Reflection: Two Hundred Eighty-One.
……………………………………..
One.
I am Dipali. My father is a clerk on a modest salary. We are three siblings. Since childhood, I’ve had many dreams, many hopes. One day I would make something of myself, make my parents proud. My father had great dreams for my elder sister and brother. But they couldn’t fulfill those dreams. This causes my father much anguish. I understood this pain of his. That’s why I’ve been trying so hard to fulfill his wishes. But at a certain point in life, I realized that everything doesn’t happen through willpower alone. To fulfill desires, one needs money.
I think there’s hardly any place left where I haven’t sent my resume. Even for the smallest positions, I’ve applied. Just hoping to get a job. Because I want to continue my studies. I want to fulfill my father’s dreams. This thing called money has set me back in everything.
Father is quite ill these days. Mother runs our household with the money from selling cow’s milk.
This past January, I completed my BSc (Pass) in Marine Fisheries from the Marine Fisheries Academy. Even with this certificate, I can’t manage to get a single job. In this situation, I’m suffering from severe depression.
Father’s treatment, mother’s struggles, my unemployment… everything causes me great pain. I can’t tell anyone anything. Alone at night, I sit and think and cry. I don’t easily share anything with anyone.
I’ve never extended my hand to anyone for help. Father taught me: even if you have to starve to death, never bow your head before anyone.
But when life itself bows your head down, when despite having intense will there’s nothing left to do, what should one do then? Why didn’t father teach me that?
Two.
My brother was in class nine. His name was Sugata, nickname Topu. On February 17th, he hanged himself. Why—none of us know. But he was quite imitative by nature. Whatever he saw, he would try to copy. On February 16th, two people were hanged in a murder case—my brother and I stayed up watching that news on TV. At night, he and I used to sleep together. About the hanging, he made all sorts of jokes to me. Without thinking much of it, I spent the whole night talking with him about various stories related to executions. The next day I left to take an exam. All day long he seemed normal. He came home from school and even ate rice from mother’s hand. That day, for some reason, he insisted that mother feed him rice by hand, though mother had some work to do, but he wouldn’t listen at all. Until half past nine at night, he kept chatting with mother. When father returned home at night and I went to call him for dinner, I found his room door closed. Despite calling out many times, the door wouldn’t open. Then mother came and unlocked the door with a key to find his lifeless body hanging from the fan.
He wouldn’t eat unless my mother fed him by hand. He was deeply beloved by her. If he was even a little late coming home, Mother’s blood pressure would spike. That he is gone—this is something we find unbearably difficult to accept. We live in a joint family. So many people in the house, yet when he did what he did, no one noticed a thing. The room where he carried out the act was covered wall to wall with pictures of various gods and deities. He wrapped a bedsheet around his neck to make the noose. The noose was so large that two heads could have easily fit through it. Apart from a red mark on his neck, there was nothing else—even his face hadn’t changed much. When we all lifted his body together and laid it on the bed, it seemed as though he was still looking at my mother and smiling. My brother’s death was utterly unbelievable.
Sometimes Mother cries in a way that’s unbearable to witness, and Father has somehow grown listless and withdrawn. We two siblings had been so free and easy with our parents. Ours was such a happy family. We didn’t have great wealth, but we had joy everywhere. All of it is finished now!
Mother won’t come out of her room anymore, and whenever she sees someone Tapu’s age, she pulls them to her chest and weeps. Meanwhile, one of my aunts and a few others keep saying that Mother is cursed—she couldn’t hold onto her son. When I hear such things, and when I see the state of my parents, I often think of buying some poison. I could poison my parents to death, then take poison myself. The three of us could go together to my brother. Then there would be no more sorrow. We wouldn’t have to listen to anyone’s words, wouldn’t have to bear so much pain. But I cannot do it. Now Mother often says she wants to die. She says if only she could get me married, she could die with peace of mind.
We can never accept that Tapu is no more. His belongings are scattered everywhere in the house. His toys, his kites and spools, his school bag and notebooks. The last shirt he wore—Mother won’t let it be washed because it still carries his scent, and she often holds that shirt to her chest and cries. His bat, his ball, his bookshelf, his storybooks, his shoes and socks, his bicycle—everything remains as it was before. Only he is gone.
There was such childishness in him. He mixed mostly with younger children. He played ball with kids. In the evenings, he would run around the field with little children. I never once saw him look directly into any girl’s eyes while talking to her. Apart from our younger sisters at home and our aunts, he hardly spoke to any other girls. When I see people around us turning his death into some girl-centered tragedy and spreading that story, it breaks my heart.
To understand the reason for his death, we spoke with each of his friends. No one knows anything that might have driven him to suicide. Everyone says the same thing: Auntie, he was just a child, he made this mistake unknowingly while playing—please forgive him.
Yet people never stop spinning their palatable tales. They are such creatures of frenzy. Lies have always been more appetizing than truth. People accept falsehood more readily than truth. The sheer number of vile stories that have already spread through the neighborhood about my brother’s death—it pains me even to think of it. Some have even concocted and spread on Facebook the story that my brother killed himself while playing the Blue Whale game. People have no conscience or humanity left. When someone jumps on something, everyone around them follows suit. Whether there’s any truth to what they’re jumping on, or whether there’s any truth at all—no one bothers to think about that.
What peace people find in spreading bizarre tales about a dead child, making his family weep! They face no judgment. There is no punishment for such crimes. In this country, only those whom everyone collectively brands as guilty ever face punishment. The actual events always remain hidden behind the mindlessness of frenzied, foolish, cruel, and thoughtless people.
Reflection: Two hundred eighty-two.
……………………………………..
I read your piece on masculinity. It brought back many memories from the past.
Small-minded people keep their eyes on small matters.
I was married through family arrangement on July 12, 2011. Within a few months, we divorced. He was quite good-looking and spoke in gentle, refined tones. Everyone was irritated with me because the boy was good, he loved me—so why leave him? I could never make anyone understand that he was small-minded. Everything about him was for show, which I couldn’t bear. Every action of his had an ulterior motive; he never did anything without profit. None of this was apparent from the outside. Whenever he visited relatives, he would obsess over what they served, what they gave—such things. Everyone misunderstood me, yet I didn’t stay with that small-minded man. I feel intense disgust toward those whose everything is mere display.
You haven’t written anything since yesterday. I log into Facebook solely to read your writing. If you’re busy, that’s fine. Two days ago I read in one of your pieces that you were feeling unwell. How are you now? People like us—ordinary people—need you to stay well, to stay healthy. For those who find inspiration in your words, whose melancholy lifts when they read you, please stay well for their sake. I am a devotee of your writing. I don’t read many books, can’t really call myself a reader, but I do read your work. You have this ability to present complex subjects in simple, flowing language—that’s why I’m so drawn to your pieces. I can’t speak for others, I’m only speaking for myself, but I am truly inspired when I read your writing. I’ve been reading you for two months now. When I first encountered your work, I didn’t know who you were. After reading, I looked at your profile. I didn’t read your writing because you are who you are—I came to know you through your writing. I believe you love your readers deeply. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t post so much amidst all your busyness. Your job is tremendously demanding; finding time from that is truly difficult. This wouldn’t be possible without profound love.
Where are you? Not writing? Have you disappeared? I don’t know why, but I’m really missing your pieces, and I’m worried about you too. Are you well? Perhaps you’re thinking—I’m unknown to you, a stranger, so why am I worrying? Maybe I’m being presumptuous. But the concern is real. Stay well—that’s all I wish for.
I’m not a Facebook user. I opened this account with a fake name for a specific need. Then somehow your posts started appearing. I liked what I read, gave it a like. Since then I log in just to read your writing. I have no other activity on Facebook. My name is Narin. I live in Naogaon district of Rajshahi division. Finished my Master’s, work a small government job. That’s about it!
You’re a very busy person. Countless messages flood your inbox. Among that crowd, you read my message and replied. Thank you for responding. Knowing you’re well truly feels good. I’ve told you my name, where I live, what I do—I’ve shared it all! Now then, why aren’t you writing?
Your ‘Propose Day’ piece felt somehow scattered. You probably didn’t write it with your usual care. Did you rush through it? I’d recommend reading ‘Sabinoy Nibedon’ (if you haven’t already).
Happy Spring, and happy Valentine’s Day as well.
All this love exists just for this one Valentine’s Day, doesn’t it? Where would all this love come from if this day didn’t exist? On such a day let rain fall………let there be rain, and let her be there too. The photograph you posted with this caption truly evokes the feeling of having your beloved close………such an intense feeling……..words cannot convey it!
I don’t know how you spend your holidays. Your mind seems weary, melancholy, exhausted. I could be wrong, but that’s how it appears in the pictures. Have you ever considered that you have thousands of friends, followers… yet there’s no one to lift your spirits… while you single-handedly brighten the hearts of countless people? Artists heal everyone’s soul, yet no one remains to heal theirs. Perhaps you once willingly embraced much suffering to become famous; now that you’re famous, you’re enduring twice that suffering. What remains in the final calculation?
Everyone wants to speak with BCS cadre, writer, and speaker Saumyabrata, wants to stand beside him for photographs, wants to meet with him. Yet for the human being Saumyabrata, there’s no one anywhere. Perhaps many loved ones have drifted away because of this fame. Haven’t they? Or rather, how many close people have you yourself forgotten completely! You have, haven’t you?
How truly alone you are, even amidst the crowd!
Let me say this—give yourself a little time. I’ve been reading your writings for four or five months, constantly discovering you anew. By the way, how can I read your earlier pieces?
How do people like posts without even reading them? Nearly five hundred and fifty likes appeared within two minutes of your note being published. How is this possible?
Let me share something with you. I love someone. He loved me deeply too, or still does. His mother has been battling cancer for two years; treatment continues even now. This has left him mentally and physically weakened and unwell. He barely speaks properly to anyone, doesn’t eat well, doesn’t sleep. When I call, he rarely answers, and when he does, he doesn’t speak well—gets angry quickly, becomes irritated easily. I can’t figure out how to bring him back to normalcy. You can perceive many things better than ordinary people. So I’m seeking a bit of advice from you. Besides, as a man yourself, you’ll understand male psychology better. Actually, his mother’s illness has turned everything upside down for him. We have no control over illness, of course. But one must maintain some semblance of normalcy, mustn’t one? I simply cannot bring him back to normal.
Of all the pictures I’ve seen of you so far, your current cover photo is the most beautiful. Reading your writings truly inspires me. One thing you said rings very true—whoever slaps today will be kicked tomorrow… certainly!
In your “Rupar Sonali Gatha,” Anik’s failure to get a job throws Rupa’s life into chaos. And in “After Distance,” Aritra’s getting a good job makes Nila’s life fade away.
How can we truly know when someone will change their very nature, become a different person with time? The one I’m thinking of spending my entire life with today—what guarantee is there that tomorrow they won’t constantly sound the death knell?
Thought: Two hundred eighty-three.
……………………………………..
The BCS exam seems like a mountain peak to me. The regularity in studies is no longer there; between managing household and children, whatever time I get is hardly insignificant. Yet the studying never feels adequate. Reading your writing makes me think it’s possible, then again I think, let whoever else succeed — I won’t be able to do it. Perhaps rust has settled quite well in my brain! When I sit down to study again, I can’t figure out where to begin. What a hopeless state! Thank you for sharing the notes.
Sometimes the way you write just breaks my heart!
I am an admiring reader of your work. I completed my Master’s in Fisheries from the National University. I have a son, I’m a homemaker, haven’t found any job yet. This is me!
You’re a busy person with countless tasks. Among thousands of people on Facebook, amidst so many messages, you actually saw my message! I had thought you would never see these messages. I thought since friend requests can’t be sent, maybe messages also get dumped in “Others,” but still I wanted to say my piece — even if you never saw it, at least I would have spoken. Please give such replies every now and then. I’ll be absolutely delighted!
Now the reasons for joy in our lives are diminishing one by one,
if you could sometimes become a reason for my happiness,
it wouldn’t cause you any harm!
Stay well.
You know, the list of people I follow is quite amusing. On my wall, I get all kinds of writing. Love, hate, politics, music, movies, communalism, feminism, books, literature, psychology, science, philosophy, medicine, anthropology. What isn’t there? My time passes joyfully!
I’ve realized, though belatedly, that it’s better to keep the friend list small on Facebook. For a long time now, when I like someone’s writing, I click the follow option, but I don’t really add such people to my friend list. Yes, it sometimes feels bad when someone has turned off both the option to comment on their posts and to send them messages; there are some people to whom I feel like saying something personally, not just in comments!
I’ve been messaging you quite frequently these days — please don’t be annoyed!
After reading that piece you wrote the other day about receiving messages from married women, I was too scared to message you for several days. Today I’m writing again. Brother, I read your latest note that afternoon. I must say it upset me. But I pray wholeheartedly that you find a worthy life companion. Someone who may not look like a wingless fairy but is enchanting, who may not be smart but is virtuous, who may not be the best in studies but has a literary mind. I pray from my heart, brother. On this blue page of Facebook, I hope to joyfully like a sweet picture of you with a sister-in-law beside you.
How are you doing, brother? How is our dear brother? Tell me, brother, have you ever come to Natore? Or have you been there?
Another thought has been circling in my mind today — may I ask?
Brother, do you laugh a lot?
Somehow I feel you laugh heartily at jokes or funny things. I like people who laugh a lot.
The piece is quite good, brother, do keep writing!
When I ask about your studies you don’t reply, and apart from studies there’s no reply either! Brother, you’ve started writing poetry,
you’re writing wonderfully. Stay well, brother,
keep writing.
Winter has arrived. Brother,
do accept an invitation for rice cakes and date palm jaggery.
After so many days, today I’m crying while reading someone’s writing. The tears couldn’t help but come. I read your piece about Shatabrshi and my eyes overflowed. Not everyone can leave with such deep hurt, brother,
how many there are who live on even while dying, who must keep living. Between one who returns love,
and one who clings to it, there’s only one difference, and that is—fate;
otherwise everyone’s condition would be the same. Love doesn’t rest in everyone’s destiny, or they can’t bear it, brother.
I’ve written a few lines about today. Sending them to you.
Twenty-first, my twenty-first!
How many masks of barbarism this twenty-first has torn away!
What hundreds of sacrifices my twenty-first has brought news of!
It broke the chains of linguistic expression—that very twenty-first! Where will you find this
great song, how many hundreds of poets,
thousands of poems,
without the twenty-first!
The twenty-first brought dam-breaking melodies,
immortal life,
the hero’s saga!
Yet why, alas, does it seem today,
that words only bring night, never dawn!
The words that came floating in blood, why do they die choking breath? The brave brothers became imperishable holding that memory,
dust settles on every page of that immortal remembrance!
How much courage there was, there was love in their hearts, yet there’s no language in the house of language,
thinking of it, tears gather in the eyes unconsciously!
Twenty-first, you gave consciousness,
colored the mind,
sharpened the heart’s throne!
Come, come in crowds, spirit of youth,
offer hundreds of flower petals!
Nothing can ever repay what your sacrifice has given so unstintingly! The praise sung in the alphabet you gave us—is your own gift!
When thinking of you makes this chest weep in pain, that same chest binds itself to the flame of dreams! Stay in our hearts through hundreds of births, imperishable one! Give courage in the immortal flame, twenty-first February!
Reflection: Two hundred eighty-four.
……………………………………..
I am not like you, really. I am not like the other ten boys. I have a problem. I cannot hear properly. This problem began in 2002. I cannot properly hear what the teachers say in class. I struggled through my master’s degree. My results were mediocre. I scored 3.56 in SSC and 3.60 in HSC. I got second class in honors. But now I see there are no jobs for people like us. We are neither in the disabled quota nor in the general quota. Because I cannot speak properly in front of you. I hear some words, and others I don’t. People curse me, calling me deaf. Hearing these things over and over, I’ve developed a hatred for life. I live in Dhaka city. Because I cannot hear properly, I cannot teach privately. At the end of the month, I have to stretch out my hand to my parents for money. In those moments, I feel so small. And when I see my younger brother earning five thousand taka a month from private tutoring, I want to destroy myself. If he can do it, why can’t I? Why has Allah made me this way? No one understands our suffering. We are humiliated at every step. If I cannot hear something properly, I have to endure being called deaf. I want to take the BCS exam. But I see it’s written in the conditions: “The candidate must be able to hear well in both ears and show no signs of any disease.” I have a disease in my ears. Can I not take the BCS then? If not, what is the reason? I don’t deliberately hear less. Allah has created me this way. Besides, we cannot even support our own expenses. No one gives us any job or tutoring. Where my younger brother earns five thousand taka a month, I cannot earn even one taka. Today I have shared the pain of my heart with you. Because you are planting seeds of dreams in so many people. I don’t know if I will find a path through you! If you could tell me what I should do now! Because of this despair, I no longer study anything. I no longer feel like studying. Because it seems to me that there is no light in my life, that people like us have no right to exist in society.
I don’t ask for much in life. I only want to stand on my own feet. I don’t want to depend on anyone. But my life right now is filled with nothing but despair. My father was a primary school teacher. He is now retired. My mother is also a teacher. She still continues teaching at school. We are seven siblings. So there is want in our family. I cannot do many things as I wish. Besides, last year my mother fell ill. Mother suffers from thyroid problems. After the operation, she is somewhat better now. But still, every month a lot of money is spent on mother’s medicines. I went to the doctor on the 12th. After examining my problem, he said that if I have the operation, there is an 80% chance I will recover completely. I can also live a normal life using a hearing aid. But this requires money. I don’t want money from anyone. I only want one thing. A part-time job. So that I can manage my own expenses. The money needed to apply for various good jobs—I want to be able to manage that myself. And if a job cannot be arranged, then may this society arrange a couple of tutoring opportunities for helpless people like us. What else can I do? Life must go on!
We don’t want anyone’s pity—we want a little sympathy and cooperation. We don’t want to live life in despair. We want to fight with life. We don’t want to give up. If we just got a small opportunity, we could prove ourselves. This society is doing so much about so many things!
Why does no one ever think about us? So much noise is made on Facebook about fake, unnecessary, harmful matters—no one ever wrote two lines of compassionate words about us.
Thought: Two hundred eighty-five.
……………………………………..
All my words are about my despair. You will be annoyed reading them, and I’m writing without keeping that in mind. Suffering has to be suppressed. But how much can one bear?
I cannot cut my story short, so I will take quite some time—if you read my writing keeping this in mind, my discomfort will lessen, if only a little.
I grew up in a joint family, where I was the eldest daughter among all the children. My mother, the family, and society—everyone together taught me the same thing over and over: that I must act with social propriety and the family’s interests always foremost in mind. I was then eight years old. A boy from the neighboring house proposed to me. At the time, I barely grasped what was happening, but my surrounding society noticed it far more than I did. He would stand in front of my school all day and follow me around according to when and where my coaching classes were held. Our house was two stories, and right next to it was his three-story house. From his house, many rooms of our house were visible. As I was saying, this society began filling my family members’ ears with all sorts of talk. Baseless, filthy gossip. The family then began to fear society. So everyone started keeping me under constant, strict surveillance. When I went to school or coaching classes, my mother, or father, or grandmother, or aunt—someone or the other would always accompany me. The incident wasn’t as complicated as it was, but my family and society together made it so complicated that they turned my mental state difficult. And meanwhile, he wouldn’t stop following me either.
As I mentioned, from his house all our rooms were more or less visible, so even in my own home, moving about in more than one or two rooms was forbidden for me. When walking down the street, whoever was with me would say the same thing: keep your head down and walk! All in all, what kind of mental ordeal I went through at that age—no one but I can feel that. Of course, no one can truly feel another’s pain anyway.
Now let me come to the matter of family. Those who haven’t lived in a joint family can never understand how full of cunning it can be. A boy had been following me around, perhaps he even had love for me in his heart, but the truth is that not once did he ever properly meet with me. Yet my uncle would say he had seen me with him on the street, that we roamed around together in various places. He made up many such things and told my parents, repeatedly forcing fear about me into their minds. They thought it would be better to marry me off. My grandmother, who used to accompany me to coaching classes, secretly wished that I would run away somewhere with that boy. Then she too could give my parents a piece of her mind. She harbored a resentment. My younger aunt had loved someone, but because she was married off elsewhere, she was not happy now. All the blame for this somehow lay with my parents, so grandmother had told my younger uncle’s wife that it would be good if I ran away. Then she could give mother and father a talking-to. All in all, my parents were also at their wit’s end. What they then did to me—even today it amazes me to think of it.
Has anyone ever heard of amulets made from eggs? They make you walk for miles, truly astonishing tales—eggs tied to the belly for some time, then whatever emerges from them is used to make the amulet! One might laugh to hear it! As I write this, I find no humor in it at all, because despite having not an ounce of faith in such things, I was forced to endure that ordeal. At half past ten at night, I was taken by car to some distant place; I can’t recall the name. There was supposedly worship of Lord Shiva! I went. I had to bear the foul stench of cannabis there, truly suffocating! There, seated before the deity, they offered whatever oblations in that boy’s name—I don’t know what. Then they wrote his name on paper, burned it to ash. After returning home, my mother gave me water to drink mixed with those ashes. How much I protested. But who listens to whom!
Again, there was some astrologer somewhere, very far away. Hiring a car to go there. He looked at my palm, pulled at the corners of my eyes, said who knows what! Then one day they all performed some ritual on me with various things! You’d be amazed to hear—they smeared ghee, honey, milk, and many other things on my forehead and chanted all sorts of mantras. Then fasting all day for worship, bathing in water over which mantras were recited, amulets, filling the entire room with thick smoke and confining me in that room—so many other things they did to me!
In truth, none of this was necessary—this sick society and my family put me through such mental torment! So much more I heard, endured! One cannot imagine what happened to my little mind at that age! Now thinking back, my parents realize how wrong they were! There are many more stories, which I don’t even remember completely. I’ve tried to give some voice to my experience, but the actual events were far more horrific than what I had to endure!
I got married. I never again had the chance to forge my own identity. I love to dream. Having married, all dreams seem divorced from reality to me. I was born to walk the path of dreams. Marriage has crippled me. All life’s obligations seem settled in one marriage! When I have time, I write in my diary. I haven’t abandoned writing poetry even after marriage. My efforts are utterly insignificant. Yet they feel precious. The attempt to write is itself an attempt to keep the heart well. I revere Rabindranath, I love Jibanananda. I long to tell many stories, but there’s no one to tell them to. So I leave all the words of my heart on paper.
When my husband returns home, I cook; when he goes out, I sit down to write. When he’s with me, I find no one beside me, feel utterly alone; but when alone, I find myself beside me. So I prefer being alone. I love spending time in my own way. Life passes like this.
Thought: Two hundred eighty-six.
……………………………………..
One.
When I was in ninth grade, I fell in love with a boy from our neighborhood. I liked him very much. During that time, I began excelling in my studies, and in 2010, I was admitted to Dhaka University. Meanwhile, he didn’t even complete his SSC exams in the end. I never let him understand my elevated status. Because I knew he could never keep pace with me. I always adapted to his way of life—when we needed to meet, he didn’t rush to Dhaka to see me; instead, I went to Faridpur to meet him. His presence was distinctly felt throughout every aspect of my life.
About a year ago. I had just received my BCS preliminary results when I suddenly learned that his marriage was almost finalized. I asked him about it, but he wouldn’t admit it. Like a madwoman, I called his acquaintances, learned the truth. I humiliated myself before them repeatedly. Then I begged him a thousand times to meet me just once. But his heart wouldn’t soften. Finally, seeing no other way, I told him I would kill myself if he didn’t meet me. Only then did he agree, and I went to see him. I spent five hours with him. Over and over, I said just one thing: please don’t go through with this marriage. He had only one response—it wasn’t possible for him to step back now. Then I returned, defeated. The joy I saw in his eyes that day is something I’ll never forget. He married last April. Since then, I’ve been living only for my parents. I know that knowing about this life of mine, no one will want to tie their life to mine. And I will never hide such a great truth. So I’ve decided to remain this way for the rest of my life—alone. I don’t know how right that is.
Two.
After passing HSC in 2012, when I couldn’t get admission anywhere, I reluctantly enrolled at Dhaka College under the National University. The humiliation and neglect I had to endure from everyone cannot be expressed in writing. I passed HSC from Pabna. Unable to get into a public university, I took admission at Dhaka College to escape everyone’s scorn. My disappointment reached such depths that my first-year results were terribly poor. Somehow I was promoted. That was the beginning—afterward, it became impossible to emerge from the realm of failure. The consequence was this: after finishing second-year exams, I was not promoted to third year.
During these four years, I had a relationship. It was going well. The daughter of my father’s friend. But problems began after I came to Dhaka. That girl was so emotional, words cannot describe it. I tried in many ways to give her courage. She got admitted to Jashore University of Science and Technology. Then more problems started. On February 14th of this year, our communication stopped over some trivial matter. I don’t call her, and she doesn’t call me either. On New Year’s Day, I called and spoke to her. What she said to me then, what she said—I cannot write it down and publish it. Not only had I failed to get promoted in my exams, but on top of that she behaved terribly with me. For three consecutive days including today, I’ve been trying desperately to win her back. In response, I’ve received nothing but crude insults. She says only one thing now: if I can ever fix my career and stand before her someday, then she might accept me if she feels like it, otherwise not. According to her, a university girl cannot spend her days with just anyone.
I am in deep despair. There’s no one to give me a little courage. I don’t know what to do. I can’t forget anything. I can’t sleep at night. My head spins, my hands and feet tremble. I’m constantly going through humiliation, living with contempt. There’s no one with whom I can share this pain. Perhaps I can’t write my thoughts coherently. I’m in great distress. A kind of intense sob lies coiled inside my chest. My heart feels heavy all the time. Tears fall from my eyes all day long. In the past three days, I’ve only managed to eat one meal. I don’t know what to do.
Two different kinds of stories. The context is almost the same. Due to different mindsets, the endings of the stories have flowed in two different directions. How a relationship will turn out depends far more on the mentality, desires, beliefs, and sincerity of the two people in the relationship than on financial, social, or family circumstances. Love, at least, cannot be forced through coercion. Love that is forced is at best an imitation of love or mere habit—something that comes not from the heart, but from some obligation or fear.
Reflection: Two hundred eighty-seven.
……………………………………..
One.
I am a failed soldier from a small public university. I spent most of my time thinking about pulling life’s trigger. I’ve tried many times in life to bring Che Guevara’s revolution within myself, but I’ve repeatedly lost to the capitalist mind. Once upon a time, there was no tension about life, no uncertainty about survival, but after my father died, the things I used to write about in exam papers now stir in me a desire for implementation.
I attended your seminar, read all your career-related posts, but due to intense despair, I keep falling behind. Why is everything happening that shouldn’t be happening? Despite many attempts, I haven’t found any satisfactory answer to this.
I haven’t gone home in many days, ashamed of not being able to accomplish anything. Sometimes I feel a deep longing to see my mother, but out of guilt for not achieving anything worthwhile, I have deliberately withdrawn myself from everyone. I don’t want anyone to say anything to my mother because of me.
All my friends are well-off, good students, and excellent careerists too. But I have no guardian who would tell me to do something. I feel like crying when I think that I am truly alone in this world.
All my friends will probably become very successful one day, but my fate will be the stickers on a tea-shop owner’s ledger. You used to say jokingly that those who fail have to eat puffed rice with Sprite. Today I thought I should apply your theory. So I bought Sprite and puffed rice from the shop today. It tastes quite good, but while eating it, I somehow feel like a failure. Of course, what if I feel like a failure! Because I truly am one!
Tell me, where do you get all these theories from? Are you human, or something else? Sometimes I think, how is it possible for one person to do so much! You’re winning gold here and posting statuses there! Then you’re traveling, having career discussions! It’s amazing………
I consider you the Tendulkar of career building. If you believe what I’m saying! I’m not saying all this to get close to you, I’m saying it seriously from the heart.
I study at Comilla University. My home is in Khulna.
I’m thinking of applying your hemp fiber theory now. Do I seem crazy to you? Yes, I really am crazy. Ever since I’ve been in Comilla, I’ve been mad. Everyone who knows me knows me as a madman.
Tell me, do you have an Ankita? I mean, someone like the beautiful Ankita from your story…….One needs an Ankita in life to say ‘yes’!
If you don’t have one, why not? Girls’ team selection is really terrible……it flops in most cases!
I actually never had any hero, I never followed those theories of idolizing icons. I decided on a hero after your seminar, but I won’t tell you who, because if I do, you’ll get conceited.
You know, neglect from someone dear hurts terribly! Let some things remain secret! So much love in this world remains forever hidden. Mine is like that too. If I can ever become the owner of a tea shop, I’ll invite you grandly one day. I’ll try to have almost everything you like that day. Will you come?
Two.
I am in my final year of Honours in English Literature at Titumeer College this year. I have been under tremendous mental pressure for quite some time now. My family’s situation is not good. Both my parents are elderly and physically unwell. My mother has diabetes and heart problems. She often falls very ill. My father’s condition is better than my mother’s, but he too is quite sick. Apart from these two, there is no one else at home. I remain out all day, returning home very late at night. My elder sister is married and lives at her in-laws’ place. My father, with his ailing body, looks after my mother—has to look after her. Their present condition is much like that elderly couple in the French film Amour (2012).
Worrying about them, I cannot concentrate on any work. I keep thinking: when will I be able to take charge of the family! Meanwhile, I do theatre, recitation, and am involved with music at Chhayanaut. Besides this, I work as a teacher at an academic coaching center in Farmgate. It demands a lot of time, but the remuneration is quite limited. I give four private tuitions. On top of this, I desperately need to focus on my academic studies and prepare for job-oriented studies. But I feel that spending time with various cultural organizations has significantly slowed down my studies. There are frequent programs, rehearsals demand time, running around here and there. There’s hardly any time left to give to myself. My studies are not progressing well. I feel I have fallen far behind my friends. My presence in the cultural sphere is quite good, though I have no desire to build a career there. I do it purely out of personal interest and love for it. I will withdraw from there, but I won’t be able to give up music. It has merged with my soul. Since I will soon have to take charge of the household, I must quickly leave all this behind and seriously think about my career. Otherwise, I won’t be able to save my parents.
Between studies and everything else, my family has accumulated a debt of about 8-9 lakh taka, including interest. As the only son in the family, I will have to pay off this debt. This tension keeps me awake at night. Many people pressure my parents for money, treat them badly. And I can do nothing. When these thoughts come to mind, I cannot hold back my tears. I cry silently. Only anguish builds within my heart. I cannot show this pain to anyone. In Dhaka city, there isn’t even a place to cry freely and lighten my burden a little. Taking everything together, my life is completely chaotic right now. My Honours will finish in 7-8 months. I cannot understand which path to take. There was never anyone in the family to guide me before, nor is there now. Because I am the only person in the family who has brought himself this far through tremendous struggle, bit by bit.
I can see no road ahead anymore. When I open my eyes, I see nothing but dense darkness.