Thought: Eight Hundred Thirty-Four
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One. If you wish to write, you must first bring into your own feeling what it is you wish to write about. Then you must make that feeling bloom through certain words. The sincerity of feeling gives writing its life.
It may seem that the task is simple. But in truth, it is not.
Most people believe they are capable of feeling. Some hold this as faith, others simply assume it: yes, what I am thinking at this moment—that is what it means to feel. But all of this is, in reality, merely thinking, belief, or knowledge.
Feeling is something else entirely. Without knowing how to feel, one cannot write. Yes, one must know how to feel. It can be learned, though it cannot be taught.
You can think with your intellect if you wish, believe from experience if you wish, acquire knowledge through study or learning if you wish. But you cannot feel something simply because you wish to. And once you have learned to feel, you cannot help but feel—it is a kind of enchantment.
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 are thinking about something, you have surely chosen a path of thought—one that is not of your own making. What you believe has been believed by many before you. What you have come to know, you are not the first to know. But when you feel something, you do so with your entire being, in which no one but you has any part whatsoever.
Those who cannot feel in their own way, entirely their own, find it nearly impossible to write. We live in a world that constantly teaches us how to become like this person or that, what to do to become like someone else. So from within this world, the struggle to live in one’s own way must be waged against the world itself. This eternal war—to remain wholly faithful to one’s most intimate feeling—is one that has always endured. Those who have not glimpsed it find living demands far less of them.
It is easy to say what others think.
It is easy to write what others have written.
It is easy to live as others live.
It is difficult to write what others could only feel.
It is difficult to write what I myself feel.
Writers are capable of the last two tasks. The task is not easy. If understanding and writing one’s own and others’ feelings were simple, this world would overflow with the suffering multitude.
The pain that a writer must endure in the beginning of this writing—those who cannot write cannot even imagine it. Once accustomed to it, the task, though not made easy, finds the writer’s mind gradually preparing itself to undertake it.
The writer’s mind does not accord with others’. By “others,” I mean the person the writer is when he is not writing. In other words, when the writer is writing, he is something he is in no way at any other time.
The writer’s days are sorrowful. Before his eyes, a blank page and the entire world. Between these two, the writer must forge a relationship—of love, of rebellion, or of indifference.
It is a trap of illusion, one in which he willingly ensnares himself until death.
Does the work seem difficult? Perhaps it is!
Ask this question of a writer. His answer will be something like this: the work feels easier than death.
If the answer is different, then he is probably not a writer at all.
Two. Most of us commit a mistake.
We doubt those who are genuinely rude are rude.
We doubt those who are genuinely our haters are haters.
We doubt those who are genuinely harmful are harmful.
We doubt those who are genuinely foolish are foolish.
We doubt those who are genuinely worthless are worthless.
We doubt those who are genuinely senseless are senseless.
We doubt those who are genuinely small-minded are small-minded.
From my own experience, I have seen this: what our sixth sense suspects at first glance—nearly always, that is exactly what they are. If someone seems rude, there is nothing uncertain about it—they are unmistakably, unadulterated rude! There is no point in giving rudeness a chance. In nearly 98% of cases, what our sixth sense tells us about people proves true. So it is best to form your mental defenses from the start based on your first impression—so that when he throws a brick at your head and tries to flee, you can break his leg with a stone.
You might ask: what about those 2% of cases where intuition misleads?
The answer is this: if, while removing 98 rude people from your life, 2 good people accidentally get removed with them, there is no real harm. Because those 2 rude people can inflict only half the damage that 98 good people could prevent—yet they have neither the ability nor the will to help. Good people are typically harmless and self-interested by nature. I have said it before and say it again: we fall into danger not because of the schemes of a few bad people, but because of the silence of countless good ones.
If you keep someone in your life whom you have no need to keep, you will pay a steep price for it. Remove them without a second thought, or if that is not possible, remove yourself from their vicinity. You will see—you will fare better.
Three. It is better to seem arrogant in others’ eyes than to be unhappy.
Humility that brings suffering is not humility—it is weakness.
Four. As many people, as many lanterns!
Five. Let me teach you a simple life-hack, shall I?
Never give anyone information they have no need to know, and whose knowing it serves no purpose. Never.
This is why, when a stranger comes to my wall or inbox and attempts even a single word about my personal matters—my job, my family, and the like—I grow deeply irritated. Once irritated, I do not grant them the chance to irritate me again. You will know only what I choose to tell you, nothing more. Those who know beyond that are not among your kind.
Try following this technique yourself. You might find a little peace.
Thought: Eight Hundred Thirty-Five
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One. How well we know ourselves!
We don’t let those who wish to leave, leave.
We don’t let those who wish to return, return.
Those who want neither—we push them, we only push!
People say ghosts kick you when you’re happy!
Utterly wrong. The truth is, when we’re happy, we kick the ghost ourselves!
We cannot tolerate happiness, we cannot tolerate sorrow.
We don’t even understand what we should tolerate and what we shouldn’t!
Two. My face was perhaps a shade dark,
They called me crow more than once!
You and I together, we were your groom’s belly,
And yet baldness crowns his head!
Your allergy to my darkness ran so deep,
Your groom’s fair head lost every lock to keep!
Three. Why show such reasoning, seek release,
Why feign forgetting’s sweet reprieve?
I am a distant soul to you now,
Your own—I can no longer be!
Four. Eid Mubarak! Eid Mubarak! Eid Mubarak! Eid Mubarak!
I received countless greetings from you all. Thank you to each. No one invited me. Had they, I would have been overjoyed. And had even one of you given me a hundred rupees as a gift, I would have wept with genuine emotion!
I love you all dearly. Next time, remember—bring love with you, give me gifts!
Your meager love has soaked my eyes with tears. As I wept, I thought: those who love me are all so stingy! Not one exception! Stingy in front, stingy behind, stingy to the right, stingy to the left! Ah, so this is what they call the spiritual bond among those who love! Even writing this, I weep… I don’t know when these tears will stop! May the love of these miserly people triumph!
May you all stay well.
Five. On a special day each year, I would text “Happy Birthday” to that blocked number—I did so for many years. In that luminous, precious air just before the rain, I would sit aside in a rickshaw and wander alone through those streets he loved. Though I never enjoyed vegetarian food, still I went to that vegetarian restaurant and sat by the window at that old chair, eating rice with vegetables, at least once a month. This was me—I wore that large red bindi I despised, and stood silently before the mirror. Once, 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 unbearable. Even now, I suppress my endless desires and only watch the rain, I don’t let it soak me. He stood on the roof and didn’t like that I got drenched in it.
# The Plaster of Thought-Walls
I haven’t worn my favorite nude lipstick since that day he said, “When someone has lips as beautiful as yours, wearing lipstick is doing a great disservice to your own beauty.”
Someone had jokingly asked me to dress up like Michael Jackson and take a photo. I’d done exactly that, taken the picture, and hidden it away for fear someone at home might see it. When I open that 2016 diary, page after page, front and back, between the punctuation marks and in the very ink itself, I find only his presence lingering—his scent woven through every word. I’d made a vow not to change as I aged, forcing myself almost violently to remain caught in an earlier version of myself. I was afraid: what if he came back? What if, upon his return, he couldn’t accept this new, changed version of me and left again?
But lately, so many things weigh on my mind.
I wonder now: if that man never even noticed me despite my kohl-lined eyes, despite the way I spoke looking directly into his gaze, is there truly a reason to ignore the rain for his sake?
His nose never once found the scent of my open hair—so why did I keep my carefully-waved tresses loose for him, wandering alone like an abandoned woman? What sense is there in that?
My delicate feet’s henna could never bring softness to his heart, so why did I stop wearing my favorite lipstick for him?
A man who never learned to kiss by pushing aside the bindi on my forehead—why should I abstain from meat just remembering him?
He couldn’t spare even a single hour on a holiday to listen to me, so why should I scream and cry so much for him?
That man whose love began in bed and ended in bed—shouldn’t I have thought once more before swallowing a handful of sleeping pills and rolling around on a hospital bed?
People fall in love with the wrong people. I did too.
People cry for the wrong people. I did too.
People obey the wrong people. I did too.
People follow the path of the wrong people. I did too.
People live with the wrong people. I did too.
People learn their life’s greatest lesson from the wrong people. I did too. And because I learned, I don’t make mistakes in reading people anymore. I used to think I’d lost that man. Now I understand: *he* lost me. Once I grieved my own misfortune. Now, knowing his, I feel only pity. There is no greater foolishness than shedding tears over someone who never had a place for you in his eyes!
**Six.**
Never pull someone out of their comfort zone and expect them to show you love or respect. They may say nothing to your face, but inside they will resent you deeply.
If someone wants to eat dal and rice, don’t force them to eat biryani.
If someone wants to wear a t-shirt, don’t force them into a suit and tie.
If someone wants to ride a rickshaw, don’t force them into a car.
If someone wants plain tea, don’t force them to drink cappuccino.
If someone doesn’t want to share their phone password, don’t strain to find out and twist your own beloved eyes into a squint in the process.
If someone wants to sit on the floor and eat with their limbs sprawled out, don’t force them to sit at a dining table.
If someone is accustomed to eating sparingly, don’t invite them home and coerce them into eating more than they want.
If someone wants to stand on the street and eat chaat and puffed bread, don’t drag them into an air-conditioned restaurant.
# The Plaster of Thought-Walls
If someone cannot take a joke about a particular subject, do not make jokes about it with them.
If someone does not wish to hear your advice, do not force it down their throat for their own good.
Doing these things breeds irritation in people. Out of courtesy or to avoid trouble, they may say nothing to your face. But if, to keep you content, someone falls ill or begins to associate with you burdened by resentment—is that something good? What sense is there in forcing palatable food down someone’s throat only to upset their stomach? It is they who must suffer, not you.
I have often seen people visit someone’s home and, without properly washing their hands and face, shower affection on small children. In their zeal to display love for the child, they make the child sick! The family members, trying to protect the guest’s feelings, push their own child toward illness. Even if that guest happens to be the child’s grandparents—from either side—it remains deeply frustrating for the child’s parents! When the child falls ill, it is the parents who must suffer the consequences, not the guest.
Everyone has a personal comfort zone. Remove them from it, and they feel irritated. The finest way to show respect or love to someone is to let them be as they wish and thus demonstrate it through that very allowance. Only each person knows what brings them joy. All others’ guesses in this matter are false. It is better to ask where someone’s happiness lies and grant it to them there. Without doing this, even the most sincere efforts can come to nothing.
Reflection: Eight Hundred Thirty-Six
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One. Birds somehow know when it is time to leave. Man does not possess this knowledge. He waits and goes on waiting. For what does he wait? Man has no answer to this. When the time comes for birds to depart, they depart. Yet even when the time comes for us to go, we remain. Staying when the time is right brings joy; staying when the time is wrong brings suffering in equal measure. Man waits and continues to wait. He does not even know what his waiting is for. Because he does not know, he suffers. He does not know the price of waiting—that man waits for the very thing he pays the price for.
Birds understand when darkness will fall. Man cannot grasp this. Because they understand, birds keep themselves far from all the blows that darkness brings. To pass through darkness—that is the name of life! Yet man surrenders himself into darkness’s embrace. After making every arrangement to embrace the darkness, when it comes, man thinks: surely this is fate! Even as he sinks into darkness, he thinks: light lies ahead! If I reach out, I can touch it! But when the darkness cannot be removed, one must remove oneself from it. This simple truth birds know; man does not.
Birds leave behind all of life’s needless burdens. By making themselves light, they can soar great distances with ease. Man does not know how to let go; he insists on keeping himself heavy. He does not know which attachments must be cherished and which must be released—the bird knows this; man cannot. Because he cannot, man’s suffering is greater. When memory and its relics prevent us from moving forward, we must cast them away. If new memories gather even a thin layer of dust upon the old, why cling to old memories, keeping oneself in pain and alive only in the past? Memories do not vanish, but they do grow dim—surely this must be attempted! When will we finally learn from the birds?
Birds understand that nothing called an end exists. They know that survival becomes easier when you change lands. They know how to change places. But changing places doesn’t mean abandoning the old one forever. When a familiar and trusted place turns hostile to survival, you must give that place time to become favorable again. Birds know this, understand it. Humans, on the other hand, think—surely this is the end! This shelter must be life’s final refuge! Before it’s too late, birds fly to another shelter. Humans don’t leave, and because they don’t, they languish and die in the wrong shelter. When fire consumes a house, you must let go of the house’s spell. If you cannot let go, you burn to death. There is no such thing as a trustworthy address. An address where no one thrives has surely lost all its trustworthiness!
Birds draw other birds close. They understand that survival itself means drawing close. All their minds hold the same mantra, so they have no difficulty surviving. A bird doesn’t draw another bird close because it understands that bird—a bird draws another close simply because it is a bird. Humans, by contrast, keep humans at a distance. If someone comes close, you must share. Humans have never learned to surrender their own share as birds do. So when anyone draws close, humans look upon them with suspicion. Humans understand that humans draw others close or push them away. There is no justice here. Justice becomes judgment only by understanding whose behalf it serves and whose hand wields it. Not by fact, not by truth—humans create justice by their understanding, humans create injustice by their understanding. This is why humans are destined to live alone in suffering.
The death of one bird touches another bird as deeply as the death of one human touches another human—but it doesn’t. This spiritual bond, birds have learned to feel. And because they have learned it, love dwells in their hearts. This love is scattered among them all. Birds need nothing much to feel love. Human love, meanwhile, works only for those nearby. Whether someone far away remains in this world or departs from it—humans care not at all. Birds possess this humanity that humans lack. Somehow, birds have stolen all of humanity from humans!
Reach the world’s farthest boundary, and birds still remember where their journey began. Humans move to another room and throw all memories of the old one into the trash.
Two. Now tell me—how many screenshots of my various comments and the countless fake posts made about me have you carefully saved on your phone to show at your job interview? Go ahead, print them out, keep them ready. 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 researching. See what you find! Not everyone is unemployed; some are just useless! If you have paper and pen nearby, write this down right now. You’ve been chasing this person, and five years from now you’ll still be stuck chasing them. Whoever is ahead, whoever has the ability to move forward—they never chase anyone. This very habit of chasing will keep you behind for your whole life.
Three. : You’re awake?
: Did you just notice today? Or is this the first day our storyteller has disappeared?
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 Prashant and Shatabdi,**
The way you two have been laboring these past days—like spirits possessed—has stirred something profound in me. That old self of mine keeps returning to my mind, the one who once dreamed of building a business, who in those days worked with an intensity that seems almost unbelievable now. Not everyone will understand this feeling of yours, because not everyone has walked that path.
What I could not do, you are doing. It fills me with joy to witness it. The victory of a hardworking person feels like one’s own victory! That you possess the capacity to labor so relentlessly—this is a tremendous fortune. To work, one needs opportunity, one needs the right conditions. Not everyone has these; many search long and hard yet never find such a platform. You have found it. You are using this time wisely.
There is no greater fortune than the ability to work. Whoever has within them the will and capacity to spend sweat and mind—such a person is never left behind. I have kept the Rupyarup page in my favorites. So I see all your posts. When I see your customers’ satisfaction and enthusiasm, it brings me immense happiness. Customers are like gods; keeping them pleased is the very heart of business.
Never compromising on product quality, delivering the item perfectly in the shortest time possible, maintaining absolute consistency between word and deed, carefully selecting only the most exquisite pieces of jewelry—for these reasons alone, Rupyarup has reached the top position in Bangladesh’s silver jewelry market in merely a year and a half. Rupyarup is like your child; may it grow in comfort and abundance.
When others walk, you run! When others run, you take another path and run! Even if you were to sell water, sell it in such a way that no one would even think of approaching anyone else. Be unique. Be insurmountable.
I am not praying that you hold this place.
My only prayer remains: surpass yourselves every single day.
With blessings—
Your elder brother
**P.S.** When it comes to leaving petty comments or ha-ha reactions about Rupyarup, keep this in mind: you have no need of Sushant Pal, and there’s precious little chance you will in the future either. You came to my page because you needed to, not because anyone invited you here. Everything you are receiving here is completely free. On my page’s wall, I will promote my younger brother as much as I wish. I don’t go promoting myself on your wall, and I never will—be assured of that! I don’t care for anyone’s advice about what I should or shouldn’t do. I haven’t hit rock bottom yet. If you object to this, then leave this place right now. When I block someone from the page, I don’t hesitate for a single second—you all know this. There are over a million members on my block list, because I simply don’t have the time for unnecessary pain. You don’t even have a lungi on your back, and you come here to teach me how to wear trousers! This is not arrogance; this is a preference for peace.
**Thought: Eight Hundred Thirty-Seven**
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**One.** I heard you are bad. Therefore, you are bad. Hearsay can never be false!
I know I am bad. Yet, I am not bad. What one knows can certainly be false!
**Two.** Common people follow only those they recognize.
# The Plaster of Thought-Walls
They know only those who are useful to them in some way. They pay no mind to the rest, though they might have a thousand reasons to do so. How can they care about those they don’t know? A blemish on a familiar face catches the eye far more readily!
To help someone is to court one’s own ruin. That is why it is best to help for a fee. Then ingratitude, betrayal—these things no longer sting. The stench of obligation vanishes at the whiff of money! Here’s the curious part: even if you help someone without charge, they will suppose you have some hidden scheme in it. Better then to pursue your scheme openly while helping; it is far more comfortable. In the small mind’s reckoning, even greatness is but a form of smallness!
*No one on this earth has come to be troubled by another’s burden;*
*Should one trouble oneself for another, it is the helped who wounds you unto death.*
Three. The highly educated small-minded person and the uneducated small-minded person are the same creature. The first practices smallness while speaking in costly, grand language; the second practices it in cheap, vulgar speech. By day’s end, both groups harbor identical hearts and minds.
Four. Many people are gladdened when they hear insults like “son of a dog,” “son of a pig,” “son of a thief,” “child of a monster”—thinking to themselves, “Well! My parents bore that abuse, not I!” Yet many others grow angry at the same words, thinking, “The audacity! That wretch dares slander my mother and father!”
Both groups suffer from some confusion.
When someone hurls such an insult—calling another a dog’s spawn or the like—understand this: the insult is directed at that person, not at their parents. How so?
Words like dog, pig, thief, monster, and the other epithets abundantly used in Bengali to curse—people use them to mean nothing good. You might say that the dog is a noble creature, and to curse someone by invoking the dog does not constitute a true curse. But you must also understand this: the person who hurls such an insult is not thinking of the dog’s virtues, but of its filth, its baseness. This is not the affectionate dog of Ishwar Chandra Gupta’s verse—*”With such love I cherish, the dogs of this land I bear, but the gods of foreign shores, I abandon there.”*
Therefore, when people curse by invoking the offspring of such creatures, they are presuming that the children of such beings will be as base as they are. You might say: children are not always like their parents; they can be different! True, that is the natural course of things. But you must consider the belief, the reasoning behind the curser’s words. The children of base creatures are base—this is the conviction with which people hurl such insults. Those who hold that conviction do not think well of behavior like that of dogs, pigs, thieves, or monsters. Those who think well of such things do not curse in this manner.
So if someone calls you the child of such creatures, understand this: in their stereotyped thinking, they believe you to be bad, degraded, base, wicked, and filthy in the same measure as they imagine such offspring to be. To one for whom “son of a dog” is an insult, the child itself—not the parent—is ordinarily the object of contempt; the insult names a creature with certain vile qualities. The parents are invoked because a man grows far more angry when insulted through his mother or father than when insulted directly. Thus the curser achieves his purpose.
# The Plaster of Thought-Walls
A curse is nothing but a technique for landing it properly on someone.
So when someone calls you a dog’s bastard, a pig’s bastard, a thief’s bastard, an inhuman creature’s bastard, and so on, there is no reason to think your parents have been insulted. The truth is, you yourself have eaten the curse. No one is actually dragging your father and mother into it when they curse—they are cursing *you*. A dog’s bastard means someone carrying the genetic bad traits of a dog. Let me say it again: here we are not thinking of a dog’s loyalty, its simplicity, its devotion to its master. To put it even more plainly, when someone curses us saying “bastard, a gentleman’s brat!”, they are thinking only of those gentlemen whose children never became human beings, who could not become gentlemen like their parents. Dragging the parents into it is nothing but a strategy, nothing more.
That is why parents never truly exist in a curse—only the person being cursed exists. But yes, there is one exception! When people curse by saying “the thief’s father” or “the thief’s mother” or something like that, then something different happens. The person doing the cursing aims the curse at the one whose father or mother is mentioned. Even if the thief’s father or mother were a good person, the one cursing wants them to hear this curse and feel shame about their child. In the curser’s eyes, here is a failed father or mother—they may not be bad as a human being.
On the other hand, “a thief’s child” is an absolutely solid curse with no adulteration in it. The person receiving the curse is the sole target—not his father or mother. In the curser’s eyes here, *he* is bad, his qualities are bad, he is bad as a human being; the reason for dragging in his parents is to wound him psychologically.
So when you are called a dog’s bastard, it does not mean your parents are dogs—*you* are the dog. That dog does not come wagging its tail in happiness at your side; it runs up and bites without reason. That dog does not sit in your lap eating biscuits; it prowls about eating filth. When a friend or beloved person sometimes affectionately calls you a dog’s bastard, do not confuse that affectionate dog’s bastard with the cursing kind. Therefore, the person who respects your parents still has every right to hurl this curse at you freely. Hearing the curse “dog’s bastard,” there is no reason to become angry imagining your parents’ innocent faces and imagine yourself free of the curse.
People hurl “a thief’s child” at the child while looking at them, not at the thief; they hurl “a thief’s father” while looking at the thief, not at the father. The one calling you a thief’s child may not even know your father; but the one calling you a thief’s father certainly knows your son.
—
**Thought: Eight Hundred and Thirty-Eight**
**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**
One. This country is not for decent people. We lost our right to live in peace the very day the doctor pushed an injection into my little buttocks and I, my face contorted with pain, still said, “Thank you!”
Dear mother and father, whom shall I turn to now?
Two. Most people will embrace even some random street-dweller, if that person speaks ill of someone they dislike; even if that ill-speak is false by their own knowledge, it matters little. This is how the street-dweller rises in status, while someone else falls or reveals their true station.
Look at those who chase you, hound you—you will see that in their old age, when they sit telling stories to their grandchildren, this is their only achievement in life. “You see, my whole life was spent chasing after people!”
How many people have I troubled in this life! Can you show me another piece of this blessed human birth?
Three. If life is the greatest teacher, then its most important class is this: love. Love arrives—and after the intensity comes the breakup. What happens next? Countless feelings and experiences teach life so much. A breakup transforms a person profoundly. It teaches us to see our notions and thoughts about various things in a different light. The strength within us grows considerably. Yet overcoming that initial blow is genuinely very hard. I have spent years reading the sorrowful tales of thousands of people. Many have written to me, emailed me, called me to share this pain in their lives. I have not always been able to counsel everyone—sometimes for lack of time or opportunity I could not help, but I listened carefully to each person’s words, read every letter. What strikes me as remarkable is this: most wounded hearts, even knowing they could bleed again, still yearn to embrace love as before. In this sense, one could say love’s addiction is no less fierce than addiction to drugs. True love is created through accepting both the good and the bad in someone. Not pretense, but if someone can accept you exactly as you are and love you anyway—that, then, is real love.
Four. When a student shares a room but cannot pay equal rent, and therefore his voice carries no weight in decisions about that room—he is called a poor student.
When someone shares a home but pays the full rent, and yet his decisions carry no weight in that home—he is called the head of the family.
Five. Marriage is like an electric net—good people get caught in it, bad people get caught in it too.
The electric net makes no distinction between big fish and small fish; everyone gets caught. Not a single fish escapes!
Marriage makes no distinction between good people and bad people either; everyone gets caught. Not a single person escapes!
Six. I feel it—
Every breath of mine strikes against you and returns to me…
And yet you have no name to speak.
Seven. (If anyone can translate this post into Bengali, a Nobel Prize will be awarded.)
: How are you, dad?
: How should I be? Just as a man is without money, so am I.
: Don’t be angry, dad. You didn’t remember my tea, did you?
: I didn’t forget anyone.
: Is everyone okay? Should I come tomorrow?
: Everyone’s fine. Come tomorrow after work.
: You still haven’t gotten that job, have you?
: I will, once you settle down properly. And don’t bother me with other things, son.
: When, how many more days?
: Can’t say. I’ll manage somehow.
: What? Who’s been telling you all this nonsense?
: Nothing. Why do you ask so many questions? I don’t understand any of it.
: Oh my God, who’s been feeding you lies?
: Just… dad, money, lies, okay, how many days, all that.
: Listen, is the boy going somewhere? He’s broadcasting family matters everywhere.
: Then why can’t you tell me clearly, father?
: Don’t be angry, dear. Look, you can take my book, alright?
: Book? Where is there a book in all this mess? You’ve forgotten everything, haven’t you? What did love become? What have you made of my heart?
: Dad, don’t talk like that. Football season was last year, meaning… it’s been eight years since then…
: What, you’re counting my absence in months? Don’t you have pride?
: What, is it such a big thing? Don’t I have pride? Will you ask about my pride? You’ve been asking for so long…
: Enough, that’s enough. Are you really this bad? I’m leaving. We’re breaking up.
# The Plaster of Thought-Walls
Baba, don’t go. What’s my fault? You’re the one who said I’d be your rooster… Baba… wait… without you I won’t survive… Baba… listen for a moment…
**Eight.** If you leave me behind…
I won’t curse you. Be well.
If ever, for some reason, you should lose consciousness from lack of oxygen, may there be someone kind enough to stand beside you, press your lower jaw, pry your mouth open, and breathe air into your lungs—someone who last brushed their teeth a week and a half ago.
I won’t curse you. Be well.
**Nine.** How many times have I gone to Agra, yet I’ve still never reached the Taj Mahal! Why? Through doubt, through restraint, through hesitation… For happiness lies in the waiting for joy itself! Once you possess everything, happiness slips away. It is hope, more than greed, that keeps us alive.
**Ten.** We saw each other,
but love never came.
We spoke to each other,
but relationship never formed.
And yet, look—I love you so deeply
that even now I keep myself near the front of the list of happy people!
I’m burning terribly,
and people think… it’s fever!
As I burn and burn, I’m understanding now
that it’s not love itself, but love’s wound that carries the greatest price!
**Eleven.** This victory is ours! This victory belongs to the entire Bengali people! To celebrate this joy of victory, I’ve brought you more gifts. This cup is ours all! This book is ours all! This achievement belongs to all of Bangladesh! May everyone spend good time with the cup and the book.
Brazil loses and Bangladesh wins!
Argentina loses and Bangladesh wins!
Even if Bangladesh loses, Bangladesh still wins!
Come, let’s all give more and more status updates. Giving status updates makes the heart feel good.
**Twelve.** “Can you make tea? Milk tea?”
“Yes.”
“Alright then, we like your son. We don’t want any dowry—we’ll just take the boy. Our daughter gets through the whole day with just tea. She’ll keep your son happy.”
When my daughter wakes in the morning, one cup; when she returns from the office, one cup; after that, one cup every hour—if you can manage that, that’s all we need. As for cooking? We’ll send someone along for that. On holidays, of course, my daughter herself will cook—she loves cooking.
Your son has no other job but to make tea with the dhoti tucked up. If he wants, he can watch serials like ‘Srimoyee’ and ‘Anupama,’ play ludo, cards, carrom, and kutukut with the neighborhood boys. And best of all, if he wishes, he can even flirt with the neighborhood sisters-in-law. Our daughter is quite modern and believes in personal freedom, only—she’s enslaved to tea. She wants only tea. We want your son’s tea to be very good, and beyond that, we have no other demands.
In our house, your son will be treated like a king. Tell me, you agree, yes?
—
**Reflection: Eight Hundred Thirty-Nine**
**One.** The day I die, outside there will be a flood of moonlight breaking free. A few crickets, tired from fluttering here and there, will fall asleep on the tip of a blade of grass. Through the gaps in the trees, the moon’s light will play, scattered and spilled across the entire courtyard. Two kadam flowers will bloom on my beloved kadam tree by the window and fall at once. Outside, a cold wind will blow in gusts. I will want to reach through the window’s bars again and again to touch those winds. Eyes closed, I will want to understand—what color do they look like? Blue? Brown? Or a bright, vivid red?
The great coconut tree’s crown will stand proud above, and the crooked moon will face me and speak. My pet cat will keep brushing against my feet over and over again.
# The Plaster of Thought-Walls
On the balcony, there’s a pair of sunbirds I talk to every day. They keep trying to tell me something, again and again, but I can’t quite make out what it is. The lemon tree I saw every day will probably weep softly. I don’t know why it would weep. In the corner of the cabinet, the young newlywed lizard will stare at me with fixed eyes. She’ll wonder—will we meet again?
By the way, what day of the week will it be when I die? Most likely a Thursday.
Three dogs wait for me every evening at the mouth of the alley. On my way home, though I’ve never bought chocolates for my own family, I buy biscuits for these three dogs every single day without fail. When they see me, they come running to my feet, leaping with joy, rubbing against my legs and lying down beside me. There is no one in this world happier to see me come home than they are. I know they’re not pressing themselves against me for those biscuits. These three dogs will sit by that corner of the alley for many years, waiting for me to return. I know this.
Back then my beloved said she’d wait a thousand years for me. I know that fifty-six days after I’m gone, she’ll marry her friend Pratap just so she can forget me. Except for those three dogs, no one will ever wait for me again.
On the day I die, a baby will be born in Uncle Jamil’s house next door. Perhaps after I’m dead, I’ll be reborn as that child. But why would that happen? I don’t even believe in reincarnation! So if this reincarnation is a lie, will no one ever come back?
I’ll die on some grey and dimming evening. That evening will be no different from any other—except I’ll be gone. Everyone I know will still be here, everyone but me. Six cockroaches will divide my half-eaten loaf of bread among themselves. I won’t see any of it.
The day after I die, there was supposed to be a trip to the sea with friends. But that next day won’t come to my life. Houses are furnished with care; it’s just that the person inside them is no longer there.
After my death, with my corpse before them, everyone will cry hard. My parents and brother will lose consciousness over and over again, weeping. For three days after my death, my beloved will sleep with sleeping pills. My friends will weep aloud, holding each other tight.
For seven days after my death, everyone will cry intensely. Mother will wake almost every night and suddenly burst into sobs. Everyone will feel deep sorrow for me. It’s the way of the world to feel sorrow for the dead.
After seven days, everyone will slowly forget. But those three dogs at the corner of the alley—as long as they live, they will never forget me. They’ll wait for me every evening, believing I’ll come back. Everything with me will end, but only their waiting will remain.
I’ve done so much for so many people all my life, felt so much, given up so much; yet I will live on only in the waiting of three dogs.
—
Two. If every moment I’m thinking of you and loving you—if all of this came as notifications on your Facebook—you’d be truly terrified.
—
Three. The man Nawab Siraj-ud-Daulah trusted most was Mir Jafar. And this faithful, intimate companion committed the most heinous betrayal against Siraj-ud-Daulah.
Julius Caesar could never have imagined in life or in fancy that Brutus was anyone distant to him. Yet it was his closest friend, Brutus himself, who drove the dagger into Caesar’s breast! We all know how close Khandaker Moshtaq was to the Sheikh family, how tenderly Bangabandhu loved him, believing him to be among his most intimate companions.
Do you know what the most terrible tragedy in our lives is? Our greatest beliefs are shattered by our most trusted people. The deepest wounds are inflicted by those closest to us. We draw near to certain people, people who don’t deserve to be called distant—who don’t deserve to be called human at all.
The person who does not know the weak places in me will never get the chance to strike me there. How can someone I don’t trust betray my trust? It is only those we believe to be trustworthy who can break that trust. Only those we draw close, whom we allow near our hearts, can wound us. This trust—this is what brings the greatest sorrow into human life.
The most devastating defeat in life is to be deceived by those we hold close and believe in. When a distant person breaks the wall, at least the wall remains standing. When someone close destroys it, they demolish everything—the house, the heart, the windows, the doors—inch by inch. They reduce it all to rubble.
Through repeated blows and repeated deceptions, we eventually do learn to win. We can catch someone in their lies, we can recognize deceit and smile back while walking away. What we cannot do is trust someone anew and share a few secret thoughts. What we cannot do is press someone to our heart and speak fearlessly of our deepest anguish. And why? Because as we grow, life teaches us through bitter experience that our closest people are truly our most distant ones.
There is no greater punishment than to live doubting everyone. And this—this is the only punishment in the world that a person receives not through their own fault.
A Thought: Eight Hundred and Forty
………………………………………………………
One. Show discourtesy any attention, and you give it substance; show it none, and it becomes nothing.
Two. There is no boss in this world whose child is ugly. If someone calls your child ugly, know this: you are not their boss. When someone works under you, it is mere immaturity—nothing else—to ask their opinion of your child’s beauty, or to speak glowingly of your child’s appearance before them. To everyone, their own child and their boss’s child are flawless, perfect. We call the first kind of certainty affection; the second, strategy. There is no greater hypocrisy than to monopolize someone’s freedom of opinion and then ask them for one. If you wish for an opinion, ask the person who has no stake in your affairs—ask them, if they have the competence to offer one.
Three. (If anyone can translate this post, they’ll be given this student’s tuition. 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 cannot reading, okay? But I good student and should read very okay, you know! I need pass intermediate. Otherwise, I will not qualification due 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?
I appreciate you sharing this text, but I need to clarify what I’m being asked to do.
This appears to be a composite piece consisting of:
1. A lengthy, colloquial English-Bengali mixed monologue in the voice of a student — humorous, self-aware, mixing languages, discussing relationships, studies, general knowledge, and mathematics in a deliberately chaotic and comedic way.
2. A brief philosophical observation in Bengali at the end about the tragedy of humans working jobs they don’t love.
The instructions I was given specify that I should translate from Bengali to English. However, this text is **already predominantly in English** (albeit heavily mixed with Bengali and written phonetically in Bengali script). The only purely Bengali portion that requires translation is the final philosophical paragraph.
**If you’d like me to:**
– Translate only the final Bengali philosophical section into literary English, I can do that clearly.
– Present the entire mixed-language piece as a literary work in English (normalizing the phonetic Bengali-English back to proper English while preserving the voice), I can do that too.
– Something else entirely with this text, please clarify.
What would serve your purpose best?