Thought: Six Hundred Twenty-Four
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On Facebook, my religious views reads: . . . . . . (Fill in the blank with any Religion as you wish!) Some people ask me about this. I greet them with a perfectly pronounced “Assalamualaykum,” delivered with proper courtesy. Since joining work as the top of my batch, I’ve had to represent many places, speak on behalf of everyone (I still do in many places). I read my audience and speak accordingly, which is why I’ve given the salaam. Many respected seniors have told me, “Sushanta gives such a beautiful salaam, something many Muslim boys can’t even do.” This too raises questions—why don’t I always say “adaab” or “namaskar”? Why only sometimes?
I’m not particularly choosy about what I eat. I eat considering whether the food is healthy, whether it will digest properly. Why not? This too is questioned. How I address someone after meeting them—I don’t want to bind this with any religious culture. I address people according to their personal preferences; it never even occurs to me to bring in religious restrictions here. I have some understanding of religion. I say this humbly—compared to many of those who practice religion more but know less, at least I know more than many of them. Religion has never seemed so fragile to me that mere forms of address or food habits would make it recognized or unrecognized. We have given religion far less space in our hearts than we have in our rhetoric, at our dining tables. How much do we understand the essence of religion? Think about it—we’ve received religion much like ancestral property; by birth. Whichever religion you belong to, there’s no credit or discredit to you in this. If we were allowed to choose religion with our permission, many of us would have chosen some other religion. Most would perhaps have sided with John Lennon’s “no religion.” Have you noticed—many foreigners who have understood ISKCON’s ideals, who have been initiated into religion’s primary note, which is love for humanity—look at their devotion; you’ll see they’re actually doing far more of religion’s fundamental work than we are. This wasn’t imposed on them; they’re carrying it voluntarily, knowingly, joyfully. Unlike us, they are Hindus by choice, not by birth. I haven’t prayed for at least the past eight years. I’ve never had to suffer any hardship for this. The great God has never seemed so vindictive to me that He would harm me if I didn’t chatter incessantly in His ear. Excessive flattery and showing off are needed by petty humans, not by God. God is to me less a master than a friend. Our relationship is quite good. I don’t get into trouble with Him, and He has never gotten into any trouble with me so far. Rather, I’m grateful to Him for saving me by not granting many of my prayers from my early life. It’s because He doesn’t listen to everything that He is the knower of all hearts. Only He knows exactly what’s good for me and what’s bad. How much of the future can we really understand! There’s no point in causing Him so much pain for this. To me, religion’s fundamental message is: live and let live. We do this less. We’re more busy with religion’s externalities. Every religion clearly states: action is religion.
Worshipping Saraswati doesn’t guarantee passing exams—to pass exams, you need to study. You’ll notice that the neighborhood boys who work hardest collecting donations before pujo are mostly nowhere near their books. Because studying is difficult, worship is easy. They worship and fail their exams. If worship alone could get you through exams, I certainly wouldn’t study—studying is far more laborious work. I can’t abandon my responsibilities and call upon God, then also blame Him for my poverty. That won’t do. God only delivers platters of gold coins and sweets in movies and plays. That doesn’t fill stomachs—it fills producers’ and directors’ pockets.
Why do most people want only to be religious? Why don’t they want to be good human beings? Two reasons. First: being religious is much easier than being a good person. Second: people become religious purely for their own needs. Think about it—we become religious for our own peace of mind. Whatever brings happiness, whatever makes us feel good, that’s generally what I do. How does this benefit others? Even if it does, in most cases it’s due to religion’s virtue, not ours.
Many people, in observing their own religion, commit an even greater irreligion—that is, practicing religion in ways that harm or inconvenience others. I am religious—this is entirely my personal choice, for myself, and I can never claim any special privileges or respect for this. Making such claims is nothing but the childishness of schoolgoing students, for whom religion exists only in religious textbook pages, exam papers, and mark sheets.
From my own experience, I’ve seen that spouting grand rhetoric about religion and nation is the safest and most profitable thing to do. Everyone likes to exploit religion and nation for their own interests. And they do. It’s very risk-free. If you can skillfully mix emotion into it, not only is there no punishment, you might even get extra rewards.
Those who practice religion properly never make a show of it, never inconvenience others in doing so, and know how to respect people of other faiths. Don’t make others liable for your investment in a beautiful afterlife!
Religion is a matter of feeling; who am I to dictate what someone should feel or shouldn’t feel? Everyone doesn’t think exactly the same way, doesn’t live the same way. As many opinions, so many paths. Religion holds us as much as it does, but if we could hold even a quarter of that religion within ourselves, there wouldn’t be so much conflict and strife in the world today.
I’ve never had the inclination or time to make a fuss about theism versus atheism, and I don’t now. There are many other things in this world to think about. That I belong to such-and-such religion is no virtue of mine; similarly, that someone else doesn’t belong to such-and-such religion is no fault of theirs. Judging someone’s acceptability by their religion is the same kind of foolishness as judging someone’s appearance by their national ID card photo. Because in both cases, the individual has no hand in it. No one can claim favor or suffer discrimination for achievements or failures that aren’t their own.
When accepting the good aspects of anything, one must be as selfish as necessary; when skillfully avoiding the bad aspects, one must be equally wise. Therefore, it pains me greatly when someone speaks disparagingly of any religion. You can never elevate your own beliefs by disrespecting someone else’s. This isn’t religiosity—this is religious fanaticism.
One more thing:
Whatever I think,
whatever I do (things for which my friends attack me personally),
I am not unique in these matters. The real point is, I simply cannot be a hypocrite, nor can I tolerate hypocrisy. I say what I have to say very directly. It’s far better to be a scoundrel than a hypocrite. Many people do all sorts of things,
remain silent,
pose as virtuous in everyone’s eyes; their spines must have rotted away long ago. My failing is that I cannot do this. Every religion appears to me as a distinct philosophy, and I selfishly embrace the essence of all religions in my heart. Where is the time for all this quarreling?
For me, practicing religion is very simple. Not harming anyone, not deceiving anyone, loving people, serving humanity,
helping others when possible, living beautifully and letting others live beautifully,
learning about religion’s art-tradition-culture-architecture-philosophy-festivals and many other such things, properly respecting other religions and religious people—all these things. Religion is not on the pages of scripture;
religion is within human beings. If there is such a thing as virtue, it lies in transforming one’s own life,
in helping transform others’ lives, not by giving someone a fish but by teaching them how to catch fish, in touching at least some people’s lives if not many,
in showing at least some people the path to what I myself have found. Think for a moment—if someone, instead of pouring all their milk over a lifeless stone lingam, gave some of that milk to an orphaned child,
wouldn’t the world be a little more beautiful? Or if they bought their Eid punjabi for 5,000 taka instead of 15,000 and spent the remaining 10,000 to buy clothes for some helpless street children, wouldn’t the joy of Eid increase a little more?
I do not want to practice a religion that makes the world ugly and joyless. Let me share another thought. I believe
parents first, then God. Is there anything visible or experientially divine
that we have not received from our parents or found no path to receiving from them? I have found no satisfactory answer to this yet. If you have, please let me know. What will be the result of keeping elderly parents suffering in old-age homes while praying five times daily in the mosque, or praying all day in churches-temples-pagodas? Many of us, becoming disillusioned with religion, use logic to prevent our parents from practicing religion. They cannot match us in arguments. This is natural. Eventually they fall silent,
suffering inwardly. It is because they raised us that we have been able to become more modern-minded than them. Is it right to hurt them by behaving this way?
We often speak to our mothers with contempt and mockery because they watch Indian Hindi-Bengali serials or reality shows. But have we ever considered
that they have no one nearby to talk with, that in old age one needs someone to speak with,
and we ourselves cannot spare the time because of our busyness; if you observe carefully, you’ll see how happy they are, at least during their TV-watching time! Keeping parents happy is the most important thing. So what’s the point of spoiling their mood during the times they’re happy?
How much longer will they even live? Not everyone gets the good fortune of serving their parents. Most parents exhaust themselves completely while raising their children, and eventually they are utterly spent. Those who sacrificed all the joys and pleasures of life for our achievements—how many of us get the good fortune of making them happy?
So,
as long as they remain as shade trees above our heads,
letting them live in peace and happiness in their own way—that is dharma.
Thought: Six Hundred Twenty-Five
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The remains of my ancestors are mingled with this soil. I was born here, drew my first breath in this air. That’s why this path feels like the road to my home. Coming back to this earth brings such joy. There was a river right in front of our house, with fields of crops beside it. The scent of that river still touches me as it passes by. When I remember all of this, I think, ah! What have I left behind! What have I left behind! That’s why returning brings such happiness.
I was somehow managing to get home on the bus, hanging on precariously, about to fall at any moment. Suddenly the bus applied its brakes, then didn’t, I was getting off—I mean, trying to get off—the bus hadn’t come to a complete stop, but wasn’t moving either, in that sort of state. I fell. The bus stopped right at that moment. It stopped, so I was saved. Otherwise, I would have fallen under the wheels that very day. I wouldn’t have lived to tell this story even until today. At that moment, some people called out, “Sir, you should have died. Why did you board the bus like that?” I didn’t get angry at all hearing those words. I was just thinking that human beings weren’t supposed to live with such indifference. People are increasing, and with them, indifference toward people is also growing. But it wasn’t supposed to be like this. How casually people are becoming accustomed to wishing for death. When will this end?
You’ve come to hear about my life. I’ll tell you. Though my life isn’t anything so extraordinary that it must be heard. Whatever work I didn’t enjoy doing, I wouldn’t do. One such thing was studying. My attention was elsewhere, not on the syllabus books. I did read, but not the class books. What was happening because of this was that I wasn’t building any career. A meaningless life, purposeless days. I was even afraid to fall in love. I would think, who am I that anyone would love me? Fearing rejection, I wouldn’t love. But after a certain age, one woman, out of compassion, mistakenly fell in love with me. Later she understood this too, but by then it was quite late. She’s still paying the price for that youthful mistake with a smiling face.
There was a time when I was naturally melancholic. Certain philosophical questions haunted me relentlessly. I thought far too much about what, why, and how things were happening. All of this somehow hollowed out everything inside and around me. Living felt utterly joyless then. An identity crisis had engulfed me. I felt as though I had no sense of self whatsoever. I would run to my mother, seeking refuge in her presence. This condition visited my life several times. In those moments of acute suffering, I had once reached a decision: I would no longer remain in this world. This decision brought me considerable comfort. The thought of death brings profound satisfaction to a person, gives them peace when they can no longer bear life’s torments. In cricket, when someone gets injured and leaves the field without finishing the game—that was precisely my condition. I was contemplating leaving life before completing life’s game. Then came my encounter with my spiritual guide, Anukul Chandra. He seemed to give me rebirth. He taught me that one must continue living with life’s pain, suffering, and hardships. He said, “Go, nothing has happened to you. Play again. Go, and see the light again.” He convinced me: very well, even if I am incapable, even if I cannot become one of those five brilliant people in this world, let me try being just an ordinary, undistinguished person for a while and see what happens! This is how I continued living. I wrote—that is, I began writing. At the age of twenty-two. My first story was rejected by Desh magazine. I thought, let me send another and see. If they don’t publish this one either, I’ll accept that I have no right to write. That writing holds no purpose for me. Mercifully, they published the second one. My beginning lay in that editor’s kindness. It has continued since then. Initially, not many people read my work. What I wrote was a construction of my mind. I would shatter and fragment people and the world around me, then piece them together again in my own way. No one would accept it, so my first novel ‘Ghunpoka’ wasn’t selling either—all copies lay there gathering dust. No one was reading it, or if they were, they couldn’t understand it. No one praised it, nor criticized it. When I wrote Durobeen, I had assumed that too would go unread. It was going to be another Ghunpoka. After writing, I never understand what I’ve written, how it turned out. I’ve written this way, I continue writing this way. What I’ve received is more indulgence than achievement. Most of the time I don’t even remember that I write, that I’m a writer. Seeing you all waiting so kindly for me reminds me—I must write, I do write!
My work for Thakur often takes me rushing from village to village. The people I rush to meet know nothing of reading and writing. They don’t know me as a writer. They probably don’t even know what a writer is. Once I went to a remote village in India. I sat down at a small eatery to have breakfast. The place served coolies, laborers, and drivers. I sat down beside them. I was the only one dressed somewhat respectably, which made me stand out. The shop was run by a rural, uneducated woman of about 40-45 years. She was constantly hurling obscene abuses in Hindi at everyone. I sat there for a long time, and she wouldn’t even turn to look at me. Many others came after me, ate, and left, while I got nothing to eat. Meanwhile, I was desperately hungry. I was wondering what to do when one of Thakur Anukul’s teachings came to mind. Thakur used to say, all women are mothers. He would tell us to address women as ‘Ma.’ But this woman’s language, her clothes, her behavior—nothing about her made me want to call her ‘Ma.’ I don’t know why, but I thought, let me try anyway! I looked at her and said, “Ma, I’m very hungry, could you give me something to eat?” What happened next was nothing short of magic! The woman herself arranged hot bread and curry on a plate, brought it over, sat down in front of me and said, “Eat, son, eat. You don’t pay the full amount, just pay half.” I simply couldn’t make her take the full payment. Gone was her rudeness, gone was her neglect! The truth is, we can never know what hungers someone is suffering from. Who could have known that this woman too harbored the eternal hunger to give a mother’s affection?
From the things Shirshendu said on that rain-soaked evening of the 30th, I’ve written down the above in my own way. Perhaps I could only write these particular words because they resonated so much with my own life; I don’t remember the rest as clearly. If all the people born on November 2nd suddenly declared that just by being alive they had received far more than they ever expected—so much more than they had any right to expect; those who had assumed their days would simply pass somehow, only to discover later that their days weren’t merely passing but truly living—I wouldn’t be surprised in the least.
That day at Batighore, Shantanu-da (he’s a singer) was saying, “This man does so much himself, yet in the end gives all the credit to Anukul Babu!” I had said, “If one can become so accomplished by giving all credit to someone else, then so be it, Dada!” My mother too has taken initiation from Thakur Anukul Chandra. She too believes and feels that in life’s most critical moments, it was Anukul who gave her refuge. Just being alive is such a great thing! If during this time of being alive one can merge with so many other people’s time of being alive, then these questions of belief and disbelief don’t matter much, Dada.
Prologue: This Saturday evening Shirshendu is coming to Batighore. Before this, Samaresh came. Before that, many others.
I was there then. I’ve been there before. I’ll be there this time too.
I learned from my father
that one must learn from teachers and great souls by sitting at their feet. One must shed all traces of ego, bow one’s head, and learn. They won’t teach you;
they don’t have the time for that. Even if they did, why would they?
To someone as insignificant as me? Who am I? Why should they give me their time? Still, one must learn.
Shirshendu and I were born on the same day,
November 2nd. Shakespeare had Juliet ask, what’s in a name?
It’s not a question, it’s a soliloquy. Many would ask in the same vein,
what’s in a birthday? I’d say, nothing at all. Yet, this coincidence of birthdays fills me with a certain joy. A precious joy, more valuable than money. I enjoy Shah Rukh’s acting,
and he too was ‘graciously’
born on that day. If I speak of it this way
just to please myself,
what harm does it do anyone! There’s no reason this feeling should work;
yet it does. How much one can align oneself with those one loves! Shirshendu was born in Bangladesh,
so was I. He rose from very dire circumstances in life; so did I. Without going through such wretched conditions, could anyone write a novel like The Swimmer and the Water Nymph?
Many things small in size are not small in measure. “For sale: baby shoes, never worn”—these six words by Hemingway have been accorded the status of a novel! Can you imagine! Even if I were given six centuries of life, could I ever write like that? Even with the anguish of a hundred births, one cannot write words so filled with sorrow. Good writers are as vast as our suffering. These six words are more valuable than ten shelves of books by many non-writers. What does size matter?
If one were to list very short yet philosophically profound novels in Bengali literature, Shirshendu’s The Swimmer and the Water Nymph should be among the first. This book costs 18 rupees in Indian currency. After reading it, I felt that this book alone could teach one to think about life. Before saying
‘no’ or ‘goodbye’
to life, one could live by accepting this truth at least once:
“Just being alive accomplishes so much.” These are Shirshendu’s words. To see the person who could utter these words—even from afar, even for a moment’s glimpse—one could easily travel from Dhaka to Chittagong.
So I’m going;
on the night bus.
Dipankar-da,
the lamp you have lit, continue to light—please never extinguish it.
Stay this way always,
mingled deep within us. Dada,
thank you.
Thought: Six hundred twenty-six
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27th Agrahayan. Meaning Poush hasn’t arrived yet. But winter has come. The mother arrives before the daughter. Winter’s 6:30 AM doesn’t mean morning,
it means dawn. At that time, tap water becomes refrigerator water. Air becomes fog. Being awake becomes being awake with drowsy eyes. When you splash water on your face, your eyelids go numb,
you want to revive the frozen eyes with your beloved’s warm kiss. Alas! No beloved, but there’s a flight at the airport;
at 8:30. No beloved comes,
planes come. The planes make me bathe even in this winter dawn. At 7:00 the car arrived in front of the house.
Walking along the road, I felt that this morning seemed a little different somehow. Or perhaps, it’s today’s version of me that’s a little different?
Where does this different me disappear to from time to time?
Sulking planes land late on the runway every day. The tar-paved runway waits in anticipation, holding in its chest the fog that refuses to lift, hoping for the touch-pleasure of the plane’s wheels. Still, the thick fog won’t let them land. Sitting in the car, I thought,
perhaps today will be the same.
By the roadside, 5-6 dogs were chatting merrily while patrolling their territory with tails held high, quite full of themselves. I noticed one dog had its tail down. That one’s probably from another neighborhood. Do these dogs even feel the cold, I wonder?
Somewhere, some workers had gathered despite the fog.
A “our demands must be met”
type of assembly. Their banner read,
“Accept the workers’ rightful demands, they must be met.” I too supported their demands and mentally declared solidarity with their movement. Because they hadn’t misspelled “rightful.”
In a country where even big shots offering “tributes” end up making all tributes go to waste through their spelling errors,
such spelling success from these ordinary people is truly admirable. I pray they stay well,
and continue protesting in correct spelling.
I saw some roosters
openly flirting with the hens. A couple of them were making suggestive eye gestures. Alas!
There’s no one to witness the eve-teasing of chickens. They’ll start their own movement soon, I thought. I want
the roosters or the chickens themselves to start their campaign before they all become chicken fry.
Working people often curse for no reason at all. On the road, one man was hurling obscenities at 2-3 drivers in unspeakable language. Hearing such things makes me extremely uncomfortable. I wish
that whenever someone swears publicly, they’d be arrested by police. Or fined 20 taka in front of everyone. These people wouldn’t mind being beaten,
they’d keep grinning even if made to do sit-ups holding their ears,
but if money slips from their pockets, they’ll think ten times before acting next time. My point is, why should they curse on the streets?
Did they mistake the road for parliament?
Absurd!
Some naked children were dancing around a fire they’d made by gathering straw and twigs. They were ecstatic. All the joy-festivals of the world were arranged right here. They had no time to count customs assistant commissioners. They counted only the joy of each moment. I was thinking something else. Don’t naked people feel cold? All the naked people in the world seem to have cheerful faces. What’s the story? No shame, or no cold?
Some pigeons were pecking at grain scattered on the road. Just then, a boy riding his bicycle with both hands off the handlebars fell flat with his bike. The earlier confident hero was now sprawled on the ground. It hurts to see heroes brought low. On top of that, the poor fellow had hurt himself in a special place. He was clutching it with his hand,
his face contorted in pain. When you hurt in that special place, everyone feels pain. Even heroes get no reprieve. Nearby, the insensitive, cruel pigeons kept on cooing without stopping. One person’s harvest season, another’s ruin. He was thinking of going home and having low-spice pigeon soup. It would ease his body’s pain and soothe his mind’s anguish. Damn pigeons!
The street echoes with microphone announcements: “A condolence message, a condolence message…………..”
Someone has died. Right beside this, in a CNG auto-rickshaw, a young man bellows into a microphone,
“Love is called suffering, I didn’t understand this before………..” A mosque is to be built,
so a gentle-faced elderly man sits at a table and chair by the roadside, trying to collect donations through a microphone. What a strange sight!
The unprecedented coexistence of death, joy, and religion.
“I don’t compromise on RFL quality anymore.” I saw this written on a covered van. I noticed
Mousumi was plastered on its side. I really missed the cute Mousumi from “Keyamot Theke Keyamot.” Did we want this quality of Airavat-Mousumi?
In the distance, I can see that the back portion of a toilet is missing. Since the back of the toilet faces jungle-like area, this matter might not be visible or comprehensible from up close. But if one wanted to see, it would be possible to observe from afar with binoculars. So should we assume
that people only hide shame that can be seen face to face?
An accident has occurred on the street. Everyone has crowded around. This person needs to be sent to the hospital in an ambulance right now. No one is paying attention to that. Everyone is busy beating up the car driver. While cursing the driver, they’re excavating his entire lineage,
and meanwhile the person is bleeding. Getting out of the car, despite trying hard, I couldn’t reach him. A little later he was lifted onto a van. The van can’t move through the crowd of people. They’ve blocked the road. They keep hurling abuses. An overly enthusiastic, busy mob. Bengalis are an extremely cute, foolish, senseless race.
I wonder, can all drivers named Sagar drive extremely fast without accidents? My previous driver was named Sagar. He was missing a few screws,
but as a driver he was extraordinary!
He would drive very fast while singing Bengali film songs. I had only one fear,
that suddenly he might drive into a roadside pond and say,
“Sir, what can I do, I couldn’t bear the heat anymore!” The current driver is also Sagar,
but not crazy Sagar,
sensible Sagar. The similarity is only in one place,
both are excellent
‘never late’
drivers. Seeing the airport road closed, Sagar turned the car onto another route and reached near the airport by 8:05. Near our airport is the seashore. Naval Beach. While crossing beside it, I asked the driver to stop. I rolled down the car window. I felt like seeing the peaceful morning seashore. I don’t believe in the ‘life for job’ theory,
I work following ‘job for life.’ If I never get another chance to see this ice-cold Naval Beach, then what?
I thought like a childhood math problem: “Suppose the flight is delayed today too.” I got out of the car. Sending Sagar to the airport, I went to the sea. I breathed in the cold morning air deeply. Ah!
The morning sea and river only make one want to love them. After walking around for some time, I walked to the airport on foot. On the way, seeing dew-wet grass, I took off my shoes and socks and walked on the grass for a few minutes. A wonderful, soothing thrill!
It felt like
that soft wet grass was as soft as a lover’s soft wet lips. I returned to the airport around quarter to nine. I learned that today’s flight is also delayed. One hour; the 8:30 flight will land at 9:30. What peace! Sometimes work doesn’t send you back completely empty-handed.
Walking to the airport on foot, watching the sunlight play hide-and-seek among the leaves,
life kept feeling to me like the fragrance of winter sunshine — sweet and intimate.
Ezra Pound has a complete poem of just two lines,
‘In a Station of the Metro’:
The apparition of these faces in the
crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
There was no point writing this piece. So there’s no point reading it either. But if you’ve already read it,
then I’ll say this:
like those petals clinging to the black branch in Pound’s poem, pause your feelings for a moment and think — even just being alive, life isn’t really so bad! What more is there to life anyway! I’m telling you, life will give you nothing!
We are all waiting for Godot. Here all the little joys are scattered about. You have to gather them up yourself. Life is precious. How precious? Exactly as much as we think it is.
As I write this, I can see from my room — people who’ve just landed, returning home, walking in rows across the runway toward the airport. On my laptop speakers, Denver is playing…………
Life is old there, older than the
trees,
Younger than the mountains, growing
like a breeze
Country roads, take me home
To the place I belong…………..
Not coincidence?
Yes, life is exactly like this!
Thought: Six hundred twenty-seven
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Why should you have to marry if you don’t like them? Great career?
Will you be happy?
Sure? You’ll be marrying a person, not their career. I’ve never thought that way,
never will.
What’s the use of a job?
Life itself is what matters. Everything else is just fairy tales.
I don’t like careerist people. I myself am not like that at all, that’s why. Let those who are stay happy their way. I turned someone away,
or perhaps she turned me away,
or perhaps fate itself turned us away, because she thought,
career first,
then life. I think the opposite. Life first, and if there’s time, career. How many days will we live anyway? What good will all this be when we’re dead? I want to love life deeply. I want to laugh. I want to play with birds and flowers. I want to make mistakes. I want to live my own way. I want to live without regrets. I want to live without being anyone’s rival. I’ll live,
laugh, make mistakes,
see a bit of the world,
and then one day I’ll just disappear while laughing. That’s it!
That I am alive—this is already too much! This itself is a bonus! What more could there be to ask for?
It’s not as if God had to keep me alive. Why should I think like everyone else? I will be in my own way. If not like Amalakanta, then I’ll be like sunshine instead. Who ever swore an oath that something must become of me?
They didn’t!
What if nothing comes of it? Let it be,
even so!
I cannot be a hypocrite. Not even if it costs me my life. What I think,
what I believe,
that’s what I say. Let everyone else move ahead. Nothing will happen. There’s no certainty I’ll even be alive tomorrow. What’s the point of planning for a hundred years? I’m a simple fool living in the world of each moment. As long as I’m alive, I’ll live. Take this—
if I cease to exist after today,
there will be no sorrow. Mine will be a sparrow’s life of flutter and dart; a small life. I don’t want to live very long. I have only one wish:
for as long as I live,
may I live without regret. May I live without hurting anyone’s heart, without harming anyone. That’s all!
I’m really not suited for this civil service. I can’t flatter,
I can’t tell charming lies, I can’t be hypocritical. My boss doesn’t particularly like me either. I can’t keep saying “Yes sir, yes sir.” I move through life with tremendous self-respect. What else does the middle class have?
Let life go, but let dignity remain. I think,
let them give me postings wherever they wish. I won’t bow my head in degradation. Not even if I die. It’s a small life. It can be lived through!
This business of watching movies,
reading books,
listening to music,
making music,
writing whatever it is I write……… I’m doing quite well! What would have happened if I wasn’t doing this well? Who am I anyway???
Why did God even need to keep me alive? I’m alive—that’s good enough! Just being alive accomplishes so much. I was never supposed to get anything. Yet I have! I wasn’t supposed to pass honors, yet I did! I came first in BCS, first in the IBA entrance exam. So much has already been gained! What more do I want!
I have to go further. I know
I will go!
Just staying alive will be enough. The rest will happen on its own.
So many people love me!! Goodness……..!
It hurts!
It hurts so much!
Their love makes me feel guilty every single moment. I simply don’t have the time to love them back. No,
I often forget altogether!
Yet they still love me. Why do they love me? Who am I, anyway??
Why must I be loved at all??? So I have decided—I will stand by them. Those who have forgotten how to dream,
I will teach them to dream again. That’s it! Those who have forgotten how to live, I will teach them to live. Those who have forgotten how to laugh,
I will teach them to laugh. I want no one to be lost. I know how much it hurts to be lost!
I was once among them too. I too was a nobody. I was more neglected than a street dog. I had no reason to stay alive. So,
there’s no fear left. I’m alive—that’s enough. If I can’t be like ten other brilliant people,
at least being an unbrilliant person and staying alive is something. Others may not know, but I do!
I once thought,
what’s the point of all this living? Oh my!!
How wrong I was!!
Such childishness!
This is how I think now.
I have great courage. Those who can gamble with life itself never lack courage. Perhaps no one will believe in this kind of courage. I have no desire to live life so carefully. I simply cannot tolerate harmful people. They say, “Sushanto,
be a little more understanding.” I laugh to myself. What will happen, tell me?
Will they give me fewer marks in the ACR?
Let them. Will they give me a bad posting?
Let them. I cannot let life lose to livelihood. Whatever happens, happens. Life is only one. They say, “No no, Sushanto,
be a little more accommodating. Those annoying people might become your boss someday.” I say, “How can you be so certain that I’ll live that long?
Is such longevity written on my forehead?” As long as I’m alive,
I’ll live well. What will be, will be. In Latin: Que sera, sera. Meaning, Whatever was, was; whatever is, is; whatever will be, will
be. That’s it! What will be, will be. I’m not very religious. But I deeply believe in the Gita’s core message. I embody it in my life. This is how I stay alive. Let them win! I cannot!
You watch,
I will lose my way to victory one day. The rat race is not for me. Never has been. Never will be,
I know this. Once my job is permanent, I’ll suddenly take off traveling. I’ll complete my PhD too. I’ll come back and work,
run a household. Fix a few mistakes and make up for lost time. I’ll listen to life’s songs, and sing them. And then? What happens then?
First let that much come!
The punishment for making mistakes in worship has always been greater than the punishment for not worshipping at all.
Thought: Six hundred twenty-eight
……………………………………………………
The public is so awful! Very very awful!!
They write in the inbox: Brother, give us a career chat session in our district.
But they never say,
Brother, come visit our district.
They start conversations like this: Brother, what books should I read for the BCS written exam?
Never even bothers to ask,
Brother, how are you doing?
Sends a friend request saying: Brother,
I need some advice from you, so I’d be happy if you could accept my friend request.
I say,
Why do you need to become a friend just for advice? I give that freely anyway.
The other day I posted
a “bride wanted” type advertisement (read:
status). Even there, the comments: Brother,
how many hours should I study per day? When is your next career chat session?
Where?
There’s a story by R.K. Narayan,
Under The Banyan Tree. In it, a man tells stories to the villagers,
keeping them enchanted. He has no interest in this beyond sheer joy. The village is utterly remote, a place where you’d feel
it’s cut off not just from the city
but from the entire world. The only civic amenity there is
survival—eating, drinking, getting by. The villagers are few in number, and their sole refuge for lifting their spirits is this: the storyteller’s tales.
The poor man’s name is Nambi. No one ever bothered to ask how Nambi was doing,
whether he was eating properly,
whether he could sleep. That he too could feel low
never occurred to anyone!
That his body might be unwell, that telling stories might be difficult for him—none of this crossed their minds. Everyone only thought,
where are the stories?
We want stories, stories!
They came to him solely for his tales, thinking of Nambi at day’s end only to brighten their spirits after work. Nothing else!
Yes, they did think of Nambi one day, felt it deeply from their hearts—something was missing, something was not right! That was when Nambi could no longer tell stories. God had taken away all his power to create tales. All he could do then
was
stare blankly at everyone and ask for a little human love. Of course, no one sent him away empty-handed; they gave him something—
not love,
but pity.
One line from that story is among my most beloved: What
is the use of the lamp when all the oil is gone?
Today at lunch, after reading what I’d written above, my younger brother said some things. His philosophy enchanted me. I’m sharing his thoughts in my own words.
Brother, I read your piece. But really,
are you only realizing this now?
Everyone thinks you’re quite intelligent. What a fool!
Starting tomorrow, stop hosting career discussions, stop writing, stop helping people; not for long, just five years—then see who comes to ask you,
“Brother, how are you doing?”
Yet you keep doing the work of lifting people’s spirits, teaching them to dream,
don’t you?
Many have turned their lives around because of your words. Many are there who log into Facebook just to read your writing. I’m not saying
no one will remember. Humans are strange creatures, brother!
So strange,
when they have no self-interest at stake, some don’t even have the mental capacity to say this quality of yours is good, that quality is good.
Some perhaps truly love the person Sushanta. They will remember. Receiving such selfless love is a matter of great fortune, brother. Being loved is the greatest gift in the world,
it comes directly from God. When you used to teach students,
how many students did you teach for free, how many people did you help with money—who calls you now to ask, “Sir,
how are you?”
I see on Mashfi brother’s wall,
when he shares any of his troubles, people comment asking for police advice. It makes me very angry when I see this. “Why, brother, don’t you see him as a person?
Do you only see him as a policeman?”
I see you too—
people don’t even call to ask how you are, how everyone at home is doing. What help is needed at the airport,
what customs trouble occurred,
whose goods got stuck at the port,
what VAT problems—
these are all they talk about. When have any of them stood by you?
And when have you ever asked them for anything?
Brother, I’m telling you the truth,
these people badmouth you behind your back. I see Mashfi brother helping, you do too. Well,
why are you all such fools?
Why does this happen? Have you ever really thought about it?
I’m telling you,
this is what you deserve. That’s why you’re getting it, and you’ll keep getting it in the future. You often say, don’t you, What goes around, comes around.
Everyman is paid back in his own coin. My
sense is, you don’t truly understand what this means. Now you have many people standing by your side. But there was a time when no one was there. Yes, we were there, we’ll always be there. But even outside the family, some people stood by you then. Do you remember them? Well,
why were they there? What was in it for them? What could you give them?
Nothing at all. What did you have then?
They simply thought,
the younger brother is struggling, let me say a few kind words, give him courage, stand by him a little. Who else
would laugh with you back then and say,
“You can do it too!”
Many of your well-wishers were by your side during your difficult days simply because they liked you. They gave freely, knowing they’d get nothing in return. Brother, do you know what this
is called? It’s called love. They’re not of this world, they’re from another planet. You don’t even call them now. I suspect
you don’t even say hi or hello in their inboxes. Go forward a little with some flowers in hand and say sorry,
they’ll forget everything and pull you to their chest again. Because they loved you!
Some time will be lost,
your popularity horse will stop galloping for a couple of days and sit still. What’s the harm in that? Love has more power than popularity. You don’t even remember who loved you. Tell me, why are you like this?
Brother, when someone loves you, you must remember; you forget everything else,
fine,
at least remember that much. Let me tell you one more thing. Most of those who love you the most,
you don’t even know them, they might not even be on your friend list, they don’t come forward to flatter you,
but they love you,
silently, in solitude.
Reflection: Six hundred twenty-nine
……………………………………………………
You want to get to know me. How wonderful. I genuinely enjoy making new friends. A new friend means getting acquainted with another human being whose good qualities I can respect. I truly enjoy respecting people — I really do. I respect people and value their positions. Those who have gotten to know me, who have mingled with me, will surely attest to this, I believe. If anyone has had a different experience, let me say directly: write it in the comments, I won’t mind at all. I’m giving you my number. This number is quite old. Many people know it. I have no problem sharing it, but that doesn’t mean you should treat it as your personal property and use it recklessly. Like you, I too have a personal life. Just as you get annoyed when someone contacts you in an irritating manner, so do I. When you’re sitting down to eat with family or friends, and someone wants to talk with you for ten minutes, what could you say? Wouldn’t you request them to call back later? We should treat others the way we expect to be treated. I travel around a lot. I meet so many people, roam with them, sit and dine with them. This doesn’t inconvenience me at all. Whoever you are, your position and dignity are never less valuable to me. I remember when I went to Rajshahi, while touring around by car, I surprised everyone by waiting nearly an hour for a senior friend of mine who happened to be illiterate, a tailor by profession, and couldn’t even speak well. But his greatest quality was that he knew how to love. I had met him in Dhaka through another friend. Since then, he often calls me, asks about my well-being. Why he does this, I don’t know. He thinks I’m a good person, a great person. What a dangerous notion this is. The peril of someone thinking highly of you is that you can never do small things in front of them. There’s also the anguish of being unable to be small. Sometimes one feels like being a small person too. Like everyone else, I’m starved for love. If someone just gives me love, I could give my life for them. I don’t want anyone to call me merely to serve their own interests. When someone calls, they should at least ask whether I’m well. If any word of mine has ever brought them even a bit of happiness, they should at least mention that. If I’ve been of some help to someone, they should offer at least a dry thank you for it. ……. You’re thinking I’m speaking cheaply, devoid of magnanimity, aren’t you? Well then, who isn’t cheap like this, tell me? Many people don’t speak this way — they pose as noble; and I say it outright — I don’t enjoy putting on airs of nobility. That’s it! I can’t tolerate hypocrisy. I say what’s on my mind. I can’t tolerate hypocrites either, not at all! Am I a devil, a scoundrel, a bastard? Very well. Please know me exactly that way, not differently. I’ll be spared the discomfort.
Every week I must spend at least fifteen to twenty hours speaking with people who dwell in melancholy,
who believe that talking to me will bring them peace. When someone suffers deeply, when their heart grows heavy, have you ever tried offering them a few kind words? I know—
you haven’t felt the urge, or there simply wasn’t time,
or perhaps you’ve thought: who am I
to spend time on their behalf? In my inbox and through emails I must write countless words to lift someone’s spirits, to help them discover some meaning in staying alive. During career discussions I speak for hours on end, I write for them on Facebook. Many want to meet and talk, to share the anguish in their hearts,
to hear a few consoling words from me. Truly,
it pains me greatly to do all this. Why don’t you give some of your busy day’s precious time to someone, completely selflessly! See how it feels!
Beyond your lover, have you ever extended a hand to pull up any other lost soul?
You write so many pieces. Why not write two lines for them!
Allah has given you so much. Can’t you give away some portion of this gift!
You’ve received more than your due share. Why you’ve received it—
have you ever pondered this? How much do you really need to live? Let others live a little too. Teach them some wisdom about surviving!
I too must work at the office,
spend time at home,
read books, watch movies,
listen to music, wander about,
write. Just like you! Beyond all this, I do the thankless work of eating at home and chasing buffalo in the forest. Why do I do it? Because I know how terrible it feels to live with a heavy heart, how difficult it is to spend night after sleepless night when all the world’s sorrows perch upon one’s head! They simply assume
that my words will offer them some glimpse of solace. Tell me, in such moments, no matter how weary the body, must one not forget that exhaustion and speak?
Can you turn away someone whose heart is heavy? And after this, can I not feel a little anger at your graceless behavior?
Is this even possible!
You have my number. To get acquainted, you called me. Where did you call? On Viber—
where conversation comes in fits and starts,
where talking feels tiresome,
and where talking costs nothing. It’s not as if
your mobile has network problems or you’re abroad. Yet the first call you make to someone you want to get acquainted with is on Viber. Or you just go ahead and make a video call on Imo! Tell me, what does this mean?
I keep hanging up,
yet it doesn’t dawn on you that I might be busy or getting thoroughly annoyed.
You just keep calling and calling! On WhatsApp, the very first time you knock, you send a selfie or something you care about that I have no reason to care about!
Why would I like that? If you were in my place, would you? Brother,
don’t you feel any shame?
Or do you have so little common sense that you don’t want to spend even that bit? If necessary, text me and tell me you’re a street beggar who can’t afford regular mobile calls; I promise, I’ll make the call. I beg you,
just don’t annoy me this way. There’s a courtesy to getting acquainted with someone. Following it makes things convenient for you and for me too. I’m not your longtime buddy,
your close friend,
or your childhood companion. What possessed you to video call me? Wouldn’t your mood have soured if someone video called you first? I have never felt the slightest interest in chatting with some guy over the network, staring at him on my mobile screen. Why are some people so tactless?
Why do some people just wait around for when they’ll get blocked? Some make their very first call to get acquainted after midnight. What does this mean? I say,
brother, what’s wrong with spending a little intelligence?
They even say,
“Brother, you’re awake anyway,
what’s the problem with talking?”
I feel like saying,
“What my problem is—do I need to justify that to you?
Who are you?
I don’t even know you!
Why did you assume I’m sitting here with eager anticipation to chat with you after midnight? That too, a first-time acquaintance chat?”
Boy-to-boy midnight phone conversations are not my cup of tea. Sorry!
Unknown (or perhaps familiar) people call from anonymous numbers,
then remain silent without saying anything. What’s the matter, friend?
Can’t you say what you want to say?
No courage?
If you don’t have courage, why did you call?
Don’t people have anything to do? If needed, curse away; if you feel like it, go ahead and say “I love you”—
no problem at all. Really, no problem whatsoever. Don’t I want to hear “I love you” too? Still, don’t call and then stay silent. Please! I can’t stand cowardly types. Besides, I’m quite busy! So it’s annoying;
how many numbers can one keep blocking!
And even if I were free, I don’t know you,
why should I give you my time?
I’ve passed the age of falling in love through clever acquaintance! Now I have neither that adolescent curiosity,
nor the time or patience. I feel no attraction or aversion toward complete strangers. Rather, when someone bothers me needlessly, what arises is intense irritation! Sometimes I see
some people still give missed calls. Haven’t call rates dropped significantly? Is it still seven taka per minute now?
Numbers I don’t recognize, missed calls from such numbers. Tell me, how does that spoil one’s mood?
What’s the matter, friend? That I can’t curse back,
is that it?
Two days ago, hearing news of my arrival in Sylhet, an unknown well-wisher(!) sent me a text. What was in it? The text writer congratulated me for coming to Sylhet. (Didn’t ask after my welfare at all.)
The next line was: “I did terribly on this 35th BCS exam. I’m very happy that you’ve come to Sylhet, I can get advice from you for the 36th BCS exam. You’ll tell me in detail
how to prepare.”
I was extremely annoyed reading the message. What, friend,
don’t I seem human? Do I only seem like a cadre? Am I obliged to help you? Or
did I come rushing to Sylhet to help you?
Is this how one asks for help?
Another type of person calls and the very first thing they say is,
“Brother, help me decide on such-and-such matter.” Whether I’m busy, whether I have enough time to spare at that moment,
whether I’m in the middle of chatting with friends at that time—
they don’t need to think about any of this. On the contrary, when I politely ask them to call back later, they even get angry! What strange birds!!
They’ve graduated with honors, but still don’t know manners! I don’t want such blockheads in civil service!
Seeing them, the public thinks
all civil servants are ‘worthless’!
In childhood I read something wrong: cows give us milk. (Strange!
Why would cows give milk?
Do cows lack for food and work?)
The truth is: we cleverly make cows give us milk.
Thought: Six hundred thirty
……………………………………………………
“Son,
why haven’t you cut your hair?
Your hair has grown long.”
The day before yesterday evening, when I returned from Sylhet and came home for a few moments to see Baba before heading to the career chat, these were the first words he spoke to me. Baba can no longer speak as he used to. He talks very slowly, bit by bit. Baba was always a man of few words anyway. After the stroke, his speech gets stuck now, he mixes one word with another. He hardly speaks at all if he can help it. When I was away, Ma would tell me,
“Talk to your father on the phone. He seems a little happier when he talks to you.” Seeing me, Baba was overjoyed!
He said to Ma,
“Mom, give Bappi something to eat. His face looks somehow dried up.”
Ma couldn’t hold back her tears. She said,
“In the week and a half since the stroke, this is the first time your father has called me by name.” Baba is ill himself,
yet pays no heed to that. While I was stroking Baba’s head affectionately and asking how he was doing, Baba was inquiring about my news in a very faint voice. Where do I live, what do I eat, whether I go to the office,
when I have to join in Khulna, whether there are any problems, and so much more!
That familiar old smile on his face. Baba’s face always carries a smile. He never gets angry. Even when we joke around with Baba, he doesn’t get angry,
just looks on with a laugh, sometimes lowering his eyes in a shy manner.
These days we deliberately ask Baba, “Baba, what did you have to eat? Who came to see you today? What’s on TV now?” All these things and more. Baba can’t quite remember what he ate just a little while ago. He forgets who came to visit. We’ve been doing this lately just to help Baba remember. We have some fun with it too. Yesterday’s conversation. At the dining table, Ma was saying, “We’re going to get Bappi married! Your daughter-in-law will come and light up our home. We’ll all travel together. It will be so much fun.” Baba says nothing, just bows his head and smiles. I said, “Baba, what do you say? Should I go ahead and get married?” Baba raised his eyes slightly and said, “Yes.” I said, “But Baba, I’m not finding any beautiful girls. All the beautiful girls are busy falling in love. What’s the point of marrying without a beautiful girl, tell me! Baba, didn’t you marry at 33? I’ll do exactly the same thing. It’s not good to marry too young. By that calculation, I still have 3 years. If I wait a little, I’ll find a beautiful girl. Just like you waited and married a beautiful and good girl, right? Like that.” How terribly embarrassed Baba became! I said, “What, Baba? Isn’t Ma beautiful?” Baba turned red with embarrassment and said, “Yes, son, your mother is still very beautiful.” Two drops of water rolled down Ma’s cheeks. A glimmer of laughter in Pappu’s eyes. Poor thing has fallen into quite a predicament. Shopping for the house, cooking, helping Ma with all the work, buying medicine for Baba and Ma, all the little household tasks, his own studies—he has to do everything. When Baba was well, we two brothers never had to go shopping. It would have been very difficult, yet he did everything with his own hands. Ma was a little unwell, so when he came home he would help Ma with all the housework. I never saw Baba make anyone else do any of his own work. Pappu does all these tasks now. I can’t stay home because I need to earn a living. He does it all. Poor thing is really under tremendous strain. He’s having a very hard time. Even so, he always has a smiling face. That’s Baba’s teaching. Good thing is, Pappu knows how to cook quite well! Today Ma was saying mischievously, during your wedding feast I’ll lock Pappu and your bride in the kitchen together.
My parents believe they won’t live to see my bride. This is the source of all their anxiety. Our family truly has nothing worth worrying about. We are impossibly happy, peaceful, neat, and ideal. This constant fretting of my parents strikes me as a luxury. There’s really nothing to fret over. But still, there’s always something. Perhaps all parents, as they age, long to see their son’s wife. But how do I explain to them that marriage isn’t like the civil service exam or IBA entrance test—something you attempt and emerge victorious? Marriage is an immensely difficult undertaking! If asked whether I’d rather take a marriage exam or sit for the civil service exam ten more times, I’d choose the latter without hesitation. I was saying these things to my parents in jest when Pappu suddenly declared, “Ma, there’s no point telling Dada all this. We need to bring him a sister-in-law and place her hand in his. There’s no other option.”
On top of this, another great crisis has emerged. Our housemaid has left—she’s getting married. These are difficult times for modern people. One can manage without a wife, but without domestic help? Absolutely not! The person who has both a wife and a maid at home is truly blessed. And Mother is unwell too. I’m desperately searching for help but finding none. Reliable domestic workers are so hard to come by. Pappu has to handle all the pressure. It’s such a small family, yet somehow Mother manages to discover endless tasks. She tries to keep everything sparkling clean. The house has twenty-four bookshelves, and Mother frequently polishes their glass doors while speaking of me, tears streaming down her face. Whenever she cooks something special, she thinks of me and calls: “Beta, you’re eating properly, aren’t you? When will you come home?”
Father used to say such things before; now he barely speaks. His memory fails him more often. He just looks at everyone and smiles. When I ask, “Baba, what would you like to eat? What do you feel like having?” he replies, “Nothing appeals to me anymore.” His right hand and leg have weakened somewhat. But since I’ve been home, he seems a bit more cheerful. I think to myself, “Ah! If only I could stay home permanently!”
Father has become utterly childlike. Whatever anyone says, he simply smiles. He can barely remember what he ate just moments before. He speaks and moves like a small child. Father never had complaints against anyone or demands from anybody—this trait has now become even more pronounced. He says nothing to anyone. He sleeps most of the time. When he watches television, he just keeps watching and smiling.
My father is a lawyer by profession, extensively educated in many fields—I inherited the habit of learning from him. He writes prolifically. I have never seen him without either studying or writing. Now he cannot read as much, letters elude him when he tries to write, and after a few minutes of writing his head begins to ache. It pains me to watch. Relatives and colleagues visit our home to see him. Father was the embodiment of virtue—a pure-hearted good man who never harmed anyone, who wished well for all, never deceived anyone, and always lived with utmost simplicity. (I have written much about my father before. Those pieces aren’t collected together. I’ll gather them and write again, let’s see.) Father has never mistreated anyone, never shown anger, never spoken disrespectfully to anyone, never gossiped about anyone—such things have simply never occurred. He has taken on countless cases for the helpless, for free or for very little money. When someone says they have no money, that they are poor, father believes them with remarkable ease. He would tell us, “Child, a person doesn’t surrender unless they are utterly helpless. In this world, whatever you give, you’ll receive back manifold. This is the law.” Hearing such words used to make me terribly angry; I found father irritating. Now I understand—father’s life philosophy is correct. He often says, “Always try to help people. You’ll get a hundred opportunities daily to harm others, but the privilege of helping someone may not come even once in a hundred days.” I have watched my parents since childhood, selflessly helping people, offering wise counsel. I know father lives in the love of countless people. I’ve heard many say, “Your father has never suffered in life and never will.” Indeed, we are very well. Thank God. The power of human love is immense. When you have this in life, nothing else is needed. Colleagues visiting father become emotional and weep. They tell me, Pappu, and mother, “One needs good fortune to be in the company of such a good man. He is a simple person with a wonderful heart. He has turned away many cases where fighting them would have caused great harm to someone. You don’t see this often.” Hearing such words, it feels as though all the world’s happiness has descended upon our home. What greater success could there be in a person’s life? Being able to live with one’s head held high before family and society is a matter of great fortune.
Father’s stroke was detected on April 7th. Mother and Pappu noticed that Father was only sleeping, unable to speak, unable to do anything for himself. Mother and Pappu thought perhaps Father’s blood pressure had risen. He was immediately taken to the doctor, who said he must be admitted to the clinic at once. Later, the checkup revealed a mild stroke. The doctor believed Father had suffered the stroke on April 6th. Father always hides his ailments. He never tells anyone anything, not even Mother. He is a very timid man by nature, deeply afraid of doctors. He avoids going to doctors at all costs. Even forcing him to go is impossible. The day before, he had felt unwell but told everyone at home that his blood pressure had risen a little, nothing more. He even went to court and worked. If he had been taken to a doctor immediately then, the damage to his brain would have been minimal. Now I think it would have been wonderful to have a doctor in the family. Father is somewhat better now than before. But he’s still not well enough to go to court. Father is utterly devoted to work; staying home is not easy for him. Everyone comes to visit Father at home. When Father sees anyone, how peacefully he smiles! There’s no comparison to that smile. One could do anything for the sake of that smile. Yesterday I noticed blood seeping from some spots on Father’s feet. When anyone asks, Father says, “Ants have bitten me. It’s nothing serious.” But it’s nothing like that at all. Father wants us not to worry about him in the slightest. Pappu spoke with the doctor over the phone. The doctor thinks this might be happening due to diabetes; for now, apply one-time bandages to those areas. We’ll take him to the doctor again this evening. His name is Ehsanul Karim, a medicine specialist. A truly good man, cheerful and smiling. One could call him our family doctor. Half of a patient’s illness disappears just talking to him. I’m consulting another doctor as well—Hasanuzzaman, a neuromedicine specialist. We’ll see him today too. I’ll speak with him; if we need to take Father abroad, that’s what we’ll do. A little while ago, Mother said Father is probably hiding other problems as well. He won’t tell anyone what’s happening inside him. How can we know if he doesn’t tell us? Oh! Why is Father like this? Always hiding everything! It makes me so angry! I went to Father’s room to talk with him. Father wasn’t in the room but on the balcony. Sitting on a small stool in this furious summer afternoon, gazing at some bicycles and rickshaws clanging down the street below, smiling absently. In that smile there’s no complaint, no desire, no clamor, no worry, not even any mystery. It’s the smile of a simple man. Tears came to my eyes; I left without saying anything to Father. How can one be angry with such a person!
A final word. I never write about my personal sorrows on Facebook. This is the first time I’ve written such a thing; I felt a strong urge to write, that’s why. If my readers are annoyed, I hope they’ll forgive me.