Reflection: One Hundred Twenty-Seven.
……………………………………..
No girl has ever said “I love you” because I don’t know how to paint.
No girl has ever said “I love you” because I don’t know how to write poetry.
No girl has ever said “I love you” because I don’t know how to take photographs.
No girl has ever said “I love you” because I don’t know how to sing.
No girl has ever said “I love you” because I don’t know how to charm with sweet words.
No girl has ever said “I love you” because I don’t know how to write two lines.
No girl has ever said “I love you” because I don’t know how to say “I love you.”
No girl has ever said “I love you” because I don’t know how to build six-pack abs.
No girl has ever said “I love you” because I don’t know how to show off.
No girl has ever said “I love you” because I don’t know how to speak beautifully.
No girl has ever said “I love you” because I don’t know how to come first or second in exams.
No girl has ever said “I love you” because I don’t know the tricks of making someone happy.
No girl has ever said “I love you” because I don’t know how to wear expensive shirts.
No girl has ever said “I love you” because I don’t know how to emerge from infinite indifference.
Yet, this knowing how to love like perfect silence—does it have no value at all?
It’s not enough to simply love,
you have to shout it out: “I love you! I love you! I love you!”
Why doesn’t anyone understand love, feel it,
see it? I too long so desperately to hear “I love you”!
How much more must one know of loving before
one gets to hear “I love you”?
Reflection: One Hundred Twenty-Eight.
……………………………………..
Short Story: Punishment
It’s been two years since the breakup.
Shamik has a raging fever that won’t break; he’s tossing and turning, talking nonsense.
Dola has been crying all night without stop;
her pillow is soaked through. Dola is being punished—the punishment of love.
Shanta has been chatting all night;
from a different account. Shamik is being punished—the punishment of love.
The one who loves
remains in pain; the one who doesn’t love
remains in happiness. Still, people love. Humans are creatures addicted to suffering.
Reflection: One Hundred Twenty-Nine.
……………………………………..
Set fire to a pile of straw and it blazes fiercely. Watching it, you think—any moment now it will burn everything to ashes, leaving nothing behind. Put out the fire, or let the straw burn low, and the flame sputters and dims. Looking at it then, everyone thinks, “That’s it. The end. This fire will never burn again. The straw’s day is done.”
But a gentle flame remains, unnoticed by all. Let no one else know—the straw that has turned to ash knows that within its heart lies a spark. Give it just a breath of air, just a bit more straw, and it will flare up with a sudden burst. The power to blaze forth and consume everything around it once more has not yet been exhausted. Only the ash knows where that spark lies hidden; no one else will ever discover its secret.
Have you been reduced to ash by life’s fierce burning? Do you see no path ahead, look at your condition and feel you are utterly spent? Believe this: the spark of fire within you still exists. Tremendously fresh, vital, alive. Seek out that ember. You alone in this world know how to awaken yourself. What is there to fear? You have tears in your eyes and fire in your chest. What more do you need? Even the world’s greatest teacher could never teach you the magic of rising up. Where lies that great medicine for awakening yourself? Ask yourself the question, and you will find the answer. Do not complain, do not criticize, do not dwell on your weaknesses. When a frail mother carries her disabled son—who weighs two and a half times what she does—on her back, where then is her incapacity, her weakness, her helplessness? Are you weaker than that mother? Does it not shame you to think of yourself that way? Does it not wound your self-respect even a little?
Awaken the emotion within. You have so much unused power lying dormant. Are you really going to waste all your life force on pointless, trivial pursuits?
Do you think you are finished? Dead? Listen, friend—what I say is this: before you are completely finished, let that final flame blaze up. You are already as good as dead—what more can death do to you? Let the world watch in amazement that destroying you is no simple matter. Fight on with whatever strength you have within yourself. Let death come, let sorrow and suffering and anguish come—but never surrender before you are truly defeated. Strike yourself once more with all your remaining strength. Comfort does not drive away pain—pain flees only before pain’s intensity. What you have lost is already gone. What good comes from dwelling on it and multiplying your sorrow? Will grieving for what you lack somehow bring it back to you?
I can say this as a challenge: with what you have, you may not be able to conquer the world, but you can bring honor to yourself, your family, your community. You will need no one’s help. Everything necessary for living beautifully in this life has already been given to you when you were sent into this world. Find these things within yourself. You need not idolize anyone. Do something so remarkable that you become someone’s idol instead. Do not compare yourself to the best—surpass yourself at every moment. You were not born to be defeated, you did not come into this world to live hiding in shame. Gather all your strength and rise up from the ruins—the world is waiting to embrace you.
It takes a full pot of oil to fry many luchis, true enough, but after frying, almost all or most of that oil remains in the pot. Which means, to fry many luchis you might need to immerse them in a liter of oil—that is, keep a lot of oil in the pot—but only about 250 milliliters actually gets consumed; yet you can’t make do with just those 250 milliliters either.
So many things in life are like this oil for deep-frying luchis… Many of life’s luchis ultimately remain unfried for want of those remaining 750 milliliters of oil, even though many people have those 250 milliliters saved up.
If you can manage to arrange those remaining 750 milliliters through strategy, patience and effort, many paths in life can open up wonderfully… And once you reach your destination, those 750 milliliters remain as a bonus… Then how many more luchis can be fried! After eating your fill, you can feed the surplus luchis to many hungry people from what remains. You can enjoy the pleasure of extra oil yourself, and let others enjoy it too. Much of life’s wealth is surplus, but if you can’t acquire that wealth in life, the joy of real wealth remains forever out of reach. Perhaps my expenses will be 10 taka, I have 15 taka—I can very easily give that extra 5 taka to someone in need. To spend that extra money, I need to earn another 10 taka; perhaps I’ll never need that 10 taka for anything, but without that 10 taka I won’t be able to spend those 5 taka for someone else. It’s easy to spend 10 taka for yourself and 5 taka for others from 25 taka, but doing the same from 15 taka isn’t easy.
Reflection: One hundred thirty.
……………………………………..
(Sometimes I get consumed by a passion for Bengali films. I’ve gathered some posts written at different times.)
# Today’s indoor-outdoor situation is such that you could wait for it. Yet it’s also such that once you get it, the waiting ends and anticipation begins. Anticipation for what? No, not for what—for whom. At such times, a good feeling spreads through the entire body and mind, keeps feeling good, the feeling grows, diminishes; emotions arise like that song: ‘I’m feeling good, feeling good, but I can’t say why.’
On such days, if no one special is beside you, you must occupy yourself with something you can immerse yourself in. That’s what I’m doing.
When even a dog doesn’t dare roam freely in a zamindar’s house, nothing remains unclear about how wretched that master’s zamindari has become. I’m watching the story of that house. I’m seeing through Satyajit’s lens that house whose musical zamindari has lost its tune to discordant riddles.
Begum Akhtar, Roshan Kumari, Ustad Wahid Khan, Ustad Bismillah Khan. They too are here. Truly here!
I’m watching ‘Jalsaghar’—a film of music, a melodious film. Here music itself declares how the burden of fallen rhythm renders everything devoid of musical sweetness and aesthetic grace.
Bengalis are tremendously fortunate that Satyajit was born among us. He never wrote, created, or made anything that fell even slightly short by aesthetic standards. How is this possible! He didn’t have to wait until death to become immortal. The mystery of his vast oeuvre, like “a great river flowing serenely,” is as dramatic as human life itself. One could remain absorbed in this one Satyajit for days on end.
# Watched ‘Agantuk.’ Satyajit Ray’s. The story of an eccentric bohemian. The film moves at its own pace; the impact hits you in the very last scene. Satyajit Ray is a great artist. The psychology lesson I received from him may not be novel, but it has something enchanting about it. This enchantment is what survives till the end. Perhaps this is where great filmmakers earn their credit.
# Watching ‘Ajantrik.’ The film is delightful. What innocence those good souls of ’58 possessed! How wonderful! Ritwik’s first film. No way to tell by watching. Was this eccentric gentleman a born filmmaker?
I had read this story by Subodh Ghosh before. In this master’s astonishingly skillful reconstruction, it feels as though before hammering the final nail into the coffin, that old jalopy can still carry life a little bit further.
I know, of course, that perhaps this can’t go on much longer. I think: let it continue anyway. Still, surviving somehow is far better than dying. So many things remain unseen, unknown, incomprehensible, unread. Let them remain so. At least let me keep the desire alive. One can live for so many things. Let me live for that reason alone.
# Akal er Sandhane, Kanchenjunga, Shriman Prithviraj, Teen Kanya, Charulata, Swaralipi, Dadar Kirti, Devi, Galpo Holeo Satti, Ghare-Baire, Jana-Aranya, Mahanagar. This list is finished! Mission successful! There are more on the hard disk, some in my head too. So many films remain like this, never watched. I’ll definitely watch some today. At least two. Hmmmm…
Thought: One hundred thirty-one.
……………………………………..
(I went to visit Pabna on September 3, 2013. This piece was written before that trip.)
Come, mind, let’s go traveling. I’m taking my mind on a journey. The body will come along too. I’m going to see what they do there. Going to Pabna. Tomorrow. I’ll stay Friday, and after Saturday evening return to this torment. This coming is not a return, but a coming back. I’ll go to Natore. If I suddenly encounter Bonolata Sen, even if there’s no peace, I’ll return with handfuls of unrest—the unrest of not finding Bonolata. I won’t return empty-handed under any circumstances. I’m tired of returning empty-handed again and again. Even if, like my own world’s greatest poet Jibanananda, “all the transactions of this life” come to an end, there will be no sorrow whatsoever. If possible, I’ll go to Kushtia too. Lalon is there. No one has ever given such simple lessons in philosophy so effortlessly. I’ve been to Kushtia before. I’ve touched the kuthibari. The language on the lips of this city’s people is so sweet. Even when they scold, they do it so sweetly!
I received the invitation to come to Pabna from my friend Showaib. Of course, many others have also invited me. But his invitation was difficult to ignore. I shared the invitation on Facebook a few days ago, playing somewhat with my own words and thoughts. I’m doing it again. Read it. You’ll understand why it was hard to refuse.
Friend, my home in Pabna is located—
I mean the lane where—right at the mouth of the lane where Suchitra Sen’s ancestral home stands. Suchitra Sen lives near me; no,
that’s wrong,
I live near Suchitra Sen. The immortals don’t stay near us, friend,
we have to stay near them. There’s a champa tree in that house,
I mean in Suchitra’s house. Friend,
I have a long-standing habit of walking in the morning and evening. Every morning as I return home from my walk, I gather fallen champa flowers from Suchitra Sen’s house. Friend,
the exquisite sweet fragrance of these flowers in the rain becomes even more intoxicating with Suchitra’s touch. Friend,
you might find clusters of champa flowers at TSC, but where will you find Suchitra there? Though you could come here for that too,
friend. I know
you still lose yourself in Suchitra’s graceful form—her eyes—her laughter. I know Satyajit’s Charulata,
I mean Madhabi, also enchants you, yet Suchitra touches you more deeply,
doesn’t she? If you came here, wouldn’t you feel that touch even a little,
friend?
That’s not all. I’ll take you to visit the mental asylum;
from Nehru onwards, who hasn’t come here, tell me?
You’ll love that area.
What profound peace touches you when you visit Thakur Anukul Chandra’s ashram!
The Sugar Research Institute is here too. There’s a Government University of Science and Technology, I’ll take you there as well. I have a small, battered bike,
friend. There won’t be any problem at all.
In the evening you can walk along the Padma’s banks,
the moored boats at that time are no longer merely boats,
friend. You’ll see ‘that veiled shadow in the realm of sleep at day’s end’
in those boats. Just as Hemanta in ‘Anindita’ surpasses even Rabindranath himself and still holds us spellbound with those wonderfully melancholic, enchanting eyes, I can swear that even if you don’t encounter that enchantress on the Padma’s shores, you won’t have the slightest regret.
And just across the Padma lies Kuthibari. Apart from my own home, that’s the only house that still feels like my own. Rabindranath is my own person; it’s his house after all. Lalon is there too—won’t you come then, friend?
………….What an extraordinary invitation! Just to gather and touch the champa flowers from Suchitra Sen’s house makes me reluctant to say no to Showaib. Let me see if that might lessen the allure of sin a little; like Sunil……….
This hand has touched Nira’s face/ How can I
commit any sin with this hand?
I’m thinking, this city of brick and stone’s clamor steals away so much through its deceptions and distractions!
I want
someone to call me in the same rhythm I think,
so that I cannot refuse. I’m weary now of refusing. So many things from that distant city keep beckoning me constantly—what harm would come to anyone from this small shamelessness of mine?
Thought: One hundred thirty-two.
……………………………………..
Whenever I visit Zuckerberg dada’s place, he just asks,
What’s on your mind?
. . . . . . Well sir, two thoughts are circulating.
One.
There are two types of mothers in this world who suffer the most. The mother grieving for a son. The unhappy mother-in-law.
In this world, two types of fathers suffer the most. The father burdened with daughters to marry off. The father whose son has yet to stand on his own feet.
Two.
Have you noticed that when those who engage in student politics lose their lives in factional or inter-party conflicts, we don’t feel particularly bad about it? This absence of grief is itself deeply troubling. Our hearts truly break when we read in the papers:
“Big brother,
I have exams next month. I need two thousand taka.”
“I worked day and night to educate my brothers and help them grow. At home, mother and father go without food to make ends meet. Today, everything is finished for us.”
Yes, a single bullet steals everything—dreams,
support. What cruel destiny politics holds!
We want
student politics to let our students take their exams. Let them pass, let them find jobs. If nothing else,
let the father wear the simple lungi and shirt bought with his son’s modest salary, let the mother wear her sari, and when they visit neighbors, let them at least say,
“Look here,
my son bought this for me.”
Let his brother proudly show off the cheap shirt to his friend, “Dost,
my brother got a job. Pray for him, brother.”
“Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.” Absolute truth. But our mothers and fathers don’t understand Kahlil Gibran. Their simple hearts only grasp Bharatchandra:
“May my child live in milk and rice.”
Parents don’t fear their own death;
they fear not seeing their son established before they die. We want
the dreams for which our parents go without food to not be traded away
for the price of a single bullet. In the boyish bravado of not caring about death, let no one seek the meaningless meaning of life.
The girlfriends of those who engage in student politics—the handkerchiefs on which they embroider colorful patterns with threads,
weaving dreams—
are those handkerchiefs meant for shrouds? But why are girlfriends so dangerously brave in this age?
Could it be that having gained our country, we’re about to lose it?
Is another ’71 returning?
We want a country for happy, smiling beloveds. Let our country’s soil be as broad as a father’s shoulders,
as safe as a mother’s lap.
To explain what I think about student politics, I’m quoting verbatim from Sunil’s
‘Half Life’:
……..The bullet could have hit my chest,
instead it struck the shoulder of the boy beside me,
he’s writhing in pain. As I dragged him away, I thought,
if the bullet had hit my chest, if I had died,
what would that death have been for?
What good would it have done the country? This
would be nothing but a fool’s death. Will this boy even survive? Or if his right hand becomes useless, what ideal would triumph? No,
I’m not willing to die like this. This path is not mine.
Thought: One hundred thirty-three.
……………………………………..
Brother, enough is enough,
stop right there!
I never said that to get what you want, you’d have to produce bad results like me!
Every day I receive countless emails where gentlemen
ask questions like “My grades are good, what should I do now?” Such agony!
I get another kind of message,
which goes like,
“There’s no tragedy in my life. Can I still become great?”
Such national lamentation. Ah, some people are so happy that ghosts kiss them!
I advised one such person to go to the zoo and brush the tiger uncle’s teeth with Pepsodent.
Anyway,
I humbly apologize to those whom I cannot reply to promptly due to lack of time. I try very hard
to respond quickly to messages about despair, depression, or personal anguish. Bengali messages written in English fonts, when they’re very long
(like cow-essays), take quite a bit of time to read. Therefore,
their replies get delayed. But I generally do reply. Many messages
end up in Others. Important messages pile up there too. I particularly remember one message where a girl was contemplating suicide,
such painful things were written. By my great fortune,
I was able to counsel the girl and bring her back from that decision. In this short life, I’ve had such fortune many times;
at least 69 times. Thank God.
Due to the flood of messages in my inbox, many messages that need my immediate help get buried. Despite my intense desire, I often cannot help many such people, and they misunderstand too. In such cases, it would be very good
if you called me directly and told me how I could help you. This would save me from some regrets, and I would truly feel good. What’s the point of adding to life’s burden of regrets?
My father says, you can find a hundred opportunities a day to harm people,
but the privilege of doing good might not come
even once in a hundred days. Another request
. . . . . please don’t send me
‘add me’
messages from accounts with names like ‘Bloody Killer’
and bloody skull profile pictures. I get confused whether this is a request
or a threat!
Another bad habit of mine is
that I don’t feel inclined to add anyone without seeing their photo or knowing their identity. I want to know at least a little about whose friend I’m becoming,
don’t I?
One complaint about me is that friend requests can’t be sent to me. Brother,
I’m not to blame for this,
Zuckerberg is responsible. This Facebook measure against me is due to too many pending friend requests. The question is,
why don’t I respond to friend requests? Brother,
honestly speaking,
it’s not possible. I have the desire to find that much time, but not the ability. For those who aren’t my friends
but followers, I’ve made everything public. Except for posting on my wall, you can use all other Facebook features to contact me or cut off contact. I keep a hundred percent access open to all my posts!
Ah! Without Facebook, life wouldn’t be so joyful and agonizing. If I ever met Zuckerberg, I’d feed the gentleman chamcham with green chilies!
Facebook is a sweet-and-spicy platform, hence that culinary offering. (offering+eagerness=offering-eagerness; a compound word)