Thought: Seventy-One.
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I was walking along the footpath after watching a movie at Star Cineplex in Bashundhara. Suddenly, someone from nowhere gave me a tremendous shove and swiftly brushed past me before I could even see who it was. My purse fell from my hand onto the street. I was furious—how can someone walk so rudely!? I could have fallen myself from that push! Cursing that unknown person in my mind, I picked up the purse from the street and opened it on some impulse. Oh no! Where was my phone!? I couldn’t understand where it might have dropped. Suddenly I remembered—during the movie, my purse had once fallen from my hand. I ran back to the theater from the street. Finally, I found it right where I had been sitting! No one had stolen my phone! Amazing! Walking home, I thought: sometimes someone’s rudeness actually helps another person! If I hadn’t been pushed and dropped my purse then, I wouldn’t have checked it. I might have gone home only to discover the phone was missing from my purse. And then there would have been little chance of getting it back. We truly cannot know or understand beforehand what good lies hidden within something unpleasant. This game of the Creator is impossible to comprehend. It also happens that we pray for something that might bring us misfortune. This cannot be understood in advance. Often such prayers go unfulfilled. Naturally, we feel that the Creator is being unjust to us. But only He knows what is happening, what should happen. We don’t get as much as we want, what we want. We get only as much as we need. We get what we need.
Those who try to cheat others in the game of self-interest are actually the ones who get cheated the most. For a moment it seems like we’ve won big! But the real secret lies elsewhere. Perhaps somewhere that wouldn’t even occur to our imagination. Cheating is of two kinds: mental and external. The one who gets cheated might face problems or suffer for some time, then eventually forget about it. But the one who cheats remembers everything. If they ever realize that the cheating was actually wrong, then this agony torments them for life. Even if they don’t realize it, the Creator somehow puts them in difficulty, or puts someone else in difficulty whose suffering would cause that person pain, thus dispensing true justice.
Fortunately, nature alone never seeks its own interest. The sun has never asked what it would get in return for giving light. The wind has never once failed to touch me. Trees have never said there’s no place for me in their cool shade. Crops have never asked, “What’s in it for me if I fill your stomachs?” Rivers don’t hide their waters when we bathe in them. Rain doesn’t demand payment for soaking us. To light the darkness of night, the moon has never, ever asked anyone for anything in return. Even after receiving such selfless gifts from nature’s dearest friends, humans have become utterly selfish. Self-interest in every breath, self-interest in every exhalation. One who has no self-interest is mad, worthless, more useless than a coin out of circulation. These days such worthless coins end up in museums—quite valuable actually, but who has the means to keep them close except museums?
Thought: Seventy-two.
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A night bus races on. Racing alongside white trees, in the endless kisses between wheels and tar road, intoxication creeps into body and mind in the drunken silence of night.
Some impossibly beloved old Bengali songs. Playing, I feel them, making me want desperately to think even being alive is wonderful!
In the dark wind, sparks of desire come striking again and again. Making me tremble completely! The mind doesn’t work, only feeling works! A terrible sort of joy. It makes me helpless and laughs with tinkling sounds inside my head! That couple in the back corner seat seems unbearable! Looking at them only increases the pain, yet my eyes keep turning toward them! Such is the strange shameless psychology of the lonely soul!!
The magical words of songs keep plunging knives into the chest of solitude, keep plunging them in……..the strange power of a song’s lingering essence!
Even darkness has a color. When melody mixes with that color, inside and outside feel mad-mad, drinking that color to the throat brings intoxication of dark-melody to the bloodstream, the wall between inner and outer worlds keeps breaking, keeps breaking, the clear glass mirror shatters with a ringing sound in the depths of the mind……..tell me, is everyone this frenzied?
Night skillfully transforms everything. Everything in the night seems like something else! The coexistence of love and desire! One by one both awaken to the magic of melody and night’s bodily pull!!
Feeling so good! I want to believe such a romantic bus driver is more appealing than ten unromantic lovers!!
Thought: Seventy-three.
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It’s through food that people become closest to one another; wherever I’ve seen the bonds of inseparable family life at their sweetest, I’ve noticed that the wife keeps her husband well-fed with ever-new delicacies.
~ Satinath Bhaduri
Bhaduri-moshai, I’ve always envied your generation in matters such as these. Today’s moderns tread the kitchen’s shadows only through the feet of housemaids. Or mother-in-laws. They become Siddika Kabir with great care, watching cookbooks or TV shows. That care roams the mind’s obscure, incomprehensible realm far more than it does the heart’s domain. While it’s easy enough to go from kitchen to book, the reverse journey is infinitely harder! Though yes, when eating that cooking, one can derive considerable satisfaction thinking of the TV show’s exquisite beauty. Why? All these head-turning beauties teach cooking. That’s why their style appeals to me more. I’m fairly certain that beauty’s cooking doesn’t reach even her poor husband’s plate as often. At least in that regard, long live the modern educated bride!
I’ve seen friends who, when politely praising their wives’ cooking, receive such a dry “thanks” in return. The fault lies less with the friend’s wife than, perhaps, with the friend’s mother-in-law. Why does she simply assume that even after marriage, the daughter and son-in-law will continue eating the mother-in-law’s cooking in comfort? No matter how high one’s educational qualifications, the Bengali nature is to keep someone standing outside the heart’s door until they pass the test of ‘additional qualification’ in at least one other matter. At least that’s true for me. Violinist Einstein, footballer Niels Bohr, painter Rabindranath are especially dear to me. Be it music. Literature. Cooking. Or something else, some other art. But this too is true—without the ‘main qualification,’ that ‘additional qualification’ commands less respect. Because then it’s no longer ‘additional’! The future looks quite bleak for girls who fail school exams year after year but possess remarkable talent in cooking.
After claiming one’s rightful due, who in this world remains indifferent to such extras, bonuses, additions? I should mention here that not all indifference is genuine. Only he who forgets to ask for money back from a debtor receives the authentic certificate of absent-mindedness. With what dreams boys marry, only to end up sitting and building bridges of sighs!
Reflection: Seventy-four.
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Each river has its own distinct scent. It had never occurred to me before that water too could change its fragrance—before, I mean, before that day. Cutting through the waves, the boat moves—neither exactly forward nor exactly backward, but somewhere in between; in slow rhythm. The water-soaked breeze naturally awakens body and mind, and on top of that, our boat is a dinghy; I lie so close to the water, as close as one can get to touch the water and bathe oneself in the moon’s sweet light. The moon has no language, yet it speaks so much; this desire to float on the river on such a full moon night, to let someone float—this longing is old. I have floated alone, and since there was no one beside me to float with, I had thought I would drift away and disappear in that manner, but it didn’t happen that way. Yet that day’s moment was different. Did I lose myself that day? Yes, I did indeed lose myself! Otherwise, why would I feel someone touching my cheek, eyes, and hair with a gentle caress, saying: Not you, I’m touching the moon, all the silver light of this one night’s river has found shelter in your eyes today, I will not end before the night ends—I promise, you too must not end, stay with drowsy eyes, beloved, do not fall asleep. The song of water flowing through the gaps between my fingers, which had made me moon-struck on that magical night, that intoxicating melody was defeated by some enchantment in the blissful imagination of some invisible beloved. Cheek touching cheek, in the unrestrained laughter of the moon, our night, existence, river, distant hills, the boatman’s river song—everything, absolutely everything merged and became one that night; in the touch of her breath, in the pulsation of her body, in the intoxicating fragrance of hair, chin, and neck mixed wonderfully with the scent of water on that wonder-struck night, her left hand hidden in my right hand, my left hand wrapped around her shoulder, half-embracing her left arm; that enchantress was drawing some incomprehensible letters on my right cheek with the ring finger of her right hand, and the meaning of those letters—neither I, nor that night, nor that moon, nor that river, nor those distant hills, not even that little boat, which didn’t remain merely a boat that night—none of us could grasp. In that white moonlit night, in the fountain of brilliant white light and the constant gestures of the beloved of my imagination, the tremors that arose in body and mind from the slipping, sliding, fine, soft touches of my thoughts and feelings—could any woman have awakened such a response? In moments of intimate union with nature, when there’s an irresistible psycho-physical attraction toward a beloved person, I understood that day how meaningless and pale nature becomes to that woman or man, even if just for that moment. In this defeat lies nature’s victory.
…….This night is yours and mine, that moon is yours and mine, only ours. This night belongs only to song, this moment to these two souls. To tender whispers. Because you exist and I exist, in feeling I find you, only ours. This night is yours and mine.
I don’t know how long I had been singing. Some profound, helpless thirst for kisses kept seeking refuge in the duet rhythm of the night-awakened water and the boat’s splash-splash cadence. The magic of Suchitra’s eyes was suddenly lost in the boatman’s absorbed, abstract cry that broke the night’s slumber: Sir, won’t you return?……..At that harsh question, a weariness overcame my entire body; the weariness of returning to clamor. Even the moon’s face seemed to show clear lines of fatigue and melancholy. I thought, I hadn’t come here to return. Can one return from this intimate chamber?
Reflection: Seventy-five.
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A boy came to class with his hair spiked up with gel. The hair in the middle of his head stood tall like horns. With a cool look and a don’t-care attitude, the boy stared at the teacher. The don’t-care expression was clear in his eyes and face.
The teacher looked at him and said, “Hey dude! Having horns doesn’t make you horny!”
The poor fellow was completely fused! What laughter erupted from the girls!
Another day’s incident. A boy, putting on airs, sat in class with three shirt buttons undone and legs spread in a nawabi style. As if he’d light up a cigarette right then and there.
Looking at him, the (same) teacher said, “Hey mister, button up your shirt. You’ve nothing to show me.”
The poor fellow’s face was something to behold at that moment!
Taking classes at IBA was quite an entertaining experience. There’s so much to learn from there. From the teachers, from peers, from the course curriculum, from extracurricular activities, from inside the classroom, from outside. Smartness, working under tight deadlines, giving presentations, slacking off, mischief, taking on workloads (or taking on without actually taking on. In teamwork, often 2+1=4, 1+1=4, 0+1=4, 0+0=4! 2+2=4, 2+1=4, 1+1=4, 0+1=4, 0+0=4! This is only possible in teamwork!)
All the smart boys in the world study at IBA. Smarter teachers conduct classes. (Or perhaps IBA itself makes the boys smart before releasing them.) IBA products cannot be underestimated from any angle. (Though the public tends to overrate us more. Well, if they do, we don’t really mind much!)
Truth be told, on IBA premises, in the hostel, I felt completely insignificant. I received no attention from anyone. Even that felt good. I miss those IBA days terribly.
Reflection: Seventy-six.
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There’s a song by Gulzar in Lata’s voice: Tujhse naraz nahin zindagi, hairan hun main. One day in Pabna, I’m riding a motorcycle in the rain. Raindrops pierce my eyes and face like arrows, making it quite difficult to ride the bike. So I have to stop every now and then. That’s not the point. The point is, every time we stop the bike and start waiting under some shed, the rain stops and sunlight begins to play through broken clouds. In this riddle of nature’s hide-and-seek, I feel like changing the song and singing, Tujhse naraz nahin barish, hairan hun main…
Do you remember Salim Khan? Gulzar’s friend and companion in thought. From their conversations emerged many songs and story plots. Can’t recognize him? Well, let me help a little. See if you remember these dialogues:
: Mard hoti to dard nehi hoti.
: Don ko pakarna mushkil bhi nahin hai, namumkin hai!
: Tumhara naam kya hai, Basanti? (What a sense of humor! Every time this dialogue comes to mind, I keep laughing to myself.)
These words are Salim Khan’s creation. He has enriched Bollywood with countless such creations. ‘Sholay’ was written by him. And there are others. Awara, Deewaar, Zanjeer, Don, Mister India. Simon Beaufoy spent three days talking with him to gather material for writing ‘Slumdog Millionaire’.
Javed Akhtar is his discovery. In those days, who wrote the film wasn’t printed on movie posters. Now it is. This contribution belongs to Salim Khan and Javed Akhtar. The two of them together spent entire nights writing on all the city’s posters: Scriptwriter: Salim Khan. Needless to say, those posters were for some film written by Salim Khan.
Knowing about the sorrows in his personal life, one might very well think that Lata’s famous song was written for him. No, he didn’t write it. A day or two before Gulzar wrote it, he had a conversation with Salim Khan about some of their personal philosophies of life. Considering the words of the song, one can tell it was written not with the mind, but with the heart. And that heart’s wound was not Gulzar’s alone!
Let me give you another small introduction to him. Through his identity, his son receives invitations to many functions. That is to say, that son of his has also become famous by making some films. Kaifi Azmi doesn’t need to be introduced as Shabana Azmi’s father. Salim Khan can be introduced as Salman Khan’s father, but it’s not at all necessary! If one must do so, then this ignorance is truly embarrassing for the person receiving the introduction.
Quiz for readers: Tell me, which movies contain these three dialogues?
Reflection: Seventy-seven.
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On tonight’s spring full moon, the car’s headlights aren’t striking the moonlit trees by the roadside quite as sharply, like whiplashes, as they did yesterday when this very car passed through this same route at this same time. The person whose love had already departed in the direction his eyes longed to follow, before he could move toward his beloved—who had already gone in every direction his eyes could see except toward him—is far more fortunate than someone left alone by another who chose to leave. Being far apart is painful, but drifting apart is even more painful. Even those who are doing well or living happily are remembered at such times by people who had grown unaccustomed to being alone after being made unaccustomed to solitude. This remembering slips across his entire consciousness tonight like the white moonlight sliding across the road, enveloping him in some strange trance, making him even more helpless than that newspaper that was blown by a gust of wind from the third-floor balcony down to the ground floor before anyone could read it, and because office hours had started, no one went to retrieve it, and even forgot to read it upon returning in the evening, though it contained much worth reading.
The wheels of the car we’re riding home in create no fresh resonance on the road stones today; never mind that in the white moonlight these stones are no longer mere stones, or that beside us lies the rubber plantation where even serpents, lost in various crevices, forget their coupling and gaze at the night, or further still—catching the eye, then slipping away—at such distance that the dinghies invite us with all the tenderness the river can offer, or those hills beyond the plantation that have stood for so long yet show no weariness in arranging themselves beautifully each day; the wheels remain just as indifferent, ruthless, merciless. Why speak of wheels? Sometimes people fear to speak of people, that’s why.
Listen to what I’m saying. Don’t burden those whose lives pass between falling asleep and waking up—only to fall asleep again—with the extra work of love. If you must give it, don’t abandon them so carelessly that they bungle even their two old familiar tasks and can think of nothing but that they’ve lost this work through their own incompetence. We want everyone’s beloved to be of clear mind and generous heart. Otherwise, just as our driver curses at the other drivers while overtaking them on this beautiful evening, rushing toward his destination, so too will the one you’ve left alone—not the one who abandoned, but the grief-stricken soul—curse himself as he somehow dodges death while racing toward death ahead of his time.