Thought: Two hundred thirty-two.
……………………………………..
Music Therapy
……………………………
What are you doing,
friend?
Busy? Mind feeling restless?
Shall I tell you about a mental therapy? You could try it.
……….. It works.
Put away everything that distracts your attention for a while. Really put it away; ‘even’
Facebook.
Go to YouTube. Let Satinath play. Keep listening………keep listening. Then one by one Jaganmoy Mitra,
Anup Ghosal,
Shyamal Mitra,
Manabendra Mukhopadhyay, Pintu Bhattacharya, Talat Mahmud,
Akhilbandhu Ghosh,
Santosh Sengupta,
Sudhirlal Chakraborty,
Hemanta Mukhopadhyay, Manna Dey,
Kishore Kumar
…………… let it continue!
You are no longer…………. where you are, you are not there ………… all your meaningless pride will come before you and laugh with a haha sound, saying,
You too…….???
Your body swaying to the touch of melody will suddenly announce that you are well! ……… A smile will linger on your face; gentle,
the kind that comes from within. You’ll feel like crying deeply,
but won’t want to let those tears fall. You’ll want to believe
they are too precious. An old question will come and stand stubbornly before you…………who else has a claim to my tears?
Think of the person you love, but who is not near.
You’ll begin to feel
something is missing, something is missing. Something has been lost,
slipping away, deceiving everything. They will seem so dear.
………… You’ll lose yourself in a world
where it feels so good to think all faults are your own. In a world where thinking of your own ugly forms, you can smilingly forgive anyone’s form. No one’s flaws will seem significant. What makes you so good yourself?
That love which never found a home, that very love will want to dwell. A cool breeze from nowhere will kiss your eyes and face and slip away again and again. Your mind will become peaceful, still, moving along a straight line…………..to that place
where going means regretting having to return.
Each word and melodic rise and fall will bring gentle-sweet shocks to your heart. You’ll desperately want to touch the song. You’ll want to return to childhood wonder and live again in sweet innocence. You’ll want to bow your head and pay respects to Salil, Gauriprasanna, Pulak, Subal,
Jatileshwar, Sudhin, Rabin,
Pranab, Panchakavi, the two Barmans! What joy to spend a lifetime losing to them!
One can live even for a beloved face’s smile!
For a little happiness of the one I love,
one can wait until the moment before death!
Looking at mother, you’ll desperately want to smile genuinely and make her happy…………..
You’ll want to call your younger brother and tell him,
“You’re really good!”
The courage will somehow come to embrace father and say “Father,
stay very well!”
……………….. You’ll want to gently tap your beloved’s nose,
cheeks, chin and empty yourself to fill her with completeness.
You’ve been irritated for so long by those who claim to love you—now you’ll want to taste the joy of magnifying them by forgiving, with disdain once more, your own spontaneous or imposed inability to love them back. Two words will want to emerge from your heart……..still,
stay well…….
Suddenly, somehow, you’ll grow big enough to think good of good people!
You’ll want to shout to everyone,
“Being good and staying well—what wonderfully magnificent feelings they both are!!”
You’ll want to know life in a way you never recognized it before.
You’ll want to drift away in the magic of drowning in beautiful thoughts, floating to that place,
that distance……………….where once you arrive, everyone can be forgiven!
And you’ll want to say………………forgive me, friend!!!!
Ah! One can live for just a single song!!
Thought: Two hundred thirty-three.
……………………………………..
In whose names will the puja be held?
Catherine and Rajan.
Which gotra?
What’s the horoscope name?. . . . . Blah blah blah
…………….
Hehe . . . . My
little aunt is Russian by birth. Uncle is a man of cosmopolitan spirit. Social customs never bound him, because he didn’t want them to. That’s how
it is.
My cousins’ horoscope names couldn’t be given to Adinath’s priest. He said, no problem,
the puja will happen. When there’s no horoscope, whatever name exists,
the puja happens in that name. Foreign names for native gods’ worship!
I thought, I won’t give my horoscope name either. Let the puja happen in the name Sushanta.
When I told this to the priest, he said, if there were no horoscope it wouldn’t be a problem, but if it exists, it must be given. I laughed again. Hehe
. . . . .
One of my aunts observes fasts for various pujas. She’s aged, with a broken-down body. During last year’s Kartik puja fast, her body completely collapsed.
I said, Auntie, what would happen if you didn’t do all these fasts and such?
Her one response: even thinking such things is sinful. No spiritual attainment comes. Misfortune befalls one’s children.
Suddenly the mischief of teasing aunt struck my mind. I asked, Auntie,
what are you saying! Look how Barack Obama got elected President for the second time—did he fast for Kartik puja before the election? Saying this, I ran away from in front of auntie!
Hehe . . . . .
The chariot thinks I am god,
the path thinks, I am. The idol thinks I am god, the inner soul laughs. .. . . . Suddenly
I remembered. What was that poem called?
The greatest advantage of religion is this—
it can be customized to suit one’s convenience. Whatever keeps me well and also keeps others’ well-being intact,
that is religion. What I think would be good for others, or what others think would be good for me—
that is not religion, merely imposed customs; at best, mere conventions. Religion’s glory is far greater. Religion is not action,
action itself is religion.
What am I saying on this impossibly romantic day! The real matter is this:
I’m watching rain in the mountains. Not with my eyes,
but with my mind,
wringing out my entire heart. The monsoon has descended on scattered islands. A thousand-year-old monsoon. Gentle drops of water roll from eyes to lips. Thirst doesn’t diminish, rather it grows. What is this
thirst for? I know. It would have been better not to know. Not everything needs to be known. Atop the mountain lies the hermitage. In this ashram there is no Shakuntala, no Anasuya, no Priyamvada either. Yet somehow, ever since arriving here, Dushyanta’s ghost has possessed me. Such is the sublime beauty of this ashram,
its atmosphere.
At Maheshkhali.
Thought: Two hundred thirty-four.
……………………………………..
I don’t know who you are. I don’t know
what you want. I will not look for you. I will not pursue you. If you too don’t search,
don’t pursue; then I will look for you, and I will find you! ……….. And I will kill you!!
The above words are taken from a movie. In the movie, these words were spoken by someone whose daughter had been kidnapped. In this
status, these words are spoken by someone whose potential beloveds keep getting kidnapped. Why do some girls need to be so beautiful?!
If they must be,
then why must they not be my beloved?! Once the status-giver gets a glimpse of her, he has resolved to truly lift her up and throw her down,
this he has decided. Why do people torment people so much?
Let her come once!
I’ll catch her and then
………. whether she comes early or late, it’s all the same. What happens if she comes early?
God’s endless whims!
Who knows with whom my future wife is happily romancing around!
Boys marry 2
types of girls—their own girlfriend. Someone else’s ex-girlfriend.
Dear wife’s respected boyfriend,
when exactly are you planning the breakup? Can I help somehow? But,
how? Please tell me!
I don’t even know you! Won’t there be a breakup?
Alright, very good!
Be happy. The breakup has already happened?
So nice of you,
gentleman!! Thank you for giving us the opportunity to be happy.
Dear wife,
how much longer?
Come to me!
I can’t find you!
Such an extraordinary person divorced you even before marrying you, just for my sake,
and you’re still sitting alone somewhere instead of coming to me—what joy are you finding in this, tell me!
Don’t you recognize me,
don’t you?!
Good point. Well then, friends,
tell me which movie contains those opening lines?
Let’s talk more about movies. Well I mean,
I’m talking about the nymphs of movies.
He’s my father, and older than me too, so I don’t say anything. Politics is the policy of kings and royalty — what’s the point of all this chatter, friend!
Where I have no hand,
what good would
my head do there!
Those who are plunderers
keep on plundering. Whether it’s wealth or pleasure. If politicians understood even half of what my father understands about politics, they’d abandon politics and flee. Some do, the rest just keep understanding. That’s the rule. I’m just a simple man, friend, living merely under the compulsion to survive. One day I’ll suddenly die and be completely liberated. Until then, let me dodge a bit and use whatever wit I have to salvage what little life I can!
Anyway, this time let me name some of my dream girls from Bengali cinema. They’re the ones who taught me love. And ironically, they still haven’t let me fall in love!
Suchitra Sen. Madhabi Mukherjee. Sabitri Chattopadhyay. Aparna Sen. Mamata Shankar. Mohua Roychoudhury. Shatabdi Roy. Bobita. Subarna Mustafa.
What a comfort it is — when alone, I feel like loving them. Then I no longer want to be alone. That’s the problem.
There are more! Can’t quite remember them right now. Friends, why don’t you add some too!
With a pinch of sweet fondness. Weekend;
a little love,
half a dose of romantic feeling. Let it be!
One small request. Wise people, please stay away from me. Always!
Thought: Two hundred thirty-five.
……………………………………..
(I had written this piece on one of Mashrafe’s birthdays.)
Dear Mashrafe!
Stay alive!!
Some memories — even when you want them to, won’t come back.
Some memories — even when you want them to, won’t be forgotten.
The time was about 6 years ago. I was working at Chittagong Airport then. I’ve always drunk lots of coffee, whenever I get a break I spend some time at the coffee corner.
One day. Afternoon was touching evening. I was sipping coffee, with my colleague, Assistant Revenue Officer Masum — out of habit, without looking here and there, completely immersed in the coffee’s steam.
Suddenly I see Masum almost shouting, “Sir, look, look, Mashrafe!” I look and see Mashrafe sitting with his wife on one of the chairs a little distance from us. At that time he was out of the team for some reason. I knew him from before, loved him dearly; but had never seen him face to face before. His professionalism, courage to speak the truth directly, simplicity, boundless love for his work — all this fascinated me.
Going closer, I said “I’m Sushanto” and shook hands. Immediately giving his paper coffee cup to his wife’s hand, leaving his chair and standing up, he began speaking with a very natural smile. “Please sit down, sit down, sit and talk!” “No, no, it’s fine!” I could never have imagined that such a great person would speak with me so simply. He’s exactly 1 year and 28 days older than me, but in real terms, compared to his greatness, I am nothing but a child.
Masum asked him,
“Mashrafi bhai,
when will we see you on the field again?” He replied calmly,
“Actually, I have some problems,
once I can overcome them, I’ll be able to play again.”
Pointing to me, Masum said,
“He’s our AC sir from the airport, a great admirer of yours.” “Oh no, no,
what are you saying! An admirer of mine…………”
With that, he embraced me and said, “You must be a very busy person,
I hope I’m not wasting your time?”
I couldn’t quite understand what one should say in response when someone like Mashrafi asks such a question. When I’m before great people, I can hardly speak at all—I simply watch them quietly,
listen to their words. He was going to Cox’s Bazar,
and asked me to arrange a car for him. There was supposed to be a car for him at the airport, but it had broken down, it seemed. I called the driver of the government microbus I used to a corner, gave him money for fuel,
and asked him to take Mashrafi there.
He kept refusing,
asking me to hire a private car instead. Without saying
‘yes’ or ‘no’ to him,
I gestured to Masum, indicating what needed to be done. Being able to do just that much for him filled me with immense joy. When he kept thanking us very politely, again and again,
I felt,
somehow, embarrassed.
The afterglow of Mashrafi’s simple, natural behavior that day still lingers in my mind,
and it will never fade. Among the few times in life when I’ve been deeply moved by speaking with someone,
that day was one of them.
I have a problem. When I find myself before someone I admire immensely,
I can barely speak properly,
let alone take a selfie or get an autograph! That day too, I took nothing—neither selfie nor autograph—only
gathered an armful of wonder. Masum was taking selfies,
getting autographs,
while I simply gazed at Mashrafi. I have no photograph with him,
I kept no autograph of his, yet
Mashrafi lives in my heart,
and will remain there. There’s something deeply moving about seeing such a simple person!
Not everyone’s eyes carry such serenity.
Dear soul,
happy birthday. Continue to live like this in our hearts. And
please, please, please,
take care of yourself. When I see you on the field,
fear stirs within my chest—isn’t Mashrafi playing through pain, pushing himself too hard?
I’m sharing some of his words that I cherish………
– I have never planned anything in my life—not for exams,
not even for buying clothes for occasions. I have always done what felt right at the last moment. So when I was given the responsibility of captaining the team, I did what I always did. I never worried about success,
failure, the future, or the past. I never thought about these things.
……. (I myself
follow this philosophy exactly.)
— Today let me speak with clarity. We entertain everyone. We are not truly heroes. Our real heroes are the freedom fighters. We have sacrificed nothing for our country—the freedom fighters have. Please don’t misunderstand me—cricket is not everything in life. We only try to make our countrymen happy. ……. (It takes considerable moral courage to speak so candidly.)
— I say, all those who shout ‘patriotism! patriotism!’ in cricket—if they would just stop throwing banana peels on the street for one day, not spit on the road for one day, or follow traffic laws for one day, the country would transform. Instead of spending this energy on cricket, if everyone would just do their work honestly for one single day, that would be true patriotism. ……. (You can think so beautifully, we cannot, so we choose the easy path—keeping ourselves filthy, keeping our surroundings filthy.)
He is just like that. A person of great stature, simple—not an iota of hypocrisy. Whatever he has to say, he can say directly. Just seeing him brings such joy! There’s another quality of his that inspires me whenever I see it……….fighting with everything he has until the very last moment! No matter how difficult it gets, staying true to his commitment—truly, these things are not easy at all!! Year after year, instead of thousands of donkeys like us being born, if one Mashrafi is born in a thousand years—that’s far better. Yes, perhaps we cannot become Mashrafi, but still, someone somewhere should be able to point to one of us and say, “Look there, you must become like him”—we must keep trying for that, mustn’t we?
The reverence and love that moved me while writing this post—you may never know its depth, but please know this: when you step onto the field, we look toward you—not just toward Mashrafi the player, but toward Mashrafi the good human being—with profound affection and trust.
Stay well, beloved Captain! We love you dearly.
Reflection: Two hundred and thirty-six.
……………………………………..
The Story of Akkhhor
……………………………..
(Written long ago. How long ago, I don’t remember.)
This is an advertisement for a book.
Let me say upfront—reading this might seem tedious. It contains my personal ramblings. Feel free to skip it if you wish.
I post statuses on Facebook. Some of them get a bit long. I pass those off as stories and such. Actually they’re not stories—at best they’re something big enough to keep as Facebook notes. What this ‘something’ actually is, I can’t figure out. If I tried to figure it out, I wouldn’t be able to post statuses anymore. Like some relationships, some writings also have no name. Some friends read them, like them, share them, kindly say “well done”—so I write a little, meaning I write statuses. If I didn’t get likes, if no one said they were good, I surely wouldn’t write. I write for two reasons—for my own pleasure. Because friends say it’s good.
Many of my friends retain certain pieces of my writing in their memory. Many of my friends print out certain pieces and keep them.
There are several friends who have copied all my Facebook posts into Word files. By copy, I mean going to my timeline and selecting old posts one by one to copy-paste them. This is by no means an easy task. It’s an extremely exhausting, tedious, and time-consuming endeavor. Among these friends is Lina, who believes that even if Sushanta Pal writes just a dot, it will have meaning! Her conviction is that all my writing is good. What a rascal of a girl! Because of people like her, I can’t write whatever I want (read: whatever rubbish) in peace. She’s not alone in this group. Many others copy my statuses and notes. Please send them to me via email. Why did I mention her specifically, what she has done—I’ll come to that story in a moment.
I’ve found such a friend who has surpassed all my astonishment. I never had the courage to imagine something like this. Everything I’ve written since joining Facebook—I mean the statuses I’ve written, the comments I’ve written, the notes I’ve written, whatever I’ve written when sharing a post—she’s been gathering it all together and preserving it in files. She’s been doing this for a long time. This is a tremendous gift for me. I never asked her for this. But would she have given it if I had asked? Do people come close when called? Or do they rather come when not called? It feels good to lose to her magnanimity. By the way, her name is Noreen.
I have two identities in my circle of friends. First: even when someone voluntarily wants to help me, I often remain indifferent about accepting that help. Second: those whom I like, I unconsciously speak to them in hurtful ways.
I have an interest in preserving my own creations, but no initiative. Let me return to Lina’s story. She has been reading my writing for a long time. Just reading? No! She dissects my writing, seeks out news of my moods and temperament from my very words. She knows how skilled I am at not maintaining contact. One day she tells me, “Listen, you’ve written so much. I want to collect some of your pieces and publish them together.” In response to this, I give her a proper scolding and say that I haven’t yet attained the worthiness to have my writing published. Day after day she tries to convince me, while simultaneously collecting my writings. I behaved very badly with her about this matter. Even then she didn’t give up. She requested me to select some of my writings myself. I didn’t do this at all; instead, I spoke to her with a bad temper. After this, she herself collected several of my pieces, compiled them in a file, and emailed it to me, then called to request that I choose some writings from there. I checked that email almost a month later. Upon checking, I called her and said, “I won’t publish my writing. What will people think of me? Don’t you dare bother me about this anymore!” Like a thief who won’t listen to moral tales, Lina wouldn’t listen to Sushanta’s scolding. The work didn’t get done. After this, she selected some writings herself and emailed them to me so that I would at least give each of the pieces a title. (Most of the writings were my various status updates. Status updates don’t have titles, after all.) After putting her off for many days, I didn’t do that either. Then she threatened me that if I didn’t fix the titles myself, she would write titles herself according to her own understanding. (I am extremely sensitive about my own writing. She knows this very well.) After this, I stopped receiving her calls. I spoke to her in very harsh language so that she wouldn’t do this under any circumstances. I said many more stern things so that she would refrain from publishing my writing and stop bothering me about this matter. I neglected her as much as I could, treated her with contempt.
But alas!
You have to understand, Lina is something else entirely. For a long time she
hadn’t made any contact at all. I too was at peace. One fine morning, Lina called and said, “Sushanta,
I’ve selected some of your writings according to my own judgment. And I’ve given them titles too. If you don’t look them over, the pieces will go as they are. You can say whatever you want,
think whatever you want, but I will publish your writing. The rest is your affair.” I said whatever came to my mouth in that moment. She had set a deadline. If I didn’t finalize the titles within that time, the pieces would go to press with the titles she had assigned. Later, with a cool head, I thought, “If I don’t fix the titles, my writing will come out under these awful headings.” Such affection for one’s own writing is deep affection indeed! So on the very morning of the deadline, before leaving for office, I hastily fixed the titles of the pieces and emailed them to her. The book she was editing didn’t contain only my writing,
there were many others’ writings in it too. It was an anthology. I was the only person who hadn’t sent in any writing, whose pieces had been collected through her own initiative, enduring much grief. Because of me, she couldn’t even begin the work of getting everyone else’s pieces submitted. She had to bear much irritation from the publisher as well. Two days later she knocked again. This time I had to write an author bio. Everyone else had submitted theirs. Only I remained. (For those who don’t know,
I’m telling you,
the author bio that appears on the book’s flap,
that’s usually written by the author themselves.)
I thought,
let me see if my pieces could be dropped even at this last moment. As usual, I didn’t write the author bio. I spun her around like this for another week. Then she and another old student of mine together crafted a massive author bio for me. After that she emailed it to me and delivered the same old threat. Extremely annoyed, I opened the email to find that in the author bio I had been puffed up and inflated beyond recognition. My mood turned foul. What could I do! I wrote a 2-3 line author bio myself and sent it to her.
This is how ‘Akshar’ came out. It contains many people’s writings. This is an anthology edited by Lina, containing only such writings
that the authors had decided to leave in obscure corners. It contains the most writing by me. Excluding some photographs, across its 646 pages it contains writings by 36 people in total. My share of the writing spans 94 pages. Hearing this made me even more angry. I angrily didn’t attend its cover launch ceremony. I never told anyone anything about its publication.
(Even so, many who love my writing and are acquainted with Lina in some way or another
have collected it. Many of my well-wishers contacted Lina and even attended the cover launch ceremony.)
I didn’t even open the courtesy copy that arrived by courier at my address for many days after it came out. I had thought
I wouldn’t tell anyone about this. Speaking to anyone about it somehow felt embarrassing. It might get published,
but I don’t write well enough for that. My studies are also limited. The matter of writing without studying seems to me like a kind of dishonesty and hypocrisy. Besides, I don’t get time due to work pressures. Writing on Facebook with this meager working knowledge—that’s fine up to a point. But bringing out a book? No, no, never!
The book hasn’t hit the market yet. It will probably be available at the upcoming Ekushey Book Fair. For now, you can buy the book by calling the publisher at 01195007950. The listed price is 1000 taka. It has 664 pages, offset printed. You can buy it for 750 taka. I think the book is priced a bit high. Still, I’m telling you about this book. Why? Because I read an email Lina sent last Sunday. I’m sharing that email here.
Listen, let me tell you a story—
“Once upon a time, I was captivated by the writing of some unknown Sushanta Pal. That enchantment grew so intense over time that I kept thinking: why should someone who can write so beautifully remain confined within the boundaries of something called Facebook? Such writing deserves to transcend all limits. Perhaps because I try to write a little myself, I also try to appreciate others’ good writing. Since he wasn’t really someone I knew well in that sense, I couldn’t forcefully or presumptively suggest he publish a book. I thought I’d do something myself. Here too was the same trouble—since he wasn’t someone close, I couldn’t propose bringing out his solo book under my initiative. And even if I had suggested it, why would he listen to me! Who am I to him!
From there came the idea of joint publication. As a result, a massive book called ‘Akkhhar’ has already been published. The struggles I had to endure to bring this book called ‘Akkhhar’ to light—if I were to tell that middle story, I’d have to write a little history. So I won’t tell that. I’ll just say that at one point, I felt this impossible task was beyond me. Each time I was about to give up, I only thought: then Sushanta Pal’s writings won’t be published. From this thought, I moved forward again. By then, some friendship had developed with him! And repeatedly, in various ways, I was humiliated and neglected by him, suffered pain, wept myself into pieces. I knew he had no emotion, no feelings about this book or his writings being published, yet I continued the work. I don’t know what spell held me!
Just because of one word from this Sushanta Pal, I weathered many storms and organized an event. He knew that everything was solely for him… but in the end, he didn’t come. As I said, he has no emotion or feeling about any of this. I understand everything. But the heart can’t be convinced! I sat there with a fake smile before journalists, media, cameras, but couldn’t enjoy a single moment of such a grand arrangement! Only because of him. Because of my boundless ‘affection’ for him. So, kicking away all this ‘affection’—these mirages—I’m leaving everything behind and going far away, hoping to find that world which, even if it makes me weep, will at least offer the refuge of tears pressed against its chest. I know I won’t find that either, but still, hope upon hope… dwelling in the house of hope. Take care.”
Reflection: Two hundred thirty-seven.
……………………………………..
I let myself be struck from time to time. This way I easily understand who would strike me if given the chance. Not everyone will be dear to me. Many will be displeased. How strange! Did I come to this world to please everyone? Those who live to please everyone have no happiness in their lives. They must live by constantly deceiving themselves. Being such a self-deceiver is a special quality. Not everyone can manage it. Each person is different in their own way. Some people are quite serious about everything; that’s fine. They go around telling everyone they’re serious; that’s fine too. But trying to establish that everyone in the world must be just like them, and then personally attacking when it’s otherwise—that cannot be accepted. Freedom of expression does not mean the freedom to forcibly impose one’s opinions on others’ shoulders; this must be understood. They brazenly attack people of different opinions. One who strikes doesn’t quite feel the power of not striking. Let them strike if they must. I’ll be wounded if necessary, but I cannot be a hypocrite. I am what I am. I am formal, quite properly formal. Polite, sincere; but I cannot tolerate hypocrisy. And when someone misunderstands and personally attacks me, I feel hurt. Let them not understand me—no problem; but let them not misunderstand me. I cannot go around saying I am what I am not, whether anyone likes it or not. Not everyone can do everything. Rather than being respected for what I am not, let me be disrespected for what I am. That’s better too. Deserved disrespect is preferable to undeserved respect. Why be so serious about life when life doesn’t care about us at all! Living beautifully in this momentary world is good enough. There’s no point listening to everyone’s advice. People give advice for two reasons: First, because they want your good. Second, to show that they’re better than you. So before changing yourself by listening to anyone, you must think carefully about whether they’re qualified to advise you, whether they’re your true well-wisher, whether they have any ulterior motive behind giving you advice.
Reading my words pains you, I know. Yet I write and send them, because I’ve made you my personal diary. Sometimes I think,
I’ll share nothing more—neither joy nor sorrow. How I am, or what I think. That would bring you peace, wouldn’t it! So let it be. But the truth is, humans can never live alone. Whether in reality or imagination, one needs at least one companion with whom everything can be shared. Someone who can be felt even in thoughts through the right of possession. Someone upon whom anger, resentment, sulking, and affection can be scattered, and from whom love—sometimes even displeasure—can be gathered, making emptiness disappear. This way days can move forward in well-being, they do move forward, and they were moving forward too. But if you stop even that, can you imagine what will become of this unfortunate soul?
In our undergraduate studies, we used to examine algae cells. No matter how much you adjusted the power under the microscope, without adding a few drops of water, it was all futile. The cell would appear as nothing more than an indistinct lifeless heap. Just those few drops of water were desperately needed for the cells to come alive. I feel exactly the same about myself. You might as well unfollow me. Then these ramblings would never appear before your eyes again. This world I have, it revolves entirely around you, so I live accordingly. I speak the truth—all my joys are created around you, so let this room remain mine alone. Come whenever your heart desires, wander through and leave. But there’s no need to always come and be annoyed. Come only when your heart calls; in the melody with which I address you, there’s no force—don’t make that melody discordant.
It pains me deeply when you say your poetry is no longer mine, not for me. That I am no one to you. The burning within that consumes me—you have never understood it, nor will you ever. I never felt defeated before. Today I do, when you withdraw all claims, ask me to relinquish all rights! The moment I think I’ve let you go, the difference between my living and dying completely disappears. Before this departure, won’t I have even one day! Will you ever love me and accept me? What do I even have that’s worth loving and embracing! What do I truly possess that would enchant you, fulfill your heart, draw you close! Where body speaks to body! Believe me, after everything ends, the loneliness becomes overwhelming. I need a bodily mind of love that will touch me—touch me as no one ever has!
Reflection: Two hundred thirty-eight.
……………………………………..
There’s a story. Perhaps you’ve heard it. If you have, listen again.
A man was traveling through the desert with many goods. He had a camel with him, but it could only carry the merchandise. He had to walk through the scorching sun and heat. Finally, unable to bear the suffering any longer, he prayed for a camel.
He did get a camel, but that camel didn’t carry him—instead, he had to carry the camel. You see, his original camel had given birth to a baby.
Life is truly bizarre. We desire so many things in life that even when we get them, the wanting itself remains unfulfilled. We want many wrong things, or sometimes we want exactly the right thing, yet we receive it in such a way that… everything just goes wrong!
A man deeply desired to build a house with all his life’s savings. That wish was fulfilled, but the night before he was to move into the house, he died of a heart attack.
A woman’s early life was spent in great hardship. She didn’t have a single good sari to wear anywhere. She had many dreams of owning many saris. Eventually, her wardrobe was indeed filled with expensive, beautiful saris, but for some strange reason, she stopped wearing saris altogether.
A childless couple lived in a cramped little room—a single large four-walled space. Their dream was to live in a grand house. A relative decided to fulfill their wish. Their dream house began taking shape. But just two days before they were to move in, a terrible tornado struck and obliterated the house completely.
Outside, rain pours down relentlessly. On such a rain-soaked afternoon, someone desperately craved khichuri with spiced beef curry. Making such a meal at that moment was nearly impossible. But since the craving was so intense, everything got cooked. Finally, just as they sat down to feast on their elaborate spread, the rain vanished and blazing sunshine broke through! The meat for their desired meal was ready, but the rain that had inspired it was gone, and with it, the very desire itself.
Someone desperately wanted a transfer to their beloved’s workplace, so they tried with all their might. Finally, their wish came true. But alas! By then, that beloved person had already been transferred elsewhere!
Husband abroad, wife at home. The wife keeps trying to join her husband. For years, the two remain in different countries! Finally, their long wait ends. Her wish is fulfilled. The wife goes to her husband. But within days, some visa complication forces the husband to return home! To support their large extended family, the wife must stay abroad.
So many such things happen, don’t they? Who can say when a particular desire will become meaningless! Yet until that desire is fulfilled, our hearts and souls remain restless, yearning for it! Sometimes it happens that even when desires are fulfilled, everything somehow falls apart. Then we wonder: what I’ve received—why did I want it? Why did He fulfill my wish at all? Why must I always get what I want?