.
: Oh, the boy seems to be educated? Expressing one’s thoughts is quite difficult.
: So you’ll tell me to stay behind you?
: Don’t be angry, dear. Listen, will you look at my book, please?
: Book? What will I see in the book? Do these seem black to you? Is love black? Do you think my mind is black?
: Baby, don’t call it black. Black means football black, means fish… that’s been around for a hundred years…
: What, you called my fish black? Don’t you have shame?
: What, such big words? I have no shame? Will you see my shame? Wait, I’m showing…
: Indecent, shameless. Are you this bad? I’m leaving, breaking up with you.
Eight. If you leave me and go away…
I will not curse you. May you be well.
If ever for some reason you lose consciousness from lack of oxygen, may there be such a friend who comes to your side, holds your lower jaw, opens your mouth wide and breathes air into your lungs… someone who last brushed their teeth a week and a half ago.
I will not curse you. May you be well.
Nine. I have been to Agra so many times, yet still I have never made it to the Taj Mahal! Why? From doubt, restraint, hesitation… The anticipation of joy is itself the greatest joy! When you get everything, happiness slips away. Hope has greater power to sustain us than desire.
Ten. We met,
love did not happen.
We spoke,
a relationship did not happen.
Yet see, how terribly I have loved you—
I still place myself near the top of the list of happy people!
I am burning fiercely,
people think… it’s fever!
Burning and burning, I now understand—
it is not love, but love’s wounds that are precious!
Eleven. This victory is ours! This victory belongs to the entire Bengali nation! To celebrate the joy of this victory, I have brought some more gifts for you all. This cup belongs to all of us! This book belongs to all of us! This achievement belongs to all of Bangladesh! May everyone have a good time with the cup and the book.
When Brazil loses, Bangladesh wins!
When Argentina loses, Bangladesh wins!
Even if Bangladesh had won, Bangladesh would have won!
Come, let us all give more and more status updates. Status updates keep the mind cheerful.
Twelve. : Hey, can you make tea? Milk tea?
: Yes.
: Alright, we like the boy. We don’t want any dowry, we’ll just take the boy himself. Our daughter can spend the whole day happily with just tea. She will keep your son quite content.
When my daughter wakes up in the morning, one cup; when she returns from the office, one cup; then every hour on the hour, if he can just make one cup of tea, that will suffice. And the household cooking? We’ll provide someone for that ourselves. On holidays though, my daughter will cook—she loves cooking very much.
Your son will have no work other than making tea with his lungi tucked up. If he wants, he can watch serials like ‘Srimoyee,’ ‘Anupama,’ play ludo, cards, carrom, kutkut with the neighborhood brothers. And most importantly, if he wants, he can even flirt with the neighborhood sister-in-laws. Our daughter is quite modern and believes in individual freedom—she’s only enslaved to tea. She only wants tea. We want your son’s tea to be very good—beyond that we have no other demands.
In our house, your son will live like a king. Tell me, are you agreeable?
**Thought: Eight Hundred Forty-Nine
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One. The day I die, outside there will be an overwhelming flood of moonlight. Two or three crickets will fly here and there, grow tired, and fall asleep on a blade of grass. Through the gaps in the trees, moonlight will play, scattered and sprinkled across the courtyard. By the window, on my beloved kadamba tree, two kadamba flowers will bloom and immediately fall away. Outside, cold winds will blow fiercely. I will want to reach through the window grille again and again to touch the winds. With closed eyes I will try to understand—what color do they look like? Blue? Brown? Or bright red?
Standing proudly atop the tall coconut tree, the crescent moon will face me and speak. My pet cat will keep rubbing against my legs, over and over.
The pair of tailor birds I talk to every day on the balcony—they’ll keep trying to tell me something, over and over, and I won’t understand a word of it. The lemon tree I used to meet daily will probably weep, drop by drop. Why it will weep, I don’t know. The gecko that just set up house in the corner of my wardrobe will stare at me with unblinking eyes. It will wonder: Will we meet again?
I wonder, what day of the week will it be when I die? Most likely a Thursday.
Three dogs at the mouth of the lane wait for me every day. When I come home, even if I haven’t brought so much as a chocolate for anyone in my family, I somehow always buy biscuits for those three dogs. The moment they see me, they come to my feet, jumping with joy, and lie down, pressing against me. No one in this world is happier about my homecoming than they are. I can tell they don’t nuzzle me just for the biscuits. I know these three dogs will sit at that street corner for many years, waiting for my return.
That day my girlfriend said she would wait a thousand years for me. I know that fifty-six days after I die, she’ll marry her friend Pratap just so she can forget me. Only those three dogs, and no one else, will ever truly wait for me.
The day I die, a baby will be born in Uncle Jamil’s house next door. Perhaps after dying, I’ll be reborn as that baby. But why would such a thing happen? I don’t even believe in reincarnation! Well, if reincarnation is false, then will no one ever return?
I will die on some dusky evening. Nothing special will happen that evening—I’ll just die. Death isn’t a spectacular event. Everyone I know will still be there, except me. Six cockroaches will share and devour my half-eaten bread. I won’t see any of this!
The day I die, I was supposed to go to the sea with friends the next day. But that next day will never come in my life. Our homes remain furnished and decorated; only the person who lived there is gone.
After my death, everyone will cry terribly over my corpse. My parents and brother will faint repeatedly from weeping. For three days after my death, my girlfriend will sleep on sleeping pills. All my friends will sob, holding each other tight.
For seven days after my death, everyone will cry bitterly. Almost every night, my mother will wake up suddenly and burst into tears. Everyone will feel immense pity for me. Feeling pity for the dead is the way of things.
After seven days, everyone will slowly forget. But as long as those three dogs at the street corner live, they will never forget me. They will wait every evening, believing I will return. Everything for everyone will end with me, but only their waiting will endure.
All my life I did so much for so many people, thought so much, gave up so much—yet I will live on only in the waiting of three dogs!
Two. If every time I miss you and love you could be sent as a notification to your Facebook… you would truly be terrified!
Three. Nawab Siraj-ud-Daulah’s most trusted person was Mir Jafar. This very “close confidant” committed the most heinous betrayal against Siraj-ud-Daulah.
Julius Caesar could never have imagined, not even for a moment, that Brutus was distant from him. Yet it was Brutus—his closest friend—who plunged the dagger into Caesar’s chest! We all know how close Khondkar Moshtaq was to Sheikh Mujib’s family, how much Bangabandhu loved Moshtaq, considering him one of his own.
Do you know what the most terrible tragedy of our lives is? Our greatest beliefs are shattered by our most trusted people. The greatest damage to our lives is inflicted by those closest to us before they walk away. We make certain people close to us who are unworthy not just of being distant acquaintances, but of the very name “human being.”
The person who doesn’t know my vulnerabilities will never get the chance to strike me where I’m weak. How can someone I don’t trust break my trust? Trust is broken only by those we consider trustworthy. Harm is done by those we think of as close and allow near us. This trust brings the greatest sorrow to human life.
Life’s most crushing defeat is being betrayed by those who are close and trusted. When distant people break something, they at least leave the wall standing; when close people break something, they shatter everything—home, heart, windows, doors—inch by inch, completely. They break everything and leave it utterly destroyed.
Through repeated blows and betrayals, we eventually learn to win. We can catch someone spinning lies, we can smile knowingly when we sense deception and walk away in the opposite direction. The only thing we cannot do is trust someone new with a few secrets, cannot hold someone to our chest and fearlessly share our deepest buried pain. The reason is that as we grow older, life teaches us through hard experience that our closest people are actually our most distant ones.
There is no greater punishment than having to live mistrusting everyone. This is the only punishment on earth that people don’t receive for their own faults.
Reflection: Eight Hundred and Forty
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One. Give attention to the ill-mannered and they become everything; ignore them and they become nothing.
Two. There isn’t a single boss in this world whose child is unattractive. If anyone calls your child unattractive, know that you are not their boss. Asking for opinions about your child’s beauty from someone who works under you, or speaking well of your child’s beauty in front of them, is nothing but immaturity. To everyone, both their own child and their boss’s child are flawless, perfect. The first of these perceptions is called parental love, the second is called strategy. There’s no greater hypocrisy than suppressing someone’s ability to give an independent opinion and then asking them for that opinion. If you have the honest courage, seek that opinion from someone who has no vested interest in you—provided they have the qualifications to give such an opinion.
Three. (Anyone who can translate this post will be given this student’s tutoring position. Handsome salary, give it a try!)
Do you know, it is raining like, you know, cats and dogs here? Oh! How you know! I mad!
Because of this rain, our electricity is going-coming, again, you know, going-coming. That’s why, I can not reading, okay? But I good student and should read very okay, you know! I need pass intermediate. Otherwise, I will not qualification DU admit. If not qualification, I not live!
My mother upset, father depress. They not believe me now, because my love Bijoy. Did not tell description Bijoy?
Come on, Bijoy, boyfriend! Now I little, deep love. I become big, Bijoy do job, then we marriage. Etc., etc. You understand? I cannot understand father-mother that love is love position, and DU is DU position. Why people mix? I handle both, love side education. Huh.
You know sure my English? English is favorite mine. That’s why, I am give admit D-unit, instead of A-unit. English has good sense me, no you?
But I also read Bangla well.
*Pilsuje bati jwale mitir mitir*…it is, you know, called dvir̥ukti, though in what sense, I forget. But I don’t care!
O, ogha, oja, ona…uposhorgo or onoshorgo, French or Farsi, I not sure, but no problem! I will handle my side-boy!
Bidya plus aloy equals bidyaloy, it is called maybe byonjon-sondhi, or bishorgo can be! No matter, I will look pasher khata to sure.
Boktritadane potu je…this must be bachal, or motivational speaker can be also. Both correct, I sure! You know, protisobdo also given sometimes! Question e jeta given thakbe, you know, I will tick mark, or maybe britto-bharat! DU come tick mark or britto-bharat? No problem, I will sure.
You see, how is my Bangla?
It is very joss, I right? I know sure I pass.
Now time for general knowledge. You know, it is shongkhepe GK.
: Who was Bangladesh’s first female Prime Minister?
– Siri…or Shiri…or Sri…Mavo Bondar…Nayak…or Nayke…or Nayeke? I not sure, but I look book, she famous, common question, no problem!
: Who discovered that trees have life?
– Tree-lover Mohadev Saha. This name has my BF uncle, same name, maybe same person! OMG!
: Inventor of the pen?
: Thomas or Thomas Alva something son, maybe Edi or Bidi. You know, he is more or less everything inventor. His name answer every inventor question, no problem! He is supergenius! He must be DU or BUET admit pass! I sure!
Yeaaaah…! You see my GK?
Now it’s time math.
I know math badly. Calculus so tough. Differentiation is father tough. Integration I forget everything! Bolbidya don’t touch me never. The other math I can some memory.
Please, help me my math.
Please, come on!
Give deep strong tips. I will rock English, Bangla, GK. I want know very good math. Come and learn me math.
Otherwise, my father mother will not marry me Bijoy. If Bijoy not mine, I suicide. If I suicide, Bijoy suicide, if Bijoy suicide, Bijoy whole family suicide. If all suicide, police case my father. You don’t know my father. If police come home, father will go to graveyard. Again dig my grave, and he tell me, ‘DU is not for everyone, dear!’
Four. Our great failure as human beings is this: we get paid for precisely the work we don’t like at all.
Those who get paid for the work they love are very fortunate.