Thought: Six Hundred Thirty-Eight
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In the chemistry textbook for intermediate first year, there’s a bond called coordinate covalent bond. What is it?
Let me explain simply. In chemistry, a bond is
an understanding between at least two atoms or chemical ‘somethings’
(somethings meaning
they could be ions, they could be radicals. Those who didn’t understand the left-hand line
needn’t even try to understand it) to stay together. This understanding requires something called electrons, just as human bonds need love,
something like that. And a covalent bond is like a cooperative society type of thing. Meaning, those who participate in that bond share equal numbers of electrons, the essential ingredient for bond formation. This is the condition for forming the bond. In this bond everyone is equal,
because everyone’s contribution is equal. No one can lord over anyone else, that’s the rule. But in the case of ionic bonds, one gives electrons,
another receives them. One is master, the other slave. The one who’s master will dominate,
the slave will quietly accept it, this is natural. Because the slave has no electrons,
how can it speak in a loud voice? Someone who never pays the bill at restaurants, how on earth does that person order whatever they want from the menu?
That’s how it is!
The coordinate covalent bond is a bit different. Here,
two share electrons to form a bond, and from a distance it would seem
that both have equal rights in this coexistence, they’re getting along fine based on mutual respect. But actually that’s not the case. This bond is somewhat ionic in type. Unlike ionic bonds, here no one gives electrons, no one takes them either, that much is true. The problem lies elsewhere. The electrons that remain in a shared state
come from only one party. The one they come from
uses those electrons while in the bond. And the one who lacks the ability to give electrons also uses those same electrons with equal rights. Now the question is, when one gave electrons
and the other gave nothing at all,
yet both are sharing the electrons with equal rights, can both their statuses be completely identical? That can’t be, right? It isn’t either.
Let’s say,
a boy takes money or gifts from a girl’s father and marries the girl. After marriage, can this boy avoid hearing taunts—spoken or unspoken—from the girl, or the people in her father’s house?
Whether he becomes a live-in son-in-law or not,
he has sold at least some portion of his self-respect. So it becomes his duty to quietly endure many significant jibes, justified or not. From the outside it might appear: ah!
What a happy family!
Happy, yes. But the manhood of that family’s head has been sold to another. After marriage, the girl will often raise her finger at the boy or convey through her attitude, “You eat off my father’s money!” That raised finger, however, is for a lifetime. In this case, the boy is always compelled to maintain a
‘Yes sir!
Yes sir!!’
attitude toward the girl and her father’s family. There might be affection from the in-laws’ house, but respect will certainly diminish. A true man cannot long endure respectless affection. The girl’s brother, too, will never be able to respect his sister’s husband from the heart. You might say, no no, this doesn’t happen!
I say,
oh brother,
listen! If the girl’s brother were so good, then people wouldn’t call the girl’s brother
a ‘sala’!!
So, to return to my point. Coordinate covalent bonding. In this bond too, whoever provides the electrons naturally keeps a finger perpetually raised toward the other. Meaning, since the shared electrons actually belong to him, he reminds the other repeatedly with an arrow sign,
“You eat off my father’s money!”
The other has nothing to say, because the fact is true. This raised-finger,
meaning the ‘significance’ of the arrow sign,
everyone around understands, but they act as if
there’s nothing to mind in this. The girl’s father is also the father of the girl’s husband. I also say,
of course, father. But let not the claim of fatherhood lie prostrate before the burden of paternal duty. If something like that happens, easy relationships might no longer remain easy.
I have observed,
when a girl’s father is wealthy, he regards all boys in the world as impoverished lovers,
who were born into this world solely to take care of the in-laws’ household shopping. After marriage, they will show up uninvited at the in-laws’ house whenever they please and say,
“Mother, I’m terribly hungry! Whatever you have at home,
serve me rice with that.”
He assumes that every boy in the world has only one ambition:
to grab some portion of his property after marriage. Taking care of the in-laws’ household tasks is by no means improper if it stems from love and responsibility,
not from obligation. These
kinds of girls’ fathers begin giving accounts of their assets to the boy or the boy’s family, either personally or through someone else. Their assumption is that every boy has an invisible tag attached to his chest
: For Sale!
Yet the father of the bride is by no means solely responsible for this commercial form of marriage. Our social customs compel them to think in such ways. I have seen many young men always ready to put themselves up for sale. Don’t think this is done only by the uneducated, barely educated, or half-educated. I have seen my doctor friend who topped his matriculation and intermediate exams, who after graduating from Dhaka Medical College took a flat, a car, and forty lakh taka in cash for his chamber from his father-in-law during his wedding, all while thinking of it as “family affection.” During my MBA at IBA, I encountered many who would say, “Why shouldn’t I take money during marriage? Don’t I have any value?” Hearing such words, I would think of the plump, glistening cattle at the sacrificial market. How carefully those cattle are prepared for sacrifice! People will pay high prices for the cattle, and even when the animal thrashes about during slaughter, instead of saying anything, they’ll coo “Oh my precious darling, my magical one” and shower it with kisses—this is hardly how it should be. I have seen many young men waiting to get settled with their father-in-law’s money. They very calculatingly make some rich man’s naive, emotional daughter fall in love with them. It is precisely these men who sell their independence and self-respect who create stereotypical thinking in the minds of girls’ fathers. Eventually, they come to believe that perhaps all young men are spineless.
No young man should even consider marriage until he is established enough to support himself, his family, and his wife. How can someone who hasn’t yet learned to stand on his own feet guarantee that he can help another person stand? Life is not like a Humayun Ahmed novel. We fell in love, and like children, we rushed to the registrar’s office and got married in a flash! How many of these registrar-office weddings or court marriages actually last in the end? Look around you. Such marriages usually remain secret, so either the girl gets married elsewhere while the boy is still trying to stand on his own feet, or before that happens, complications arise between them and either the boy or the girl no longer wants to continue the relationship. You will have to pay a heavy price for every whimsical major decision in life—that’s the rule. There are plenty of cases where either the boy or sometimes the girl has resorted to blackmail by showing marriage papers. How many marriages have survived on love alone? Those that have survived—inquire and you’ll find that either the girl or the boy has left home. Living life as a fugitive from family and society is hardly the work of a hero.
There are countless exceptions to the above observations. There are many young men who have completely transformed after falling in love. Those who, exactly like the plot of a Bengali film, have gone from zero to hero entirely through their own merit to prove themselves to “Chaudhury Saheb”—such confident and self-respecting young men undoubtedly deserve a salute. Just as love can weaken a man, it can also teach him to be strong. But for the latter, one must know how to pay for rickshaw fares and fuchka bills. Generally, boys who conduct their romance on their girlfriend’s money rarely manage to stand on their own feet. Marriage before making oneself completely worthy of it, without the self-assured attitude of “I won’t even take a wristwatch from my father-in-law during the wedding”? Never, never!!
Reflection: Six hundred and forty-nine
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One.
There was a time when I longed to become a university teacher, though I lacked the means. I didn’t pursue academic studies, my results were abysmal (2.74), and I had not the slightest educational qualification to teach at a university. Apart from this one regret, there were no other significant regrets in my life.
Why this regret?
Let me tell you. There was a time when I didn’t have the courage to share this secret. Now I do, so I’m telling it.
My grandfather was Abinash Chandra Pal. A distinguished professor of Bengal, he taught at Sir Ashutosh College in Kanungopara. He owned vast estates in Maheshkhali. He was known in the area as a philanthropist. How many people still remember my grandfather with reverence! It fills me with pride to see it! Grandfather was also a reciter. He was an amateur actor too, performing in stage plays. He also wrote occasionally (I add ‘also’ because not all professors write, after all). During the war, all his manuscripts and book collection were burned. His personality, aesthetic sense, and refined tastes were remarkable. He was extraordinarily handsome in appearance. None of us grandchildren could even approach the vicinity of his charisma or personality. He died at a young age. Let me share an incident from before grandfather’s death…
“Damn bastard, spawn of Mir Jafar!!” Those who were watching the play that day—their hurled shoes and sandals struck grandfather’s nose and forehead, causing blood to flow. The play could never be finished. I’ve heard many praise grandfather’s distinctive style of reciting while teaching Bengali. He lived in quarters in Kanungopara and performed in plays as a hobby. I’ve heard from my uncles that people would come from far and wide to watch grandfather’s performances. His acting in that day’s production of Sirajuddaula enraged the audience. Such hatred was not uncommon in grandfather’s theatrical life. Grandfather preferred playing negative roles. While audience love in stage theater isn’t always directly expressed, the manifestation of hatred often is. When some of grandfather’s friends and colleagues were about to get into a brawl with the angry spectators, grandfather himself, with great difficulty, persuaded them to desist.
When grandfather died, my mother was 4 years old, my youngest uncle was 6 months old. All the siblings were still studying. After grandfather’s death, my eldest uncle Dipak Kumar Pal took a job at the same college to support the family. Later he worked at several other government colleges. He could have become a university teacher if he had wanted. But taking on family responsibilities, he couldn’t afford to wait. Uncle taught physics. His face and physique were remarkably handsome, striking to behold. He was an extremely idealistic, dedicated teacher. He tutored many students for free. He helped countless people. Many in Bangladesh know my eldest uncle as well.
Neither grandfather nor eldest uncle lived long lives—both died at untimely ages. But they remain immortal even now. Many people, upon hearing their names, bow their heads in reverence and wipe away tears. Many of grandfather’s and uncle’s students have risen to high positions in society. I grew up witnessing all this from childhood. Deep in that child’s mind, a desire to grow up to be like them had been planted for a long time. But there was no way. I was an absolute nobody! So what else could I do but live with that regret in my chest!
Now even that is gone. I’m invited to speak at various universities, teaching students to dream. The largest gathering was at Rajshahi University—at least 2,500 students. They sit there, listening for 6-7 hours straight. I wonder, how do they manage to sit still for so long at this age? The professors listen too. They tell me, “These things aren’t taught in universities. You teach them, we’re with you.” My gratitude to those professors.
Sometimes, hiding the moisture gathering in the corners of my eyes, I think—what abundance comes simply from being alive! Life sends no one away empty-handed. As I can’t teach how to get grades, I’ve decided to teach how to live life. Not everyone can do everything. If we say an elephant is worthless because it can’t climb trees, the fault isn’t with the elephant.
Yesterday a boy called me. He and everyone around him believe he’ll never amount to anything in life. Why? He was born unable to see with his left eye, and sees only partially with his right. People like him aren’t loved—they’re only pitied. This has always been his experience. Human neglect leaves him begging at life’s doorstep every moment. Just as a thirsty person writhes for a single drop of water, a person can give their entire life for a morsel of love! No one has ever loved him. As a result, he’s always consumed by thoughts of what he lacks, which jobs aren’t for him, what he has nothing to offer anyone. Eighty percent of his thoughts revolve around what isn’t meant for him. In overwhelming despair, anguish, and depression, he often thinks of leaving. How can someone stay in this world when nobody wants them here? . . . . . . I spoke with him at length. I taught him how to reduce that eighty percent to twenty percent and cast it away. In this world, only tears are personal. Living with that alone equals death. Tears don’t need to be shared with everyone. Not everyone will understand the value of your pain. Let some tears remain personal! The power of suffering is immense. One must learn to seek it out. . . . . . I told him many such things. I made him believe that he has great worth in this world. Those who don’t value him should be discarded like used tissue paper. I taught him to be brave, to recognize his strength. Why should a student from the nation’s premier institution, Dhaka University, accept defeat? I want no one to be lost. When I told him, “Brother, after you get a job, you’ll treat me to sweets with your first month’s salary!” he began weeping uncontrollably. I know tears never lie. I believe with all my heart—he will succeed!
Two.
When you see a bookstall-cum-fast-food corner at a railway station, you should understand
there aren’t many books there,
at best you might find
something like ‘Learn Hebrew in 30 Days.’ Here people don’t read books while waiting for trains, they munch on peanuts, alone, quite often. People change their behavior from country to country. The same me who, while living in Korea, would wrap a piece of chewing gum in tissue and carry it in my pocket for hours searching for a dustbin after not finding a place to throw it away,
that same me now thoughtlessly hurls coffee cups wherever I please—not because public kissing is a crime here while public littering isn’t,
but because we’ve turned the entire country into a dustbin,
so anything can be thrown anywhere at will. Here garbage exists outside the bins, while inside is claimed by humans and dogs. In an unwritten pact that neither will bite the other,
they sleep in there.
Don’t have time to tour an entire country, yet want to know what the people are like, what they do, how they think, what they eat? Take a tour of their railway station. Spend two hours there, and you’ll know everything. I can bet there’s no other type of human being in that country. From saints to sinners, you’ll find them all. The diversity of humanity will enchant you. The very task that seems utterly pointless to you, someone else is doing with great importance. Here people roam about in the strangest schemes. Night can transform a person; night owls are unlike ordinary people. Normal people’s work: eat dinner and fall asleep by 10 PM.
Night makes people into different people. Trying to measure night people by day people’s standards is sheer foolishness. Night deepens at the station,
and diversity grows. Night is deeply mysterious. This
mystery’s power is infinite. A little doll-like girl came forward holding her toy up high. I was about to pinch her soft cheeks when I saw the police questioning someone,
and he
threw something aside and ran off like lightning. I saw
it was a packet of cannabis. Two extraordinarily beautiful young women were engaged in some playful banter. Watching them
felt good,
and I desperately wished
the train would come even later. I feel like reading Humayun Ahmed’s ‘Gauripur Junction’ again. Right now!
Riding back from the station on a bike. Let me tell you about a road. A desolate road, no one ahead or behind,
no lights either. There are some glowing eyes. Those belong to cats. Half-ghostly shadows. Those belong to night-wakeful trees. A few pieces of sharp, yellow-startling shrieks. Those belong to jackals. Many other such things. The police stopped us. We were talking and they were interrogating. For some reason they didn’t say much more. We were answering their questions quite naturally. Perhaps that’s why. Ordinary people would be afraid when questioned by police, wouldn’t stay this relaxed. That’s the rule. Rule-breaking people don’t seem very convenient. They didn’t find us convenient. After all that, we came under the Queen’s Bridge.
I sit by the banks of Surma. Some people around me are awake—they just stay awake, not for any particular scheme, just like that. They watch the river at night. The night river changes some people too. They come here to be changed. Some love to be transformed at certain special moments. On the other side of the bridge, some wayward youth carouse around wayward bodies. Why did I say wayward? Do bodies really become wayward? In this wayward society, only openly wayward bodies are considered wayward bodies. Right beside this, dogs are rummaging through filth. The homeless lie sprawled on the footpath. In the shadow of the river’s water, the night lights conspire with the moon. This is how each old night passes. I came to have tea at the nearby shop. Blackish, utterly revolting tea. A dog would eat the most disgusting garbage but wouldn’t drink this tea. And we’re drinking this tea with great relish. Playing in my head: tutu tu tutu tara, Marjina’s father got beaten… Why does this song play at such an inappropriate time? Pointless!
The bike moves again. Some officially mad people are dancing in the middle of the road. The bike stops. Now I’m walking on Queen’s Bridge. This business of gripping the bridge railing and staring fixedly at the night river below—I never knew it was like this before. I begin to feel I am the river. Cars rush past, the bridge trembles. If I don’t return home tonight, what would happen? No one is waiting for me anyway!!!
On such a night, riding the bike 20-25 kilometers down the wrong path begins to feel like the most right thing to do at this moment. We kept racing along, making mistakes with great joy. There are certain mistakes whose regret for not making them consumes entire lives. Cutting through the cold wind that shoots like arrows and floating forward feels like the greatest happiness. Life is right here! A little later, in the regret of forgetting and taking the right path, singing off-key at the top of my lungs, it occurs to me that this wrong tune is also another tune, just as the wrong path is also another path. Just a moment ago I set ‘Tonight in moonlight, everyone has gone to the forest’ to the tune of ‘Final Countdown.’ It didn’t sound too bad. I’m singing one Bangladeshi film song to the tune of another, in an utterly terrible voice and melody. I’m singing ‘My eyes don’t blink’ to the tune of ‘Let no eclipse touch that moon-face,’ adding some lines to turn it into a rap song. Why does singing badly sometimes feel so good?
I came to visit Nazimgarh Resort. How beautiful everything around is! Rows upon rows of trees, with a road in between. Hills arranged with various things in an orderly fashion. I struck up a conversation with the guard. It costs at least eleven thousand six hundred taka to stay here one night. Just seeing it makes you want to stay! But… I returned to where I live. There’s no one to talk with except that moon… Come, let your body be drenched in this waxen moonlight, let’s talk…
Explanation. To those who, seeing the word ‘one night,’ thought there was something suggestive in this piece, I recommend watching Uttam-Suchitra’s ‘One Night’ and being disappointed.
Thought: Six hundred and forty
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Some humble requests—–
One. Say what you have to say directly, please. There’s no time for all this beating around the bush or trying to decode meanings; there really isn’t. If needed, say, “Sushanta, you’re a bastard.” I won’t take offense at all. If you deviate from this, at some point my respect for you will disappear entirely and I’ll assume you’re a coward’s spawn who can’t speak directly. I like brave people.
Two. If you have the courage, come stab me in the chest, not in the back. If you place your hand on my back and can still feel your own spine behind you, if you are a man, come before my eyes, not behind my rear end. Swine lurk behind rear ends.
Three. If you feel like being a hypocrite, please don’t come anywhere near me. I can tolerate even the devil but never a hypocrite. Go somewhere else. You shouldn’t have trouble finding your type of public. I hate hypocrites more than anything else in this world.
Four. Don’t give any false information during introductions. Say what you are, as you are. It’s not as if you must introduce yourself to me. My power to love truth and hate falsehood—both these forces are infinite within me! Let me say this straight: If you don’t show your photo and give partial/false/evasive introductions, I have not the slightest interest in talking to anyone.
Five. ‘Only he deserves to rule who can love’—I believe in this principle. I don’t need well-wishers who don’t praise my right actions but criticize my wrong ones. Personal attackers are welcome on my wall. It makes it convenient for me to kick them out. You could say, ‘I love critics more than anyone’……. sorry boss! I don’t have time for all this love-dove business. Go display your love on some other loving, affectionate wall. Please come to my wall only if you have the qualification to offer constructive criticism. I don’t invite anyone to my wall or send police to bring them here. If necessary, please block or unfriend or unfollow me.
Six. If you say even one bad word about my job or my personal tastes, no matter what kind of emperor you might be, I’ll block you immediately. My job means a great deal to me. I am a very narcissistic type of person and I love myself most of all. Who are you to supervise me? I have not the slightest interest in anyone’s personal matters and I want no one to take any interest in my personal matters either. Who are you that I should silently accept your unwanted interest or random interference in my personal life? I have given this right to a few individuals. First make sure whether you fall among those few individuals. When you gossip about someone, keep two things in mind. One: Does calling my face ugly make your face a little more beautiful? Two: Perhaps there are utterly vile things to be said about you, but there’s a shortage of petty people with the mentality to go around saying such things like you.
I have not written these difficult words above to wound anyone. Rather, I have written them so that in the future, neither you, nor I, nor anyone else need be wounded because of me or you. I am no cuckoo or mynah bird that breaks into melodious song the moment it sees just anyone. I am exceedingly harsh toward hypocrites. So please, keep your distance. Let me be as I am, and you remain as you are.
Live & let live.
My good wishes remain for you and your families. Stay well.
Reflection: Six hundred forty
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Life is beautiful only when we have
a beautiful life.
I’m the eleventh one out of ten you
can count, I can bet! . . . . I’m an optimist. I’m agree even to be the last
optimist in the world. I’m born every moment. I believe life is more beautiful
than we can imagine. So, I always enjoy it with others!
🙂 I’ve a personal library and a
collection of music and movies. Without these treasures, my existence would
become meaningless.
Let me share some lessons my life
has taught me:
Among our batchmates, probably I was the first person who took the risk to explore the avenue of traditional business. But not always is it easy to walk on the path less travelled. Educated entrepreneurs must have the courage to walk away from apparently secure, well-paid jobs and stay on that outer track at least until success shows its first sign. Things are not that easy. Now I’m a derailed engineer. I started with my coaching centre, later entered the stock market taking some calculated risks (God bless the investors, including me! Your friend says money is nothing? Fine then, tell him to invest in the share market.) My succession of such attempts culminated in establishing my own gift business under the brand name DOVANA. I owned two shops and had always dreamt of becoming a business magnate, extending my domain over other sister concerns as well—until the day my dream transformed, meeting newer impulses. (Lucky am I, as I never had to regret my new impulses.) Yes, I was planning to kill my brainchild. To become successful, you have to start young. It’s even more important to fail young if you really want to fail in any of your attempts. To fail successfully is an art. Now I feel that sometimes failures are good and life-saving. I always found myself in a position where I hardly seemed comfortable. When I saw my friends having already crossed a long way, I felt utterly helpless. Gradually they were becoming top professionals in their respective sectors. If you’re not accustomed to being considered ‘nobody’ by others since childhood, it’s difficult to see yourself as ‘nobody’ even for a short time. I strongly felt that merely walking or running to catch them was not enough—I had to take a flying leap! I was struggling to win, but fighting with small people constantly gave me a hollow, inferior feeling. I was out there alone on my own island, and I felt disengaged… Even if you win by fighting small people, it gives you the feeling that you’re one of them, just a mediocre talent. Success in business is an extremely selfish game. Maybe you’re thinking, ‘Huh! I’m already quite selfish,’ but to have won more than others, you would have needed to be more selfish than you really are… I always talked to my engineering batchmates (I belong to the ’02 batch) and used to insist we start a software business. I found only a few really serious in words, fewer still in action. The easiest way to start anything is simply to start it. Everyone around me wanted to begin a journey of a thousand miles; no one was willing to take even the first step.
I know it’s true—
taking risks isn’t always easy, especially when you’ve grown up surrounded by millions of NO’s. How simple it becomes to refuse any attempt! Life doesn’t always sound so effortless that you can remain indifferent to all the opportunity costs and stay connected to your dream when it exists somewhere contrary to common expectation. You begin to feel that perhaps you’re destined to be just nobody, with nothing waiting for you. It’s horrible to be just a NOBODY to others. All the time you’re thinking, planning, hoping about your dream while simultaneously wondering what would happen if you found yourself in the wrong place when it’s too late. (One thing I can tell you: It’s never too late to realize it’s already getting late.) Life didn’t come to us with a user manual. So it’s our right to use it and abuse it! I can tell you with certainty that playing with life is a wonderful game, but you must carefully ensure that it remains wonderful at the end of the day. Winners stand alone only because so few can truly win. Living unremembered, unrecognized can give you the worst feeling, I’d say. Life isn’t always so smooth that you can remain complacent with the ‘I think, therefore I am’ principle—life makes you feel the urge to start believing ‘Others think, therefore I am.’ Identity matters more than existence. Now I believe that deciding what you truly want is what counts. It took me almost two decades to decide what I really wanted. When I finally decided, it took me only a few months to get what I truly wanted. Whatever you do—job or business or anything else—you must work not only hard but also smartly to become successful enough to smile and not be embarrassed seeing others smile at your previous ‘sweet failures.’ Failures are never meant to be sweet. It’s your success that makes them sweet. Sometimes your best role model is simply YOU in a better state than you could be. Success isn’t always about becoming someone else you dream of being, but rather becoming a new YOU better than the previous YOU, or not degrading your better YOU if you already are. Hardly anything not worth challenging is worth getting. Success is all about earning, not deserving. The easiest way to make people admit you deserve something is simply to earn it. The fact is, your success is what you think you earn; your failure is what others think you deserve. . . . . Success. It’s simply living without sighs. It’s dancing the way you want and making people think you dance well even if you don’t. It’s making your style others’ favorite brand even if it’s foolish. It’s sometimes making people laugh at even your worst jokes. It’s making others hear you even when you don’t speak.
এটা অন্যদের কাছে এই কথা বলার সুযোগ নেওয়া যে তোমার আগের লক্ষতম ব্যর্থতার সাথে দেখা হওয়াটা যেভাবেই হোক জরুরি ছিল। এটা তোমার ব্যর্থতাগুলোকে তোমার অথবা অন্যদের কাছে উল্লেখযোগ্য করে তোলা। এটা ঠিক যেমনটা, প্রায়ই জনপ্রিয়ভাবে বলা এবং ভুলভাবে বিশ্বাস করা ব্যর্থতার বিপরীতটা নয়।
আমার গোটা জীবন জুড়ে আমি একটা সরল কৌশল অনুসরণ করেছি। আমি যে শিখরে পৌঁছানোর চেষ্টা করি সেটার জন্য সবসময় আমার সর্বোচ্চ সম্মান থাকে এবং সফল ব্যক্তিদের আমি আমার নায়ক বানাই। এটা আমাকে দারুণ উদ্দীপনা দেয়! সত্যিই! এমনকি একটা শিশুও তার স্বপ্নের নায়ক হতে চায়। যখন তুমি সত্যিকারে কোনো কিছুর প্রশংসা করো তখন সেটার জন্য কাজ করা সহজ হয়ে যায়, যেকোনো চাকরিতে, যেকোনো ব্যবসায়। তোমার ব্যবসা তোমার সন্তানের মতো। তুমি আশা করতে পারো না যে তোমার সন্তান রাতারাতি একজন পূর্ণাঙ্গ মানুষ হয়ে যাবে। একইভাবে, তোমার চারপাশের মানুষদের তিক্ত প্রতিক্রিয়ায় অভ্যস্ত হয়ে ওঠার আগে তুমি তোমার ব্যবসায় সাফল্যের আশা করতে পারো না। মানুষের একটা স্বাভাবিক প্রতিভা আছে তোমার এমন প্রচেষ্টাগুলোকে ছোট করে দেখার যেগুলোর সাথে তারা পরিচিত নয় অথবা যেগুলো নিয়ে তারা স্বস্তি বোধ করে না। কিছু মানুষ আছে যারা কখনো প্রশংসা করতে পারে না। তাই তারা কী বলে সেটা দিয়ে নিজেকে বিচার করা বোকামি। সদয় কথা মুরগির স্যুপের চেয়েও স্বাস্থ্যকর। একবাটি স্বাস্থ্যকর স্যুপ পান কর—-পরিবেশিত (যদি তুমি যথেষ্ট ভাগ্যবান হও) অথবা স্বপরিবেশিত (যদি তুমি নিজের ভাগ্য তৈরি করতে চাও)। বেঁচে থাকায় ব্যস্ত হয়ে ওঠ। আমি সবসময় এটা দেখেছি: বিনামূল্যে শিখেছি, দামে হারিয়েছি। তাই উপার্জনের আগে বিনিয়োগ কর। এমন মানুষদের কাছ থেকে অনুপ্রেরণা নাও যারা ঘুমানোর আগে যেতে হওয়া মাইলগুলো অতিক্রম না করা পর্যন্ত কখনো থামে না। যারা ছেড়ে দেয় তারা কখনো বিজয়ী হয় না। কিউ সেরা, সেরা—যা হবে, তাই হবে। জিনিসগুলো তেমনই যেমনটা, জিনিসগুলো তেমনই হবে যেমনটা হবে। তুমি যদি ছেড়ে দাও, শুধু তুমিই ছেড়ে দাও। কিছু মানুষ ছাড়বে না এবং শিখরে পৌঁছাবে। কোনো কিছু শেষ করার সবচেয়ে সহজ উপায় হলো সেটা শুরু করা। একবার শুরু করলে, তুমি নিশ্চিতভাবে শেষের পথে। যদি সেটা শেষ হওয়ার আগেই তুমি শেষ করে ফেলো, তাহলে তোমাকে অন্য পথ খুঁজতে হবে। সবসময় নতুন পথ ভালো হয় না বরং মাঝে মাঝে সেটা নতুন যন্ত্রণা নিয়ে আসে। তুমি যদি এখনো জান না কী করবে, তাহলে তোমার হৃদয়কে জিজ্ঞেস কর। যা ভালোবাসো তাই কর, যা কর তাকে ভালোবাসো। তোমার হৃদয় আশ্চর্যজনকভাবে কোনো এক কারণে তোমার চেয়ে ভালো জানে। কখনো একজন অন্ধ মানুষকে রাস্তা পার করতে সাহায্য করতে বোলো না কারণ সেও চেষ্টা করছে বা সেটা পার করতে ব্যর্থ হয়েছে। তুমি যদি দেখতে না পাও তাহলে এমন কাউকে জিজ্ঞেস কর যে ইতিমধ্যে দেখেছে। একজন বুদ্ধিমান মানুষের সাথে ১ মিনিট বাঁচা একজন বোকার সাথে ১শো বছর থাকার চেয়ে ভালো। প্রথমে সিদ্ধান্ত নাও, যোগ্যতা অর্জন কর এবং তারপর আকাঙ্ক্ষা কর। এই ৩টি D তোমাকে সেটা দিতে পারে যা তুমি এবং অন্যরা তোমার জীবন থেকে চায়। সবসময় জীবন সহজ নয়, কিন্তু এটা তবুও বাঁচার মতো। কঠিন সময় কঠিন মানুষদের জন্য বেশিদিন থাকে না। সেই কঠিন হও। পৃথিবীকে বোলো না তুমি কী পারো, পৃথিবীকে সেটা তোমার জন্য বলতে দাও। তোমার কাজ তোমার কথার চেয়ে অনেক জোরে কথা বলে। অন্যদের চ্যালেঞ্জ কোরো না, নিজেকে চ্যালেঞ্জ কর কারণ দিন শেষে তোমার কাছে যা থাকে, তা শুধু তুমি নিজে।
It’s never too late, rather being late is good as you’ve already
paid the price for mistakes that others haven’t yet. Know what to do, learn how
to do it and JUST DO IT! Be that tough guy for whom time waits as he has
refused to shape his life with time, by time, for time. Remember, only your
results are rewarded, not your efforts. This is the way the world accepts or
rejects you.
~ Never take anything for granted,
even your failure.
~ Never call it a day until &
unless the day ends.
~ Only your results are rewarded,
not your efforts.
~ Really perform when you’re
performing.
~ Only your performance performs,
not my prayers or curses.
~ Sometimes your luck matters much
more than your performance.
~ Excuses are of no use. If you win,
you need not show them. If you lose, you should not show them.
~ The game is always ON. So . . . .
. . . JUST PLAY!
Good luck!
Thought: Six Hundred and Forty-One
………………………………………………………
He sat at Gloria Jeans and ordered coffee. The coffee arrived. He took two sips. Ah, exquisite! Suddenly, from nowhere, a disgusting insect flew in and landed in his mug. What to do now?
Drink the coffee anyway? Or
throw it away?
If he throws it away, the money goes down the drain too. But with a dead bug floating in it, how can one possibly drink such coffee? What can be done?
Such expensive coffee! The pain of wasting money is immense!
He kept thinking and thinking! Time was slipping away,
yet he couldn’t shake off his attachment to the coffee’s price. This way, quite some time passed. The waiter brought the bill. He settled it with a sour mood and began walking down the street. Today he was supposed to go teach Shataabdi—
aunty was going to pay his fees today, and tomorrow was her second-part math exam. He was running late,
and his mood was foul. He didn’t go today either. For the past three
days he hadn’t been going. Aunty had said on the phone, “Son,
if you can’t manage, please find a good teacher for Shataabdi. Her intermediate exams are coming up soon.” He began to think the tutoring job wouldn’t last much longer. Damn coffee! Completely fruitless! Money gone, time gone. And his mood ruined on top of it all. In this market, managing to get a tutoring job—what a struggle that is!
You have to approach this one, approach that one. Does anyone throw away a tutoring job they’ve secured with their own hands like this?!
If he’d just left a little earlier, he wouldn’t have missed the tutoring session. He felt like tearing out his own hair with his own hands. No, better not. With effort, he could manage to get another tutoring job,
but hair—that couldn’t be managed. Hair transplants cost a fortune!
Double what Shataabdi’s father pays in fees. That skinflint would never pay that much. The bastard never even raises the salary. Lost in such thoughts, he suddenly vanished into thin air! There had been a manhole; he hadn’t noticed.
Tickets are nowhere to be found,
so after tremendous effort, he somehow managed to secure two tickets at double the price. He’ll watch the movie with his wife. A massive blockbuster!
Tickets are impossible to get. It must be good! Without reading a single review about the movie, he bought two tickets to surprise his wife! The moment he got home, he called out excitedly to his wife, “Close your eyes! Look what I’ve brought! You’re free tomorrow evening, right?”
The moment his wife saw the tickets, she was furious! “When did your taste stoop to this level? Can’t you live without watching these cheap movies? Disgusting!
I’m not going with you. Go take some girl with cheap taste and watch your movie.” He realized this wasn’t a request—
this was a threat. Still in his work clothes, he immediately sat down to check online reviews. Indeed, the movie didn’t match his taste at all. But what a battle he’d fought to get those tickets from the black market dealer! He thought,
“Let me post a status on Facebook. Let’s see if anyone will buy them. At least let me recover the ticket price.” He posted the status. His friends roasted him so thoroughly they left him reeking. Someone commented: “You bastard’s son!
The movie’s a flop and you still paid money for these tickets!
And you say
you won’t sell them at double price but at original price!” ……. He saw
his status had 2 likes,
while that comment had 18 likes! His wife looked at it and said,
“Weren’t you even ashamed to post a status selling these tickets?” …….. He started looking for a coconut tree—if only he could climb to the top of a coconut tree and cry his heart out, he might find some peace. No!
There wasn’t a single coconut tree around, they were all tender coconut trees. The next evening, mustering all his courage, he asked his wife,
“Come on,
let’s just go and watch it. There’s nothing much to do at home anyway. We don’t need to cook at home today,
let’s have dinner out.” His wife took the tickets and tore them into two pieces, saying,
“Wow! Great! Come on,
let’s go have a buffet today!”
Making an owl-like face, he started thinking,
“Oh Earth!
Split in two,
let me climb a tree! Damn this movie’s entire lineage!!”
Just think about it!
If you had just left that coffee untouched at the restaurant, paid the bill and walked away, there wouldn’t have been all this trouble.
If you had just thrown those tickets out the window from the very beginning, you wouldn’t have had to endure all this worldly suffering.
The money that went down the drain—
well, it’s gone! I mean,
it has sunk without a trace. The cost sank. So, it’s a sunk
cost. There’s no point in brooding over money that has drowned. I keep saying I’ll shut down the coaching center, but I can’t bring myself to do it. How much time I’ve invested to bring it to where it stands today! What tremendous effort, going without food and sleep, building such a large institution single-handedly! There’s only one simple way to start any task: just start doing it. There’s only one way to shut down a coaching center: shut down the coaching center without overthinking. There’s only one way to quit tutoring and take a low-paying job:
quit tutoring. Abandoning a business is an extraordinarily difficult task. A shop is like one’s own child. How much care, how much sacrifice, how much time and money invested, how many people’s harsh words endured,
how many sleepless nights spent trying to build a business!
If you must abandon it anyway, it’s best to abandon it at that very moment. Delaying might cause you to miss better opportunities
(and it does). Lakhs of rupees vanished in the stock market, and with my tears, all my other dreams washed away too. So many people owe me money!
I know none of them will ever return it. Yet I just stay dejected, keep thinking about the money. Having traveled such a long, arduous path toward what I wanted to become in life, when I get another better opportunity today but refuse to change tracks thinking I won’t let all this suffering go to waste,
I didn’t change tracks,
and later spent my life in regret. The one I had decided to spend my entire life with,
I had calculated every moment of my own life according to hers,
if I ever see someone else’s hand in hers;
she had let go of my hand long ago, I just didn’t realize it all this time; would I still destroy myself waiting for her, just because the most beautiful moments of my life have been lost from my life for her sake?
What has gone will never return,
holding onto which brings only one gain
— suffering, for which even my own existence becomes unrecognizable, which if not cast away might cause me to lose completely even before the most beautiful times arrive,
that is sunk cost. Sunken expenditure; whether material or immaterial. Except for girlfriends, I am a spectacularly unsuccessful person in all the above areas. A girlfriend never even came,
so what would leave?
Among everything I learned in my MBA course in Finance at IBA,
what seemed like the best concept to me
was sunk cost. The incredible amount of money and time I’ve lost from my life, whose torment would chase me day and night constantly, I haven’t found such a beautifully logical explanation to drive it away anywhere else. The impact of this sunk cost concept is extraordinary for forgetting all old pain-wounds-suffering-disappointment-sorrow and casting them aside to move forward.
Thought: Six hundred forty-two
………………………………………………………
The phone rang at 6:45 in the morning. With sleepy eyes, as soon as I picked up the receiver, the voice from the other side asked….
Hello! Is it Mr Paul?
Yes.
Morning. Could you please come at
the 2ndfloor? RILO meeting will be held here.
Good Morning. The meeting is at 10.
I’ll be there on time. Thank you.
Having said this, I hung up the phone and fell asleep again. I thought they were probably calling me for breakfast. At this moment, there was no point in ruining another two hours of sleep just to go have breakfast.
No one else disturbed me. I slept peacefully for another hour and a half. When my mobile clock showed quarter past eight, I rubbed my eyes and got up, only to see on my wrist watch that it was quarter past eleven. I couldn’t understand anything. I thought my watch had stopped working since last night. After cursing Romanson thoroughly, I went to the bathroom and found that Romanson’s ghost had possessed that place too. Now it didn’t take long to understand. The time on my mobile hadn’t been set correctly. That was Bangladesh time, three hours behind. The way our days are bound by clockwork schedules, it seems that with doors and windows closed, it becomes difficult to tell whether six o’clock on the clock means six in the morning or six at night. More important than how long I’d been sleeping was what time the clock showed. A life that runs by the clock will naturally sometimes come to a standstill by that very clock.
Then began the mad rush. In my hurry, I cut my cheek while shaving. Somehow threw on my suit and ran! I was lucky that the seminar was on the second floor of the very hotel we were staying at. The first presentation was still going on. It ended ten minutes after I arrived. Then came the coffee break. Meeting Miss Lee, I apologized and said, “I’d a severe headache this morning. I’m really sorry that I missed the 1st part of the presentation.” Miss Lee is a workaholic. She understands nothing beyond work. She couldn’t catch this lie of mine. She asked me, “Oh! I’m sorry for you. Are you OK now? Please get the reimbursement of your airfare and other expenses.” I was absolutely delighted. They reimbursed everything from the plane fare to all other expenses. Miss Lee is in charge of overseeing everything for this event. She’s a very serious type of person. When you email her, it takes at most two hours to get a reply. Foreigners take email very seriously. Unlike us, they don’t check their mailbox on auspicious days after consulting the calendar.
During the coffee break, I casually mentioned to the huge-bodied Drisi from Fiji, “Brother, I regret missing the early part of the previous presentation.” He immediately replied, “Brother, I regret not missing it. You were lucky enough to have a headache.” These seminar presentations are usually nothing very exciting. However, the presentation is worth listening to if only to see the lady presenter from WCO. She pronounces ‘d’ as ‘da’ and ‘t’ as ‘ta’. Like “tuday’s seminar will add…”
Even after the coffee break, she continued with her presentation. A lengthy presentation! The greatest advantage of listening to a beautiful woman’s lecture is that you can gaze at her for as long as you wish without anyone wondering what you’re thinking. I was listening to the lecture while observing what everyone around me was doing. Right behind me sat a Korean customs officer with a sweet face. Such a restless girl! Her fingers were constantly fidgeting. Whenever our eyes met, she would blink rapidly, nod her head, and say hello. A bit farther away sat a graceful beauty from Thailand in translucent attire. Both my eyes and mind kept drifting in her direction. The petite Korean girl was chattering away incessantly in some chirping language with the cute Chinese boy sitting next to her. On one side of me sat Miss Lee, and on the other, another delegate from Bhutan. I was making a list in the RILO-provided notebook of what I would buy from Korea, while pondering how I might look like Kaimura if I pulled the corners of my eyes upward in both directions, and I was playfully writing all this down in my notebook. Kaimura had come from Japan. How he manages to see with those tiny eyes, who knows! Suddenly, Lee asked with a smile, “You have to make a presentation when you’re back to your country. So, you’re taking notes. Right?” I thought, oh no, I’m caught! I quickly started writing in Bengali and told her, “Oh! Yes yes! I’m just taking important notes.” Lee said “Very good” and turned her attention back to the presentation. I was enchanted by the infinite glory of Bengali. Even if Lee were to ask for my notebook now, there would be no problem. In the entire seminar hall, no one but me knew Bengali. After the presentation ended, during the discussion part, the presenter asked a question based on her presentation. Having some background in computer databases made it easier to answer the question. Many people responded in various ways. After hearing mine, she said, “This method could be more effective if implemented. You’re from Bangladesh, right? Bangladeshi officers are cool!” Everyone applauded. Hearing something positive about Bangladesh on foreign soil feels momentous. The joy I felt at that moment cannot be described in words. I never wanted to become an engineer, nor did I become one; but today I felt much happier than I ever was about that—happy that I had studied engineering. Dear CUET, if I had become a computer engineer, people would have thought you far more ordinary when they saw me; now they think you much more gorgeous because I didn’t become an engineer. Thank you. You continue to honor this humble soul. The final presenter stammered away in Korean-accented English and somehow managed to flee the stage. The most comprehensible English in his entire presentation was the “Thank you” at the very end. Ineptitude in speaking English, however, is not the exclusive property of Bengalis alone.
Tonight Korean customs had arranged a welcoming dinner in our honor. From lunch to dinner, everything was there—from formidable octopus to innocent biscuits. The only trace of a Bengali’s rice was in the eight varieties of Korean sushi. The dominance of seafood was truly spectacular. Snails, oysters, starfish, squid, tuna, salmon from Mom’s lunchtime stories, and many other exotic items. I’d never even heard the names of many dishes. The buffet began with red wine and ended with coffee. I tasted pretty much every item. In my manner of testing the food, I felt like Mr. Bean. Watching my antics, the Korean girl suddenly asked, “You’re eating everything—won’t your God scold you? Will you have to cry a lot to get forgiveness?”
I said, “No, he won’t scold me. My relationship with my God is good. I don’t mind his work, and he doesn’t mind mine.” Hearing this, she burst into giggles. She said, “No, I’ve heard your country’s God is very angry. He gives terrible punishments for the slightest thing.” I thought to myself, “Gosh! Why is this girl so cute?”
Meanwhile, several people came to check on me. Li had told some of his colleagues that Mr. Paul from Bangladesh had fallen ill this morning. They asked how I was feeling now. Li’s boss also came to ask whether I needed any medicine, whether he should send a doctor to my room. Their simplicity, sincerity, humility, hospitality, and honesty were enchanting. Li didn’t have the faintest suspicion that I had lied. It simply doesn’t occur to them that someone might lie about such things. They know how to care for whatever responsibility they take on. Lying, cheating, stealing, deceiving—none of these exist in them. The regret I felt today for lying to Li was greater than all the satisfaction I’ve ever felt from telling the truth in my life. The simplicity of believing one lie causes more pain than the effort of making someone believe a thousand lies. Intense shame and remorse had overwhelmed me. I decided in my heart that I would never lie to any Korean again. The Japanese boy’s simplicity was also memorable. He was so delighted talking with me that he even wanted to send me a ticket to Tokyo.
An instrumental performance was arranged during dinner. Three Korean women of exquisite beauty played the gayageum, weaving the evening into a dreamlike spell with the ancient traditional melodies of their land. The instrument is quite difficult to master. Their care and professionalism in playing seemed to reveal the very key to Korea’s prosperity. I returned to my room after nine. Upon entering, my eyes widened in amazement. My bed was beautifully arranged, fresh water bottles placed on the table, my scattered pants and shirts neatly organized by someone. The room wasn’t cluttered with belongings—someone had meticulously cleaned the entire room in my absence. My envelope of dollars remained exactly where it was by the telephone. The 750 dollars inside were untouched. My passport was safe as well. My room has a security lock, but in today’s haste, I hadn’t secured anything in it. All the dishonest people in the world conspire to promote the lock business. The person who came to service the room hadn’t moved even a single valuable item. People in countries like Korea and Japan don’t practice religious rituals, yet they fulfill religion’s essential purpose perfectly. We observe religion hoping for paradise after death, while they practice religion expecting death in paradise. Ours is largely imposed; theirs is far more spontaneous.
Thought: Six hundred forty-three
………………………………………………………
A moment ago, some words flew across Gmail from America.
It read:
Friend, I’m in great distress. Please pray for me a little. Just the other day I worked an 18-hour shift standing on my feet. Sales work is so difficult, friend, so very difficult! I often wonder why I came here. So many nights I can’t sleep, I have to drive a taxi. I’ve worked as a waiter too, holding out my hand for tips from people. I remember our country, friend. Nothing feels right here. No one knows me here. That’s why I survive doing all these jobs, friend. I have to study properly too—I didn’t get into a university that passes you based on looks. I can’t remember the last time I slept peacefully. Now I think I was better off before.
Reading my friend’s email hurt. Yet somehow, unbeknownst to me, a crooked smile also flickered at the corner of my lips. Why? Let me return to the memory of an old day.
It was a rain-soaked afternoon in 2010. I was running a business then. Two shops facing each other on the second floor of Gulzar Tower in Chawk Bazaar, Chittagong; my gift shop, Dobhana. I had one employee at my shop; Piyushda. That morning his youngest daughter had suddenly fallen ill, so he took leave and left before noon. I was alone at the shop. My younger brother and his friend weren’t there that day either.
(The four of us—myself, my younger brother,
his friend, and Piyushda—
we ran the shop together.) Managing two shops alone was somewhat difficult. The friend whose email I received a while ago,
this friend of mine
often used to visit my shop. He would chat, eat, listen to music, watch movies. At my shop I sold some rare movies and music. That day I called him. I requested
that if he was free, he should come to the shop
and help me out. He
came. I sat at one shop, he
at the other. Sitting in the passage between the two shops, we chatted together
and ate egg parathas. A little later a customer came. He entered the shop where my friend
was sitting. My friend
wasn’t saying anything, he was absent-mindedly browsing Facebook. The customer looked around on his own and selected a flower vase. My shop was a fixed-price shop. As he opened his wallet to take out money and asked my friend to wrap the item, thinking he was the shop owner,
my friend
put on a very irritated expression and said, “What, brother, don’t you even recognize people?
Do I look like a shopkeeper to you when you see me?
No no,
I’m not part of this shop. (Pointing at me with his finger)
The shopkeeper is sitting over there. Take it to him.”
The customer seemed a bit taken aback. I came forward and said,
“Brother, come this way. I’ll wrap it for you.”
After the customer left, my friend came and said,
“Friend, I see if I stay at your place, I won’t have any self-respect left. People are making me into a shopkeeper. How embarrassing! You stay, I’m leaving.” After he
left, I pulled down the shutter of one shop and closed the glass door of the other, sat inside and started listening to songs on YouTube. I was desperately hoping in my heart that no more customers would come to my shop that day. If I had to talk to anyone after this, I wouldn’t be able to hide my tears anymore, I would surely break down and cry.
Putting someone in their place—
this is one of people’s favorite activities. I don’t recall ever putting anyone in their place in this life. Rather, when people put me in my place, I silently digested it. I let myself be hurt. A stubbornness settled in my mind, and those wounds continuously pushed me forward from behind with tremendous force, as strength. A person’s back hits the wall. But my back had become embedded in the wall. My mother often says,
“Son, never speak ill of anyone. He who speaks ill of flowers,
wears those flowers.” Mother speaks very truly. The power of not putting someone in their place is far, far greater than putting them in their place. Let your work do the talking,
not your mouth. The power of work’s voice is a thousand times greater than the mouth’s.
Much of the credit for my well-being goes to some extraordinary friends like these.
In life, receiving pain is better than receiving nothing at all.
Dear friend,
thank you. Stay well.
P.S. Many have asked me in the inbox,
What does ‘Dovana’ mean?
Let me tell them,
It’s a Lithuanian word. In that country, they lovingly name girls Dovana. It means gift. (At that time, my favorite pastime was playing with languages and words. Words are tremendously powerful. I loved playing with them freely on Facebook.)
Reflection: Six hundred forty-four
………………………………………………………
(I wrote the following words on some twenty-seventh of January for my father’s birthday)
Today is the birthday of a simple man. He is my father.
Because he never wanted to win, he never lost. I have never heard anyone express with such joyful simplicity as my father does that everyone around is winning. To this day, I have never seen my father express regret about anything.
“If you cannot help someone, never harm anyone.”
From childhood, I have always heard this from my father’s lips. I believe that whatever I have achieved is the blessed result of my parents’ good deeds. He never tried to balance life’s accounts,
yet all accounts have been perfectly settled. Because he never wanted to reach great heights, my father has never created any rivals. Without ever envying anyone, he has remained enviable. I have seen my father laugh with childlike joy even over very little things. My father has not lost yet. How could he lose when he never wanted to win? What winning means—
I found the best answer to that by watching my father. Living each day without regret is winning.
I try to learn from my father how to master that most difficult of tasks—taking life simply, and doing so with such effortless grace. Perhaps it is precisely because he cannot grasp life’s twisted complexities that life has always revealed itself to him in its simplest form. My father’s philosophy is this: live in the most ordinary way possible, and let thought flourish. He has always lived with great simplicity. I have never heard him address a stranger as “you” informally; he speaks to everyone with profound respect. I cannot remember the last time I saw him angry; so even if he says something with the slightest displeasure, guilt begins to gnaw at me. Father says, don’t buy things that suddenly start buying you back. In his view, mother is the Home Minister—all his achievements, at home and beyond, mother has accomplished. I have watched him always let mother win, giving her all the credit. My linear way of thinking is inherited from him. Whatever he thinks and believes, that is what he has spoken his entire life. My intolerance for hypocrisy—this too comes from my parents. He spends rather lavishly on food. A connoisseur himself, he takes great pleasure in feeding others well. On weekends the shopping is heavier; he sits beside mother cutting fish, meat, and vegetables, with endless banter flowing between them—he still teases her whenever he gets the chance. (Doesn’t this make mother even happier?) I would see how he refused to take money from poor clients, instead paying the court’s small expenses from his own pocket. As a child, I would somehow feel annoyed seeing this. Father would say, look, with their blessings you two brothers will grow to great heights. When someone won a case and happily tried to pay extra fees, he wouldn’t accept it—still doesn’t. He never returned empty-handed from court; we would wait for him to come home so we could sit together for evening tea. We four would also have breakfast and dinner together; when we’re home, we still do. This familial bond of ours was forged by father’s hands. He says, if you ever lend someone money, don’t repeatedly ask for it back—it ruins relationships. My habit of reading books comes from watching him. Father still reads voraciously. He knew countless English words and would teach them to us as children. When I was small, I would ride on his shoulders to fairs, where he would buy me flutes, birds, sweets, and various clay toys. Mother would say, why do you buy these things—he’ll just break them! Father would reply, that’s exactly why I bought them. How many people my parents have helped, how many students they have taught for free, how they have tried to increase the wealth of the spirit rather than material possessions—yet I have never seen them display even a trace of pride. So many people’s good wishes are with him; even now I have never seen father face any real hardship. Father always does his own work. He tells us, do your own work. Not doing your own work means placing your burden on someone else’s shoulders; that is a great hardship, father. My pride in him is this: I have never heard even those people who seem born solely to criticize say anything bad about him.
Father, you have given us the gift of a joyful, happy, prosperous family. There is no wealth greater than a carefree heart. Father, you are far more successful than you know.
O God! On this day I pray from my heart—give some of my lifespan to my father.