Reflection: Six Hundred and Thirty-One
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Sometimes messages arrive in the inbox where the sender has no concern whatsoever about whether I reply or not. The person sending the text has already accepted it as nishkama karma—selfless action. What is nishkama karma? Work that carries not even a trace of expectation for material gain. Like a mother’s love, for instance. But what does this mean? Is there truly no gain at all? Not even a little? There is, there is! Say you help someone without any expectation of reward or self-interest. What do you get from this? Nothing at all. But is it really nothing? Think about it—when you’re able to help someone, doesn’t a sense of peace settle in your heart? This feeling of joy is worth lakhs of rupees. It multiplies your self-confidence many times over. You experience less fatigue in your daily life and work. You can work with a smile, faster and with fewer mistakes. Its value is surely far greater than any price you might have received if you had done the work for money. The happiness that money cannot buy—that happiness is priceless.
Now, why do people give money to beggars? To help them? Most of the time, the answer is no. Then why do they give? To receive blessings. Do all beggars truly bless from their hearts? Of course not! Many even curse if you give them too little. Then what? When you help someone, this feeling arises within you: I have had the ability and good fortune to help someone. Gratitude for this good fortune! The more gratitude you express, the better you’ll feel. Pride will work less in your mind. The desire to go even further will be born. Try giving a waiter 15 taka instead of 10 as a tip one day and see how it feels. Give a rickshaw-puller an extra 5 taka with a happy heart! What will you really lose? Nothing at all! Giving is an art. Then return home and see what a wonderful feeling of well-being takes hold! Whatever work you do, you’ll be able to do it wholeheartedly. Six hours of study will be accomplished in 2.5 hours. Calculate it and see—the profit is actually yours. People become wealthy through giving.
Those who tell me I’m chasing wild geese while living off others’ generosity simply cannot grasp life’s true magic. If you focus only on financial gain, you’ll spend your entire life in poverty. I have personally received so much from many different directions. For instance, wherever I travel in Bangladesh, I always find someone to accompany me on my journeys. Isn’t this a blessing?
People’s love helps me live better. But it doesn’t end there. I believe in the power of human prayers. And if that person happens to be someone’s father, mother, or elder sibling, then that prayer carries immense weight. Those who find meaning in my words or writings—who discover through them a way to forget their pain and suffering and live beautifully and wholesomely—their loved ones, especially their parents, pray for me. Many call to invite me to their homes and bless me wholeheartedly. Our parents are generally devout and good-hearted people. Such people’s prayers are surely answered; perhaps we never even realize it. I have escaped many dangers in my life simply through the grace of people’s prayers. My achieving first place in the BCS examination was the fruit of my parents’ virtue. Let me share an amusing fact. My mother had no idea what BCS even was. She only knew I was taking some job examination. She had no clue how difficult and competitive this exam was. Without understanding anything, she simply prayed to God: “Lord, please make my son first in BCS.” Had she known even a little about the BCS examination, she might not have dared to make such a prayer. How remarkable! That very prayer was answered. Let me share a life secret with you. Whenever you ask God for something, don’t ask for small things. About 10% of our daily prayers or wishes come true. If you mentally crave ice cream, somehow you’ll end up getting ice cream. But the feast that might have been in your destiny—you won’t receive that. Don’t even think unconsciously that you’re incapable of achieving anything. Your thoughts might just come true! You may never realize what you’ve lost in life through a moment’s folly!
So, back to what I was saying!
The amount of beautifully crafted text I receive every day—
I could easily arrange it all and write several “humble submissions” or
pieces “for a little warmth.” What’s fascinating is that these wonderful messages contain anger, hurt, affection, love, fear, reverence. Each message might be a continuation of many previous unanswered messages. I used to wonder,
why do people keep sending messages even when they don’t get replies? Now I understand. Sometimes people simply enjoy talking to themselves. You need another person for the convenience of conversation,
don’t you?
Have you seen Tom Hanks’s ‘Cast Away’?
In that film, alone on the island, the protagonist cheerfully carries on conversations with various entities—whether physically present or imagined. Those interactions contain anger, hurt,
love, affection, irritation,
joy and sorrow alike. It’s not that humans always need companionship. Rather, sometimes solitude brings greater happiness. Reading Purnendru Patri’s dialogues or watching Love Story,
Before Sunrise,
Before Sunset, I would often find myself mentally conversing with some Mujtaba’s Shabnam or Shankha-Sunil’s Margarita. I still do. This gives me a certain kind of happiness. If no one responded to my thoughts the way I imagine they would,
would it feel as good as it does to continue speaking while conjuring up replies to my heart’s content?
Mental conversations are so precious! If someone actually listened to those thoughts and gave dispiriting replies or showed indifference,
imagine how heartbroken one would feel.
Isn’t it better not to receive replies than to face that?
By continuing conversations in this “I’m speaking and I’m listening”
manner, one avoids unnecessary heartbreak. If this keeps one happy,
what’s the harm?
Thought: Six hundred thirty-two
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I love you.
What does this mean? It means
I dwell in your goodness. Love also contains dislike. It’s impossible for a person to be entirely good. Love involves favoring the good aspects. Don’t we often think,
why is such a beautiful girl going around with such an unattractive guy? It happens, happens to everyone. Every boyfriend of a beautiful woman seems unattractive! Every other man’s wife seems gorgeous!
Look into it and you’ll find that boy has something the girl was secretly seeking. Alas!
Of course, it also happens that 7
years of attraction meet their tragic end in just 3
months—after marriage. Closeness dissolves the enchantment of distance. Setting that aside,
the equation of love is generally undefined. Generally, boys worship beauty,
girls value character. When a boy loves a girl,
he loves only her good qualities. But when a girl loves a boy,
she loves everything about him—the good and bad combined. This is where the difference lies between a girl’s love and a boy’s love.
Yes, where was I? Let’s say,
this little household of two lovebirds. If love truly exists,
then it’s better to forget or overlook the small disappointments. For instance,
what if the bread isn’t perfectly round!
What difference does it make?
Round bread or misshapen bread,
either one fills the stomach just the same. Why must you say,
“So-and-so’s wife makes such wonderful bread”?
Do you know that your wife has qualities that would make that very woman intensely envious? If you don’t praise your own wife’s good qualities, someone else certainly will, and if that once captures your wife’s heart,
what do you think will happen then? This is how everything falls apart. Women find great happiness even in the smallest joys. Let me give you some advice,
shall I? It’ll cost you only 25-30 rupees or so. Today itself, on your way home from the office, pick up five kadamba flowers and see what happens when you walk through the door? It’s raining, after all!
All of nature’s creations hold some magic within them. Be it sunshine or rain! You just need to know how to find that magic.
From the moment you leave the office, how much your wife has to manage!
Between her chores, she watches a bit of those soap operas, flips through a cookbook—why do you only focus on this?
Should a woman be working constantly? Not everyone loves reading books either. So? What would you have the poor thing do? She can’t even have romantic phone conversations with you—you’re busy at the office. Would it be right if she had romantic conversations with someone else?
During all the hours you’re at the office, do you work every single moment? Literally? If you do, then you’re an ox. Just because you’re an ox doesn’t mean someone else has to be one too.
I have watched my mother since childhood. Truthfully, if you had to pay wages for all the work women do inside and outside the home, your wife’s salary would be at least double yours. You manage to have your breakfast before leaving the office and your coffee mug properly when you return home, so it doesn’t really register, does it!
Imagine coming home from the office one day to find the house covered in dust, nothing cleaned or tidied, the bedsheets rumpled and unmade, no cooking done, having to make and eat your own snacks, your little doll-like darling daughter’s silky hair uncombed, wandering around in dirty clothes. How would that feel? Isn’t the cost of this discomfort and irritation many times greater than your salary? Is keeping all these things in order really such a simple matter?
A home survives on mutual respect and love. Let me tell you the story of my own household. I never once heard my father call my mother’s cooking bad. Father would say, “It’s because your mother manages the home all day that I can go out and work.” Father called my mother (and still calls her) the Home Minister. Mother was often unwell. When there was only dal and mashed potato cooked at home, sitting at the dinner table and having to ask mother, “Isn’t there anything else?” — I never learned this from childhood. Rather, father would repeatedly acknowledge that despite her ailing body, mother spent her busy days looking after us two brothers. He would praise all of mother’s work. Mother would become happy like a little child, forget all her troubles, and sit down to tell father stories of everything that had happened during the day. Father says, “Women are quite childlike. If you hurt their feelings, it comes back manifold.”
My mother taught children at a kindergarten school. She did this purely out of passion. Running around after us, managing all the household work, maintaining social obligations — mother had to do all of this too. I think if you give your wife the respect she deserves, even if you don’t reap the benefits, your children will. I can say this with certainty. The family member who doesn’t earn money also feels just as tired as you do. There’s no connection between earning or not earning money and feeling or not feeling exhausted. If life’s small joys can be savored with love, then not only do all of life’s accounts balance out, but you get a bonus too. Food tastes good not because of flavor, but because of love. Perhaps that’s why everyone’s mother’s cooking is the most delicious cooking in the world. Those who have been away from home for a long time know how easily one would say goodbye to all the world’s riches just for the longing to eat mother’s hand-cooked lentil dal and fried eggplant!
So, where was I!
I was in love. I mean, I was dwelling in goodness. In life, the people we live with,
the things we carry forward—
none of this is perfect. Yet even with all this, one can live quite beautifully. Life is so brief!
How many more days shall we live anyway!
Where is the time to go to sleep with regrets?
If your wife works, then I can say with certainty that she has to work at least three times harder than you. The greatest work your wife does
is that she raises your children into human beings. Nurturing good children is a person’s greatest achievement in their entire lifetime. This noble work is what your wife does. Have you ever checked whether your little boy is keeping up properly with his studies at school?
What happens if you occasionally eat out when the cooking at home isn’t quite right? If you tidy up the household chores a bit, your wife can certainly manage to cook thai soup. In my experience, I’ve seen
how much stress my female colleagues live with regarding their children! Alongside their jobs, raising children is an enormously complex task. The lion’s share of a child’s primary philosophy of life is shaped by their mother’s worldview. The life wisdom needed to walk the paths of this world is established right there in childhood, with the mother. Mothers are the architects of our thoughts. I’ve seen that when my health is poor,
somehow my mother senses it even before my father does. Whether I remember to call or not, mother always calls to ask, “Son,
did you eat lunch?”
I’ve often seen that when I say ‘I’ve eaten’ without having eaten, mother somehow knows the truth. At the time of creation, the Creator didn’t send men into this world with such intuition. Boys are born only twice: after birth and after becoming fathers. But girls are born three times: after birth,
after marriage, and after becoming mothers. The responsibility and agony of birth—how intense that is—girls must experience very clearly indeed. Every girl is born with infinite capacity for homemaking. This returning home!
If mother weren’t at home, would the longing to return home be so strong?
This one woman is sometimes a doe-eyed beloved,
sometimes a skilled worker, sometimes an accomplished cook,
sometimes a gentle homemaker, sometimes a mother who is God’s representative. This
is tremendously difficult work!
From yesterday until today I’ve received countless requests to write something about mothers for Mother’s Day. Such wishes from friends cannot be ignored. That someone waits for my writing—
this urgency is intense. I was busy yesterday,
so I wrote today.
I offer humble respect to all mothers in the world. May mothers be very well.
On Mother’s Day I have only one wish: O God! Give my mother some years from my own lifespan.
Thought: Six hundred thirty-three
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November 2, 1984. I was born exactly 19 years after Shah Rukh Khan. I’m not writing this status to lament why Aishwarya, born just the day before me, abandoned me—her senior by one day—to marry Abhishek, who’s three years younger than her. When we were registering for our SSC exams in class nine, our class teacher gave my father this sage advice: he should reduce my birth year by a year or two. Later, everyone usually does this to gain certain advantages. My father never could think in twisted, roundabout ways. Not understanding why age should be reduced, he asked the teacher, “Why? Will there be any problem taking the exam if we don’t reduce the age?” The teacher laughed and said, “No, no, brother, why would there be? He’s first in the class. We hope he’ll do something good in the future. If he ever gets a government job, having a slightly lower age on certificates will give him some advantages. Everyone’s reducing it. That’s all!” My father’s response will stay with me forever. “If he can’t get a job based on his own merit, then he’ll work at whatever his qualifications allow. Why should I give false information for him? I don’t want my son’s life to begin with a lie. I’ll give the original.” Hearing this, the teacher smiled and said, “I’m glad to hear you say that. I pray that Sushanta never has to resort to any falsehood to achieve anything.” Much later, when I learned about the apparent benefits of age reduction, I used to get very angry at my foolish father. What’s the big deal! I see so many people working comfortably with fake freedom fighter certificates, studying at BUET with tribal certificates, and those who never kicked a football in their lives getting jobs through sports quotas. So much more! What harm could reducing age by a little do! While preparing for BCS exams, I sometimes thought, I can only take the BCS exam four times! Why is father like this?
In this matter, father has always been from another planet. In ’71, father was 22-23 years old. Father didn’t fight directly, but secretly supplied food to freedom fighters, hiding weapons in vegetable baskets and transporting them from place to place. When freedom fighter registration was happening in our village, many people told father to get a certificate, saying it would benefit us two brothers in the future. Father absolutely refused. He had only one thing to say: I didn’t fight in the war! Many of our close relatives were among those handling the registration. So it would have been easy for father to do it. At that time, many new freedom fighters were born in our village. My foolish father, despite having the opportunity, chose not to be reborn.
It was ’94 or ’95. I was moving from Class Five to Six. Getting into good schools was incredibly difficult. It required extensive preparation. I had studied from kindergarten to Class Five at Sunny Tutorial School. A few days after my Class Five annual exams ended, my grandfather passed away. In that grief, within a few days, my grandmother also died. Our entire family had to move to the village home for many days. I never did any admission coaching. Father was the eldest in the family. Mother was the eldest daughter-in-law of our household. Mother had to manage so many responsibilities that she never found time to sit with me and study. I was, of course, extremely happy about this. I would roam around all day, carefree. Those were times of great happiness. What joy! What peace! Later, about a week before the admission test, I studied with Mother at home and failed to get a ‘chance’ at Collegiate School, one of Chittagong’s finest institutions. Later, Father inquired and learned that I had scored half the marks needed to get admission. Some well-wisher told Father that for a ‘donation’ of 10,000 taka, I could study at Collegiate. Many with much lower marks than mine were apparently getting admitted through this ‘backdoor’ method. That day, Father said nothing to him out of shame. Father had helped many people, and many prominent figures were very fond of him. But Father never made any requests through anyone. I never saw Father bow his head or make improper requests to anyone for his two sons. There was a time I was very angry with Father. I repeatedly thought Father was an incompetent man. With his foolish extreme display of honesty, he could neither achieve anything in life nor do anything for us. Now I understand how important it is to be ‘incompetent’ in life! Becoming complicit in sin for the momentary happiness of children is the work of fools. Because he didn’t cripple us, today we can stand on our own feet through our own merit. One who has the habit of walking by leaning on another’s shoulder can never walk with a straight spine. When they find no one to lean on, they cannot walk at all.
I remember another incident. While doing my MBA at IBA, Dhaka University, I was simultaneously pursuing another master’s at the same university: MDS. One cannot do multiple master’s degrees at the same university in the same session. My sessions were different. MBA was 2010-’11; MDS was 2011-’12. So officially, there should have been no problem. But the MDS authorities would not accept this at all. They had one thing to say: No, you cannot do two master’s degrees simultaneously. Several professors advised me that if I officially ‘hid’ the MBA matter, no one would say anything more. They were very fond of me. But I refused under any circumstances. According to the rules, I could pursue both master’s degrees. Why should I bow my head and do my master’s like a thief in hiding? After attending classes for 3 months in the first semester, I was forced to leave MDS. By now, I should have had two prestigious master’s degrees next to my name. Now I have one. I’m telling the truth—I have not the slightest regret about this. As long as I live, I will live with my head held high on the strength of truth.
Thank you, my foolish father.
Thought: Six Hundred Thirty-Four
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Brother, there are three things you must never do. First: Never judge someone’s mentality by their educational qualifications. Second: Never assess someone’s intelligence by their exam grades. Third: No matter how learned a wicked person may be, distance yourself before it’s too late—don’t stay close just because they’re educated.
The story behind my younger brother’s three golden pronouncements—delivered just now at the dinner table by this boy who is either precociously mature or thrice his age in wisdom—isn’t very long. It goes back more than a year. At one point, a marriage proposal came to our house. I quite liked her. Liking, I mean, was also loving. I had decided I would marry her. On the day we went to see the bride, my mother blessed her and gave her ten thousand taka. (I learned of this much later. Had I known beforehand, I would never have let mother give that money—I would have bought books with it instead. What was the need to give a girl ten thousand taka? Girls become happy enough eating ten-taka fuchka, don’t they! Ah, why is mother so naive? Of course, after I said this to mother, I got quite the scolding. But let that be.) Birth, death, marriage—these three are in God’s hands. For whatever reason, the marriage didn’t happen. Their education and mentality were diametrically opposed. Just because you’re educated doesn’t mean you have to put on airs—our family upbringing never taught us two brothers that. Father says, “How will you know who’s great and who’s small? The greater one is, the more bowed their head.” Anyway, the one I was supposed to marry was very good and an ultra-intellectual, ‘I’ll tell abbu’ type of excellent-result student. She got married recently. Her father wishes that we take back that money. What a strangely petty mentality. The owner of the house we now rent happens to be their in-law through marriage. Through him, this wish was conveyed to my younger brother when he went to pay the rent. Our landlord is a renowned doctor by profession. Upon hearing this proposal, though my younger brother was quite upset, he calmly said, “Uncle, mother gave that to her as a blessing. I don’t know anything about this matter. It’s a matter for elders—how can I say anything? But I’ll inform mother of what you’ve said.” At that time, a gentleman of the scholarly-fool variety was sitting in his chamber. He had been listening quietly all this while. Then he began to speak from the middle. I’m sharing some parts of what was said in my own way:
: So, the matter is, you people saw a girl and liked her. Isn’t that so?
: Yes, sir.: So, what was the need to give money? If you like someone, you just get married. Why money in between, my dear fellow?
: Actually, this was as a blessing……..: Oh my dear boy, I’d heard people give jewelry as blessings. Money too……..
: (The doctor uncle cleverly took over the conversation)……… Oh sir! Don’t you understand? Rings and such can sometimes be too small or large, won’t fit the finger properly. So it’s better to give money, isn’t it? Something of choice can be bought…….
: Oh I see! Well then, my boy, you people gave the ring after liking her, didn’t you? Why didn’t the marriage happen? Ten thousand taka! That’s not little! Just for that alone, one could get married!
: Oh, these things happen all the time!
Marriage is a divine bond, after all. If He doesn’t will it, how can it happen? There must have been some reason why the marriage didn’t work out at the time!
And that’s exactly why he wants to return the money. Besides, the girl has gotten married anyway.
: Oh,
I see! I understand! The girl’s father doesn’t want to remain indebted. Very good!
Very good!
But then, he could have freed himself from this debt a whole year ago if he’d wanted to. Such a wealthy man—why did it take him so long to return this amount of money?
Was he perhaps using that money in his business all this year?
: Oh my, oh my! What are you saying, sir! Perhaps they had other problems,
so……
: Problems?
Oh, I see!
I understand, I understand!
He must have swallowed up the money the moment he got it. And then it took the poor fellow a whole year to arrange it again!
Natural enough. Such a large sum………(After this remark, all three of them started laughing.)
: Listen here, my boy!
You should definitely take that money!
In this age of Kali, who returns such a large amount in cash? I understand,
your mother perhaps gave it as a blessing. And with that very blessing the girl got married to someone else!
Good enough! Take the money, son.
: No, I mean, Uncle,
we haven’t even thought about it. Besides, wishing her well, Mother……….
: I understand, my boy!
Her welfare has been taken care of!
Why should the money just lie there? And if you don’t want to take it, give it to me. I’ll buy a nice big goat and we’ll have a barbecue party! What do you say, Doctor? We’re all friends here!
: Good lord!
Stop it, sir! What are you saying?
: Why are you getting upset, Doctor? All right,
forget the barbecue!
If we take the money, we could send it to Nepal through the Lions Club for humanitarian service. What do you say? And I’m telling you—from now on, tell your mother to give money and gifts only after the wedding. It’s better to give blessings after the marriage. Otherwise it’s a complete loss!
Hearing all this from my younger brother at lunch, I was practically convulsing with laughter! He tells these stories with such vivid mimicry anyway. At first, I was irritated by their petty-mindedness. Their entire family was highly educated! All of them were the first-class, second-class achiever types! They possessed arrogance and pride in full measure! I never saw them speak to anyone with much respect, which simply doesn’t align with our family values. Neither I, nor my father who is a very senior lawyer, nor my mother, nor my younger brother—none of us has the inclination or time to put on such airs or tolerate them. They wanted a live-in son-in-law type, a domesticated boy who would rise at the rich father-in-law’s word and sit at the rich father-in-law’s word. Fair enough. It’s precisely because such sacrificial goat-type boys are available that fathers of daughters seek them out. But my problem was that I would rather starve to death if necessary, but could never become like that! The marriage didn’t happen due to this difference in mentality. Otherwise, everything else was fine. Now I understand—what a narrow escape I had! Marriages between such incompatible mindsets rarely last. I had fallen in love with her, so I couldn’t bear the separation. I acknowledge once again that the Gita’s essential message is correct: “What has happened, has happened for the good. What is happening, is happening for the good. What will happen, will happen for the good.” In Latin: Que sera, sera. Meaning, Whatever was, was; whatever is, is; whatever will be, will be. I have yet to see any exception to this philosophy. Only the Creator knows what is good for us and what is bad. Each of us is merely a minuscule part of a vast master plan! Sometimes Allah accepts our prayers by not accepting our prayers.
Reflection: Six hundred thirty-five
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One.
The rain that could have fallen but did not—that rain is like enigmatic tears that accumulate and silently, soundlessly, in hushed streams pour endlessly within the chest; surely the sky too has a heart, or why else would it brood like this? The one who should have answered for this debt continues to laugh in hiding. Perhaps they will never know how in such melancholy twilight shadows, even tears forget to fall. Can tragedy be more tragic than this? It might well be! This ancient, decrepit, blind owl-aged rain has no trees or stones left to its age; so these face-down fallen sorrows have lately become far too personal. Alas! The sorrows are in distress! The impersonal form of tragedy cannot be seen; it can only be felt by stealth. What cannot be hidden in such theft sometimes becomes personal. What nonsense am I speaking! The words have become even more chaotic than I am. What a godforsaken creation! What a cruel defeat of the Creator by creation! The tune of old separation had appeared in such rhythmless, tuneless, fathomless casual slumber much earlier. That’s what I’m saying…..
If you truly loved, you would never have left. I never said the right thing all the time, you didn’t either, no one does. How many times did I scold you—far too many times. Do you remember?
Who else would I scold but you?
Who else was there?
But the thought of leaving never crossed my mind, not even in imagination. How could I leave the one for whom, with whom, I lived every single moment?
I cannot abandon myself. At day’s end, I must make my home with myself—meaning with you. I thought of you as myself. And I thought you felt the same way. This ease of thought wasn’t entirely my doing or my fault, was it?
You were so angry that day, weren’t you? Why did my stupidity suddenly seem so newly apparent to you that day? Why shouldn’t there be stupidity in love?
You knew so many punishments for stupidity: sitting with those sweet cheeks puffed up in sulking silence, not calling, not answering calls,
saying whatever came to mind, hurling whatever was at hand against the wall and making me hear that sound over the phone, refusing to eat,
calling me nonstop when I was watching movies or reading books, crying with those sweet pink lips turned upside down in a pout,
even liking other boys’ photos on social media,
calling me a bad person a hundred times, and so much more!
I can’t even remember it all properly now. I never grew tired of coaxing you out of your moods. Why did you assume I was weary? Or did you simply prefer to think so? How profoundly the unfamiliarity of love renders us forgetful and helpless—I understand this very well now. If you were going to let go anyway, why did you ever take my hand? A hand that has been released cannot hold someone new again. Some people’s hands might be able to,
mine cannot. I know you knew this. And yet . . . . . . .
Now I think
you never truly loved me. If you had loved, you would have scolded when necessary, hit me, rebelled, done
whatever you wished;
but you wouldn’t have left. Once you leave, everything ends!
I feel like driving a knife into that arrogant ego of yours. I had learned to accept all your childish foolishness;
you knew this, I knew this. No one else knew. Then why did you burden others’ shoulders with the responsibility of our life’s arrangements? How easily you answered all of life’s questions with a single response!
Two.
When someone wants to maintain a relationship with me but refuses to give that relationship any name, should I walk away? Of course I should! Why am I even asking you? He just keeps me in his orbit, and knowing everything, I still let him keep me there. At first I thought I wouldn’t say anything—what if speaking up made him drift away? I wanted him to at least answer my calls. I had never found such peace talking to any other boy. When he spoke, it felt as though all the world’s happiness had somehow gathered in my phone at that very moment. I never imagined that such a twisted sense of possessiveness would slowly take root. You know, this has been going on for three years now. He talks to many other girls, hangs out with them, and also talks to me. I know everything, I understand it all—yet the spell won’t break, or perhaps I won’t let it break. It’s not that he speaks to me particularly well—but he does speak, has been speaking for three years now. To me, he’s a strange magician of words! I spend all my time staring at my phone, hoping he’ll call! Sometimes he tells me how this girl or that girl has messaged him. How beautiful this one looks, how lovely that one is, how sweetly one speaks, how beautifully another sings, how pretty one looks when dressed up. I can do many wonderful things too—many boys tell me so—but the one I longed to hear it from with all my heart and soul, I mean him, would never say it, not even by mistake. Even when I’d dress up and share photos, he wouldn’t like them. Then I’d want to throw away all the likes I received, hurl them far from my sight. I knew then, and I know now, that he has always kept me in his orbit, and continues to do so. I keep myself foolish because I don’t want to lose him—though I know I never had him to begin with, so what is there to lose! Put a dog outside the house for one night, then call it back with even fake affection—you’ll see it comes running right back. Lately I feel like a pet dog, yet I love him, so I can’t step away. I know he has already stepped away. The words that come naturally to him, that he probably says to many girls—thinking those words were meant only for me, believing this over and over, I’ve come to this distant place today. I can never go back now. Can a moth ignore the flame even knowing death is certain? His safe position—he has never once said “I love you.” I used to know that such things didn’t need to be said aloud; now I’ve learned that they do need to be said. He’s like an addiction to me—no one else’s thought makes me fall apart like this. It’s difficult to act out simple friendship while harboring such intense love. I know he’s not acting—he never loved me, so he doesn’t need to deceive himself with pretense. But I wonder, is this really just friendship? Knowing he couldn’t give me shelter, why has he been indulging me all these years? Why? Why? Why? I can’t take it anymore—I want to bring him back at any cost. Then again I think, bring back what! He never came and left that I could bring him back! It’s been a long time since I could sleep without medication. My head throbs with pain.
I am alive only because this torment exists. What irony, isn’t it? Sometimes I’ve gone around with other men too, let him know about it or arranged for him to find out; I thought, let me see if this makes him even a little jealous. Nothing happened at all—he chatted with me at night just like any other day; he remained completely cool, untroubled, detached, unmoved, without a trace of emotion! I find myself quite loathsome these days; yet I don’t feel like despising him. He’s of marriageable age now, he’s looking for a bride, but he doesn’t tell me clearly either—you get married, become a householder. I don’t let my family arrange matches for me at home. I quarrel with my parents, my younger sister who came right after me has already married, and here I am, stubbornly holding on since who knows when. Hoping for what? For whom? No one asked me to wait, yet why do I, entranced by what? I cannot sleep, and when I’m awake I only keep searching for him. I go on deceiving everyone around me, on and on. I laugh, I play, I sing, I wander, I eat, I move, I return; everything lifeless, rippleless, spiritless, silent, motionless! I never had him, yet lately I fear losing him. It hurts so much, so very much! I didn’t want this pain, I only wanted him. He didn’t come, pain came instead.
Reflection: Six Hundred Thirty-Six
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One.
Why must one love at all?
Not everyone can love everyone else. What appeals to one person never quite matches what ought to appeal to them. Even a highly refined person can fall in love with someone utterly bohemian, scattered, reckless. There’s nothing wrong with this. A breathtakingly beautiful girl with long hair, sharp-tongued, who lights one cigarette from the burning end of another, for whom celebration means the bliss of drink and drugs, who breaks noses with her fists whenever her mood sours, who pays no attention to clothes, doesn’t bother much with shaving, who can steal glances at women and whistle at them in a flash, who spends days and nights roaming around with girlfriends—she might well be drawn to such a man. I see nothing wrong with this. To each their own life. Suppose this girl meets a boy who is nothing like any of this. She begins to like him, bit by bit. The girl wants the boy to change, to become what she desires. The boy cannot. Can one simply start smoking cigarettes at will? Does taking on the responsibility of staying stoned on marijuana become easy in an instant? Not everyone can do everything. For some people, writing long pieces comes easier than growing long hair. Writing a two-page movie review is easier than becoming a rough-and-tough movie hero. Why must everyone master the style of calling Rabindranath “fucking hackneyed old-fashioned” whenever they please? But doing such things doesn’t mean one cannot be a good student—I mean a student with good results—or a good person. I’m not saying one is more valuable than the other. I’m only saying that whoever values something should find someone for whom that thing runs in their blood. Why do some people love playing such games with others that the game can easily be mistaken for life itself? A person cannot change what’s inside them. If I cannot love what’s inside, yet keep wondering whether I love or don’t love, and go on acting at love—what kind of hypocrisy is this? If someone mistakes my confusion for love, won’t their suppressed resentment and pain return to burn me like a curse? You cannot love someone taking everything together, yet you want to love them? Try this: see if they truly change the way you want, or if you can change yourself to suit their heart. How long will you wait for this to happen? Only until the love reaches the “taken for granted” stage. Why must you love at all? Has someone sworn you to it? What obligation do you carry? Of the body? Why must you say “I love” for that? Those who cannot distinguish between the obligations of body and mind are not lovers, at best they are men; not lovers, at best they are women. Don’t keep acting at love by force. You may be a good actor or actress, but not everyone is a good audience. Some people never catch the performance even in a lifetime, mistaking it for love, preferring to make this mistake. I beg you, don’t think that someday everything will be all right. By then it may be too late, yet nothing will be right. Why do some people love so much to cause pain, to sadden, to make others weep?
Two.
Over these few days, I’ve come to realize that reading Samaresh and Buddhadeb gives you precious little understanding of tea gardens. At best, you might get lost in the romance of tea gardens through stories and films, nothing more. To truly see a tea garden, you must actually see a tea garden—there’s no other way. It’s hard not to fall in love with tea gardens. The more I see, the more I simply want to love them.
Arriving at Deundi tea garden, I first came to the manager saheb’s bungalow. I’d bet anything that if you found such a beautiful place to live, you’d desperately want this very job. What isn’t there in a tea garden manager’s bungalow? All the world’s most beautiful trees are scattered around it. Everything you could possibly imagine belonging to a lovely house close to nature—you’ll find it all here. You’ll keep thinking: life is here, life is here! I immediately thought to myself—let me quit my job and become a tea garden manager. This country has everything one could want. Plus there’s a vast kingdom to rule! There’s no shortage of retainers and soldiers either. You don’t even need to reach out—everything appears before you do! Only one problem: you’d have to wear half-pants! Living amidst all this green. In tea gardens, you get all of nature’s green essence together. Hills, lakes, mountain paths, enchanting rows of trees, your own car. Spending a sweet sun-soaked afternoon or a rain-washed lazy noon, or washing your entire body and soul in the soft moonlight on a moonlit night. Every bird you could imagine comes calling from time to time. Bou kotha kow, wood pigeons, cuckoos, magpie robins, mynas, starlings, orioles, rosy pastors! What isn’t here! The continuous chorus of insects will pleasantly carry the whole day. Driving at night, suddenly an owl appears before you, snatches up an insect and devours it, or a few white rabbits dash right across in front of your car! Jackals frighten you from a distance with their howling and shrieking. Seeing and thinking about all this, one desperately wants to live with just these things.
There are some wonderful Bengali films about tea gardens. Watching them makes you want to go there and stay for a few days during the monsoon, or walk hand-in-hand with someone in the falling evening. Friends, tell me the names of such films. Let me start: Uttam Kumar’s Dhanraj Tamang
Three.
With the vial of poison in hand, the first thing that started working in my mind was: what if I really do die after drinking this? Well, does it hurt terribly when you’re dying? This pain of being alive—is the pain of dying even greater than this? What does it feel like to actually die? When dying this way, does everything around go dark? I’m living in darkness, will I die in it too?
I tried to imagine what the scene after my death might be like. Mother would wail and cry, fainting again and again. Father would abandon court and come rushing. Father would cry a lot too. When parents cry, their bodies break down, they become terribly ill. My younger brother would think for a moment about what should be done, then he too would start crying his heart out. Those around would start crying too—if not from grief, then from seeing them cry. Tears are nothing if not contagious. When someone sits before you crying, joining them is a matter of basic courtesy.
After all this thinking and pondering, I realized: what right do I have to kill, with my own hands, this life that my mother gave me? No one has absolute ownership over their own life. Thinking about all this, I somehow felt an intense desire to cry aloud—a cathartic weeping. But despite being overwhelmed by tears, I couldn’t cry. All my tears seemed to be suffocating inside my chest. Suppressed weeping. What agony! What agony! . . . . . .
I had read something about what the final moments of leaving this world feel like. Not all of them are about suffering. At this moment I recall what seemed to me like the most sense-of-humor-gifted writer of all time—Oscar Wilde. His wasn’t about sorrow. Actually, the rule for suicide is: you can’t think so much about it, you just have to do it. Death means everything becomes nothing. The dead have no good feelings or bad feelings left. Who cried, who laughed—what is there to think about? Yet one does think! Someone accustomed to being alive can surely think a little about the experience of dying. There’s nothing wrong with that.
A line from The Shawshank Redemption is very dear to me: Get busy living, or get busy dying. Suddenly this thought struck me: if I can’t be like ten other brilliant people, why not at least be one dim person and see what happens if I just stay alive for once! I was remembering the water-nymph from Shirshendu’s “The Swimmer and the Water-Nymph.” Now I understand—just staying alive makes many things happen. So, what happens if you stay alive? If nothing else, at least you get to suffer. If you die, you get nothing at all. Getting pain in life is better than getting nothing at all. You have to bear pain, you have to endure it, you have to learn to transform pain into strength. They say when people’s backs are against the wall, they turn around and fight. My back was embedded in the wall! That pain, that torment, that melancholy, despair, and depression from that time—these can never be forgotten. It’s only because I stayed alive that I received so many bonuses! So when someone asks me what brings the greatest joy in life—success? becoming wealthy? achieving greatness?—I say, staying alive is the greatest joy in life. Others may not know, but I know how terribly difficult it can sometimes be just to stay alive! What a tremendous success it is to give death the finger!
I had read in one of Sandipan’s novels: In these dark days of ours, will there be songs? Yes, someday there will be songs about these dark days of ours. I had decided to spend my time waiting for that day. I knew writing that song would be very difficult, but still . . . . . . .
Thought: Six hundred thirty-seven
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One.
Well, start again. Sir, that phrase “start again”—it’s the most powerful phrase in the world that no one says, no one at all. I love you because you say it to everyone.
Everyone understands, don’t they, that good deeds will surely bear good fruit and bad deeds bad fruit. I too was once a good student, sir. In class eight, I came third in the scholarship examination from Sunamganj. When I enrolled in chemistry at MC College after passing my matriculation and intermediate from village school and college, everyone said chemistry is a very difficult subject, you won’t be able to handle it. Today their words have proven true. I did poorly in my honors results. Does anyone deliberately fail, sir? I grew up under strict discipline until intermediate. Then in honors I became completely wayward. My parents were no longer with me. Who could control me? I could do whatever I pleased. Day after day, month after month I didn’t study, just wandered about. I didn’t even know which course’s exam was when, even before the exams. How shameful! Whom shall I blame for this? My parents and little sister thought I was studying. And I was… shame! Now everyone keeps their distance. I don’t understand any job classification, I simply want a job, a job. Let it be third class or fourth class, but a job! Don’t you think being known as a good student in childhood is a terrible thing? It’s absolutely true, sir. Everyone just kicks you when you’re down. I’ve never heard a kind word from anyone. I have no self-respect left, no stubbornness, no focus on studies, no complaints against anyone. I can’t go to the village, everyone just lectures me. I made mistakes, fine. At least give me one chance to reform myself. If not, kill me, but don’t wound me like this. I used to laugh when I heard of people committing suicide. Now I understand how unbearable the pain of living must become for a person to no longer want to live. But I want to live. From this intense desire to live, I read your writings. I cannot express, sir, how much I owe you. I know many people tell you these same things. I never imagined I would see you face to face. By God’s infinite grace, meeting you today I can express my gratitude to you.
Over by the Medina Market, I was chatting with my cousin’s younger brothers at his tea stall, then went with my younger brother Giyas to CP where we ordered chicken Thai and Pepsi and were waiting. Just then I saw a tall, handsome young man enter very hesitantly, approaching me with great diffidence, extending his hand and asking,
“Are you Sushanta sir?”
Then I began listening to his words. He looked like a bewildered, defeated soldier. His speech kept faltering. At one point he took a photo with me, full of embarrassment. What he’s living with right now
is a profound disbelief in his own abilities. Despite my tired body from the whole day, knowing it would delay my return to my room even further, I listened to everything he had to say,
spoke with him,
showed him his areas of strength, explained what everyone actually says and why they say it, how much of it needs to be heard, how much should be cast aside,
I made him understand that. He listened,
reflected, realized he too must do something good. If he truly wants it from his heart, he can do it. Through his work he must let everyone know that he
is certainly not someone to be discarded. He
will never be lost. A little later I saw
him wiping his eyes. I quickly took a CNG from there and left, not because I was getting late,
but because I cannot endure such scenes for very long.
Two.
When reading certain writers’ descriptions of nature, one feels as though one is actually touching a tender new leaf, as if the fragrance of wild flowers is truly intoxicating, as if the gentle streams of rain have soothed restless lips, as if these eyes are fulfilled by the riot of colors from every flower in the garden, as if the green insects on damp leaves are deceiving us about the color of their own path as they move before our very eyes, as so many different shades of green awaken and arise, as all the birds become drenched like crows, and so much more! In the small compass of my literary reading, two writers in Bengali literature come to mind at this moment who have brought us truly close to nature: Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay and Buddhadeb Guha. These two great creators’ writings can be touched with heart and mind far more than they can merely be read. Keeping Palamau and a few other creations in mind, I find the magic of nature-intimate literary simplicity nowhere else so intimately. Buddhadeb was a chartered accountant by profession. It is our great fortune that unlike many other professionals, he did not remain hidden solely in his profession. He traveled extensively—many others do that too. But he also wrote. Reading Ribhu, I learned that given the busy life he led, creating this vast body of writing in between was not easy. All the writing is good! If the Ritu of ‘Sabinay Nibedan’ doesn’t appeal too much, we may not have received from Buddhadeb someone unique like Sunil’s Margarita from ‘Sudur Jharnar Jale, Chabir Deshe Kabitar Deshe’ or Mujtaba’s Shabnam, but what we have received is beyond comparison. The joy of communion with nature shakes the entire body and mind. Even a single motionless mountain can teach us to live, think, and love anew. Being able to see the rain in Sylhet is one of the finest gifts of being alive on this earth. The nature of Sylhet’s rain is Buddhadeb Guha’s nature. I have read Guha, loved him, so he feels deeply familiar. I came to Sylhet a week ago as part of training. We visit various government offices every day. We go and listen, see what they do, how they do it. Right now I’m in the office of the Department of Agricultural Extension. There are two things in the world I don’t worry about: One, what I don’t need. Two, what I’m not interested in. . . . . . . Today’s officer is a decent sort of gentleman. He keeps talking while some of us keep dozing off. Needless to say, this dozing has no relation whatsoever to whether we sleep at night or not. I’m mainly in their group. Today I thought, better to write than to doze. Besides, I can do both. Today I went with the latter. Why did I go there? These past few days I’ve discovered that most government office washrooms have problems with their latches. Today’s does too. I was thinking of writing about this when I ended up writing about all sorts of other things. This often happens to me. Rain, Sylhet; and me too. Most importantly, my phone has charge as well. Sylhet is beautiful in the rain. I wish to spend such a rain-soaked day in a tea garden bungalow. Let’s see if someone kindly makes the arrangement! I want to write more. I can’t. I know this writing, like many of my other unwritten writings, will later disappear. The pain of accepting the death of a child who died before being born is great sorrow. Jobs are terribly awful things. They don’t let you write as you please, don’t let you read, don’t let you see, don’t let you listen. The anguish of livelihood is great anguish. Sometimes I very much want to quit this job, if only to read Rabindranath!
Three.
These past few days I haven’t been sleeping in class—I’ve been reading instead. Today I read Professor Jafar Iqbal’s ‘Shanta Parivar.’ An incredibly heart-stirring book. As I read it, I kept thinking how wonderful it would be to have a family like Shanta’s. But I have two conditions. First: Shanta must stay by my side. She cannot die. Because as long as I live, I want to love her intensely. Not loving such a woman would be terribly difficult for me. Besides, if Shanta were gone, I could never raise her children the way she did. Second: I wouldn’t mind if there were fewer children. It doesn’t have to be six. There’s Shanta’s daughter Shaoli, the eldest among the siblings. This girl is completely her mother’s carbon copy. I’ve fallen in love with her too. Why is she so enchanting? She’s a little foolish as well. Girls don’t quite fit if they aren’t a little foolish. Let her be a bit silly—no harm in that. But there’s one problem that really irritates me. Why do infinitely charming girls like Shaoli seek out and fall in love with the tender sides of terribly rough boys like Jahid? It spoils my mood. “Jahid burst out laughing again. When he laughs, he looks quite handsome. He doesn’t know this.” That’s what’s written in the book. Amazing! Why must such things be written about Jahid-type boys? When we non-roughneck types laugh, do we look terribly ugly? Thinking about this, it seems writers are even more unhinged than the beauties with screws loose in their heads. The Shanta family was supposed to have six children—Shanta’s wish. Her untimely death stopped it at five. The youngest among them is Jhumur, whose job is to confound everyone with her wise sayings. This little one is supremely cute. I want to have such a little one too. I won’t teach this child studies—only how to be cute. There are many such playful thoughts in this book. The problem with reading such writing is considerable. I’m already excessively weak toward good writers. I can easily forgive all their crimes. While reading good writing, I keep thinking, “Writing like this is simply impossible for me.” I don’t want to punish my friends by making them read my writing.
I was speaking of Shanta. Her life had only one goal: to love her family, to cherish her children. She had excellent results, could have taught at university if she wanted, could have taken a high-paying job. Some of her life philosophies have made me fall in love with her. But it’s not that such women don’t exist. I had even met one such person. I wouldn’t have understood how beautifully a person could think if I hadn’t seen her. Despite my intense desire, knowing I couldn’t offer her shelter, I didn’t encourage her. Why? The usual story! As always, through God’s inexorable gesture—greater than humanity—the heart’s demands have fallen flat before religion’s intimidating glare. Heart proposes, religion disposes.