Thought: One hundred and twenty.
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The other day my younger brother sent me some photographs—
pictures of flowers from plants that Mother had tended with her own hands. Mother has such a passion for gardening. Looking at those pictures, it seemed as though Mother’s smile had somehow merged with the flowers. Just as a thirsty person finds peace even in the shadow of water,
I too found solace. My younger brother said,
Brother, you know,
Mother has planted so many flowering plants on the veranda!
When I enter my room, it feels so wonderful!
I feel like
going outside and standing by the veranda grille forever, just holding on to it.
Ah, only mothers can do this—turn a home into a garden and a garden into a home!
When flowers bloom, Mother keeps smiling. How beautiful she looks then! “Mother,
how you can laugh with such simple joy, giggling so freely. Mother, do you know
how wonderful you look when you smile?”
Perhaps I’ll never learn this magic of living so simply—
before I can learn it, I’ll suddenly depart one day. When the time comes to leave, it will hurt terribly; the pain of never having learned the magic.
This morning feels a little wistful. On my way to the office, watching the gentle bustle of a city awakening in the soft morning light,
suddenly two songs from my childhood
touched me deeply on the car radio!
The few songs I grew up hearing in Mother’s voice are all very close to me, so very dear. Today they were playing Pratima Banerjee’s “Boro shadh jaage, ekbar tomay dekhi”……………A song or two later came “Ekta gaan likho amar jonyo/
na hoye ami tomar kachhe chilem oti nogonyo.”
One could live just to hear these childhood songs. My mother has a wonderfully sweet singing voice. It felt as though
Mother herself was singing. Mother often sings these two songs. They are among her absolute favorites!
How lovely they sound!
When my grandfather died, my mother was four years old. She and her siblings grew up under the care of their eldest uncle. Mother married very young—she was perhaps seventeen then. She was exceptionally beautiful. Eyes brimming with tenderness, a serene and unblemished face, a gentle nature. After marriage, women must embrace everyone as their own; they must learn to make strangers from another household into their family. This art the Creator has taught only to women. That is why every woman is a great artist. In making everyone their own this way, at some point they become strangers even to themselves. In accommodating the demands of the in-laws, the cherished daughter of her father’s house gradually begins to disappear. This is destiny. To build a happy home, women recreate themselves anew. They are born again—that is why every woman is twice-born. My father was thoroughly cultured and refined in taste. We grew up listening to the classical music of Rabindra-Nazrul-Atul-Rajani Lata-Kishore tradition. Father always encouraged mother, gave her courage, stood by her side. Father understood mother’s many small desires and small joys. Yet here lies the matter. How much can women really tell their husbands! Mother used to recite poetry before marriage, she sang, she read extensively. After marriage, where could she maintain the practice of all that? Like grandfather, her eldest uncle too was in teaching. He raised his younger siblings under strict discipline. A girl who loses her father in childhood—how much freedom can she really have! Mother couldn’t either. If grandfather had lived, perhaps he wouldn’t have married mother off at such a young age. Like countless other women, mother had to sacrifice many of her small joys to please everyone in her in-laws’ household. She paid for many people’s education from her own savings. The pocket money she received from my father and her second uncle, she used to help many poor people with that. She guided many who had completely lost their way back to the right path with patient counsel. I never saw mother raise her voice while speaking to anyone in her in-laws’ house. She often wept in silence, said nothing aloud. Nowhere else on earth will you find such women who can, through their own virtue alone, transform another family into their own and make it home. Bengali women are therefore unique. My mother has a passion for gardening. She gardened before marriage too. In the teachers’ quarters of Sir Ashutosh College in Kanungopara, where mother grew up, she had a garden there. Mother still gardens now. Mother’s handwriting flows like pearls. When I was small, mother would stay up nights making notes for us two brothers. Mother taught at a kindergarten school. She tutored many students for free, bought them books and notebooks. Many of them are well-established today. Mother would say, “Child, always seek people’s blessings. People’s blessings work.” Father was busy with his law practice, would sit to teach for some time in the evenings; mother oversaw almost all of our studies. Quoting Sri Sarada Devi, mother would say, “Listen, child, you must endure. You have so much that many others must endure.” This teaching of endurance came from mother. What we call scolding or harsh words—I never saw that from mother. I have practiced this in my own life. Mother would say, “When you’re very angry, bow your head and look at the ground. See how much the earth endures!”
After listening to just those two songs, I called mother. Pratima was singing, exactly like my mother’s voice. When I told mother this, she burst into delighted laughter. Simple, thoughtless, sparkling laughter. Ah, one could live for this laughter alone in life! O God! Give some of my years to my mother.
Dearest Mother,
To this day, not a single day has passed when you have eaten lunch or dinner without asking me whether I have eaten. When you kiss me goodbye before hanging up the phone, I find myself lost in some profound feeling, thinking:
One could live simply waiting for this one kiss! How do you manage to love so deeply, Mother?
Stay happy like this, Mother. Mother, do you know
how beautiful you look when you smile?
I have lived at the extreme boundaries of both hope and despair. I know
what it feels like when there is nothing but emptiness ahead. I also know how much hope alone keeps a person alive. What a life of penance means—
I didn’t need to learn that from any theosophical lectures. To those who claim
they are in great suffering,
that no one could suffer more than this,
I say:
There was a time when even the act of counting down to death seemed meaningless to me. To count such hours, one must at least be alive; even that being alive was what a terrible luxury of torment! I remember one day,
the day when, after much deliberation, I had decided
to bring the next life into my present life before the next day arrived—that day,
overwhelmed by the intense thought that I would remain alive, simply as a nobody, if only to see those for whom it was worth living,
the vial of poison in my hand returned empty,
among them were you,
Father, and Pappu. Now I understand that even just being alive can mean so much. Mother, I remember clearly
that time in Khagrachari when I slipped from the stone hills and was falling far below, and was saved because another large, jagged rock mercifully caught my right leg and saved me with tremendous pain—
even that day, sliding down the rocky surface, approaching death, seeing faces dimly in the light scattered on the wet moss and damp stones, your face was the first I saw. At that moment I was thinking,
in just a little while I would certainly be shaking hands with death; before that, what more could I do but soak my body and mind as much as possible in thoughts and shadows of God or loved ones! I swear, even that day you had defeated God, as always!
Mother dear, stay well.
Reflection: One hundred and twenty-one.
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Asaduzzaman Noor gave Humayun Ahmed the news of Jahanara Imam’s death. About his feelings after learning this news, he wrote:
Mother sat down on her prayer mat.
And I remained sitting alone on the veranda. A kind of emptiness began accumulating within me. I kept feeling
that some great mistake had been made. How much respect and
love I had for this person—
this was never communicated to her. My only consolation is that from the world beyond death, today she must surely be
feeling my immense respect and
love.
I was startled as I read. The thought kept returning, again and again — what if I couldn’t make it home today? What if… I called my mother. Then my father. I even asked my younger brother how he was, what he was doing. Why did I do this? There’s really no reason. But I felt they were happy. Why? There’s no reason for this either. Nature prefers mystery in certain matters. Especially when it comes to love. Isn’t that right? We don’t tell our fathers we love them. I never kiss my mother’s cheek and say I love her. My younger brother — that he’s such an extraordinary person — I’ve never told him this either. Why haven’t I? Apparently these things cannot be said. Yet in this world, they are the only ones who would simply believe me if I said I loved them. The rest would look for reasons. What if it happens that I can never say these words again? What if I leave before that? Or… no, I can’t think anymore. I must go home.
When God sent humans to earth to punish them for their misdeeds, He gave them the gift of love alongside. Why do we keep all words stored in our hearts? Why don’t we express our affections, ask for forgiveness, or share our other feelings while there’s still time? A friend of mine lost his father two years ago. On the day his father died, they spoke on the phone just two and a half hours before his death. The line got cut before their conversation ended. My friend was lying down, too lazy to call back, thinking they had talked anyway, he’d call later. His father gave him no more time. His father’s last words were: “Son, how are you? Are you eating properly? Your mother and I, this coming Eid…” For the past two and a half years, my friend has never been able to find out what his father wanted to do with his mother for Eid. Since his father’s death, his mother has become mute. She can’t say anything, just stares vacantly. Perhaps she herself doesn’t know what her husband’s wish was, or even if she knows, she can’t express it. We must give time to our loved ones, because death never gives us time.
About the Rana Plaza tragedy, I wrote these words on 25/04/2013:
Only those can survive
whom someone else wants to see alive,
who have people who love them.
— Shirshendu (The Swimmer and the Water Nymph)
We do want our garment girls to survive—
it’s not that we don’t. But there’s no love in this wanting;
there’s only selfishness, profit-thinking, indifference. We play with their lives in a marketplace of lies. Only when they die do they manage to show us again and again—that we too were alive.
Did you ever realize what makes your wealth grow? What force turns the wheels of economy?
Did you ever have time to think? Even a little?
. . . . . . . They don’t ask for much. Just to eat, wear clothes, and somehow survive—that’s enough for them. We keep them under our feet while lost in sky-touching dreams. We think,
poor people,
they’re alive,
that’s bonus enough. What more do they want? They don’t need anything else. They die spitting a glob of saliva on the grave of our dead conscience. Always. The procession of death grows longer. We say, Oh!
How terrible!
Inwardly we think, what’s it to me! None of mine are there!
Never will be either. Let it go, what could I
have done anyway? . . . . . . . How disgustingly cold, untroubled, shameless, uncivilized, unburdened is our habituation! We believe in the culture of carrying on,
we’re accustomed to it. We never emerge from there. Tell me, how long does the grief over our seamstress sisters’ deaths last? Is there grief at all? The very existence of grief is media-dependent. So terribly fragile.
Pigs, dogs, donkeys have this great advantage: no one curses them or their offspring with those names. Because
they simply are what they are. Our great disadvantage is that in our cursing we still haven’t managed to bring in a better option than them. If they could speak,
surely ‘human’ or
‘human’s child’
would be the most fitting curse possible. We’re hopelessly romantic and sentimental at every age—even about death, about suffering. Those unfortunates who survived the Savar tragedy might well envy the dead, given the strain of our romantic sentimentality. . . . . . If I could curse freely in obscene language, I’d feel a bit lighter. But can I even do that? It would mean spitting upward. Some would land on my own face too. I haven’t become that brave yet.
We’re walking along a veranda with a very low ceiling. Heads bent down. The bigger one’s head,
the more it must bend. We no longer have the strength to bear the weight of our heavy heads. Our learned discourse on humanity is as laughable as an impotent sultan’s lust for his harem girls.
Reflection: One hundred twenty-two.
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Today Bengal’s soil swarms with scholars. Scholars to the right, scholars to the left, scholars above, scholars below, scholars in front, scholars behind. Looking around Facebook with naked eyes I see a marketplace of scholars. I feel completely like an ox. Even in appearance, some kind of bovine flavor seems to be emerging! I’m thinking,
I should start teaching coaching classes again like before,
very carefully tutor the boys
(so they) can study. At least while I’m in class,
I feel like some people know less than me, or think they do,
know less.
I want a Facebook free of the sick, the psychopathic, and the hypocritical. Learned scholars, please kindly stay away from my Facebook wall. The owner of this profile is profoundly ignorant and feels most comfortable remaining so. He lacks the capacity to comprehend the scope of your erudition. I want to keep my wall a hundred miles away from all forms of professional showboating, grandstanding, hypocrisy, and pretentious intellectualism. I come here purely for joy. I never had any lofty purpose beyond this, still don’t, and I can’t speak for the future. I humbly request that you remain connected with me without engaging in personal attacks or flattery. I promise to treat you exactly as you treat me. However, since negative behavior leads to unnecessary waste of time and energy, I always try to avoid it. I am a very low-grade civil servant. I know what my duties are, and you are not vested with the sacred responsibility of overseeing this—I expect that level of mental maturity from you. If you lack that maturity, please go away and quietly munch on puffed rice. To avoid the sound of chewing, soak the puffed rice in Sprite if necessary. Please don’t judge me by my job, and I won’t show any interest in yours. Know this: the owner of this profile is an extremely irritable, rude, and intolerant person. You can criticize him, but if you’re inclined toward personal attacks, please don’t come here. He has neither the time nor the temperament to quarrel with you. This realm is entirely his personal domain. He doesn’t come here to pontificate about professionalism. He works alongside living his life; he doesn’t live alongside his work. If you have any objection to this, please don’t grace this wretched person’s wall with your presence. Before coming to my wall, don’t leave your sense, common sense, and sense of humor in your pocket. Otherwise, please stay away. I am a creature of the lowest order. I tried to become excellent but failed. Sorry. Thank you.
I’ve said many difficult things. Now let’s have some simple talk. I’m throwing three questions at you.
In a zoo, there are many monkeys in one monkey enclosure. That’s not the point. The point is—tell me, in an hour and fifteen minutes, how many visitors see any one monkey on average?
Too difficult? Alright, let me ask an easy question. The tune of “Happy Birthday to You” has similarities with another song’s tune.
Tell me, which song is it?
Now the easiest question. Who wrote these two songs?
If you can answer one correctly, I’ll treat you to fuchka.
If you can answer two correctly, I’ll treat you to coffee.
If you can answer all three correctly, I wouldn’t mind if you treated me to black coffee instead of tamarind water with fuchka!! Because you’re not human!! You are______
(Fill in the gap!)
Thought: One hundred twenty-three.
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I’m a Shikh by born, not by choice.
Blame me for anything I’m by choice. For the last 11-12 years I’ve never prayed
formally and I’ve never suffered for it. God has always been such a good friend
to me. I’ve never made any troubles with Him, He has never made any troubles
with me. We’re on such good terms! God must not be so crazy as to being angry with
someone only for not eulogizing Him. He is wise, he is just. To me, being a
good person has always been more important than being religious. Being
religious is easy, being righteous is difficult. People choose the easy path.
Had been God that childish, He’d have killed me thousand times by now for not
being outwardly pious. We create God by our will, define what He likes and does
not like, and rape religion to justify everything we want to justify. I was not
asked what religion I want to live by after I’d been born. After my birth
people around declared me Shikh even without my permission! Religion comes to
us when we’re blind to judge the world we’re born in. To some, food can make or
unmake religion! To me, food is, what I like to eat and what I can digest. I
never believe in any food-based religious culture. Let not religion contain us,
rather let’s contain religion. The only religion I do believe in is, LIVE &
LET LIVE.
Most people’s thoughts about religion are peculiar and born of ignorance. There are folks who want to dictate even what I should feel and what I shouldn’t feel! What a fine mess that creates! Everyone thinks differently. It’s wrong to blindly adopt anyone’s thinking. Even when some revered or exemplary person makes a mistake, the belief that we too can make that same mistake is nothing but folly. This reminds me of something Syed Mujtaba Ali once said. One day Mujtaba’s wife told him, “You drink alcohol—the boys will learn by watching you.” Mujtaba replied, “Why, dear wife, I know twenty-two languages—couldn’t they learn one or two of those instead?”
We have given religion far less space in our hearts than we have at our dining tables. Religion is not so fragile that it would become recognizable or unrecognizable based on mere food habits. The relationship between religion and matters of success or failure in life is neither very stark nor direct. Let me speak of myself. I don’t live for tomorrow, I live for today, I live in the world of each passing moment. If I were to suddenly cease to exist in a little while, there should be no regrets—living in such a way is what living truly means. That I am alive, that I can conduct myself well, that I am clearing the path for others to live well or at least not blocking others’ path to living well—this is what religion is.
Extreme piety or extreme atheism, when taken to excess, is not religion—it’s the business of religion or the business of irreligion. Let me share something. Sometimes people come to me and say,
Brother, I too am a Sikh,
you too are a Sikh;
please do me this favor. When I hear this, it feels like they’re diminishing my identity as an officer. My primary identity is that
I am an Indian, I am a member of the Indian Civil Service. It is my duty to serve everyone equally. I once told such a person,
Brother, that you are a Sikh
is no virtue of yours;
just as my being a Sikh is no fault of mine. If I like someone, I’ll embrace their good qualities;
if I dislike them, I’ll avoid their bad ones. That’s it!
What role does religion play here?
To accept someone’s good qualities requires as much selfishness as it takes wisdom to skillfully avoid their bad ones. What’s the point of endless chatter about aspects of other religions that I don’t like?
Religion is nothing but philosophy—life finds its fulfillment in selfishly absorbing the essence of all religions into one’s heart. Not everyone thinks exactly alike, lives exactly the same way. As many minds,
so many paths. Each path has its own inherent beauty. Come,
let us live embracing only that beauty.
Reflection: One hundred twenty-four.
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I write of my experiences from a two-day bus journey.
One. On the road to Dhaka . . . . . . . A monkey seated behind me is investigating the entire lineage of his business brother-in-law over the phone,
perhaps he found no moment’s respite during the day, hopping from branch to branch conducting his trade; the female monkey is giving her younger sister detailed descriptions of her culinary prowess while threatening her wailing milk-fed infant in a shrill voice,
You monkey’s child! Don’t you dare cry!
I’ll throw you down! (I am truly enchanted by the lady’s self-awareness and truthfulness!)
This only doubles and redoubles both the innocent child’s rage and enthusiasm.
OMG!! Oh
my God!!
Why don’t you temporarily strike all passengers mute during night journeys?
A neighboring elderly gentleman enjoys blissful sleep with fierce and terrible nasal trumpeting. How I long
to stuff some cotton into his twin nostrils right now.
Ah! Ah!! What do I witness!
Two rows ahead of my seat, a hideous-looking woman colors her lips with lipstick. For whose pleasure? At such an hour of night!
In this darkness, will her beloved ghost arrive at tonight’s coach, drawn by this hag’s allure?!
Two. The buffaloes in the truck ahead have a distinctly bovine flavor about their appearance, making them look rather dim-witted. I’m thinking, if one or two buffaloes leap onto the road hearing the bus horn, what would happen?
Well, can buffaloes dance?
I’d love to see buffaloes dancing to the music of “The Final Countdown.” Those stupid buffaloes are just standing there stupidly. I feel like catching them and tickling them.
Ahead on the path between the fields, an old man sits smoking a cigarette, pissing with perfect contentment. For absolutely no reason, I have this irrepressible urge to kick him hard in the ass. The man is old. I’m somewhat confused about whether kicking an old man in the ass would be sinful. So I don’t know what to do. But I need to strike immediately. The bastard’s face looks just like the protagonist from La Strada—one look at him and you just want to slap him senseless. Once the moment passes, there’ll be no chance to strike. What regret, what regret!
The regret of not being able to kick someone with abandon is immense. If you can’t kick someone in the ass the moment the urge strikes, what’s the point of living?
On our bus, there’s a girl with garish red lipstick who looks just like the girl from A Clockwork Orange. Getting rough with her would have brought on those same feelings. The problem is, her boyfriend is sitting next to her. I should have had a licensed revolver. If I had one, that orangutan would be finished by now! Now I’m thinking life is meaningless if you board a bus without a pistol.
In the front seat, two women are gossiping about Eid shopping. Because she didn’t buy a peacock dress, one woman’s daughter-in-law hasn’t eaten anything for two days. The poor girl is crying so much she’s nearly gone blind. The woman believes that in a peacock dress, her daughter-in-law would look like Katrina Kaif, but her husband won’t agree. I see no reason for this sack of flour to reproduce. Listening to these two women’s foul chatter, the music from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly plays nonstop in my head. I’m in a state of epic distress. God bless their husbands.
A man with a chimpanzee-like face is shouting and explaining to his wife how our bus is stuck in Cumilla. The bus is stuck in traffic, and what’s there to explain about that for fifteen minutes straight, I really can’t understand. Do women create more trouble or do men? This could be a research subject. I said, “Brother, if you spoke a little louder, you wouldn’t even need a mobile phone. Would save money too.” After that, I see the bastard glaring at me with angry eyes. I began to wonder, what did I do?
The boy in the seat next to me is having a marathon conversation with his girlfriend, while I sit here fasting and still chewing puffed rice. If I could get some cotton, I’d stuff it in my ears. I feel like writing a letter. I’m thinking about who to write to. A Mosharraf Karim play is running on the bus—”The Wife’s Torment.” Great entertainment! I watch the play and think, which happy fool gets married?!
Reflection: One hundred and twenty-five.
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The writer known as Dadathakur, Sharatchandra Pandit, was a man of great self-respect and dignity. Even in extreme poverty, he never begged from anyone. After passing his entrance exam, he couldn’t continue his studies due to lack of money. His profound wit and scholarship made him beloved to many influential people. But he never sought favors from anyone.
No matter how great a person might be, if anyone mocked or ridiculed him, he wouldn’t let it pass without response. He ran a magazine called “Bidushak” (The Jester). One day, when the novelist Sharatchandra Chattopadhyay met him, he asked, “So then, Bidushak Sharatchandra, how are things going?”
Dadathakur replied, “What can I say, Charitra-heen Sharatchandra, somehow getting by.”
Another incident reveals his character. Once, the Maharaja Jogindranarayan Ray of Lalgola, impressed by Dadathakur’s exceptional wit, wanted to give him 25,000 rupees (this was around 1920). The Maharaja wished for Dadathakur to completely revamp his magazine. Dadathakur declined. He was entirely a self-made man. He politely said, “Your Highness, I have long cherished the dream of becoming wealthy like you. But to become wealthy like you with your own money—that won’t do, Your Highness.”
I see many young men who take dowry from their fathers-in-law at the time of marriage, or seek to do so. While this may increase their wealth, their respect diminishes proportionally in the eyes of their wives and in-laws; after marriage, they can no longer walk with their heads held high. I have seen many young men diminish themselves and their families in their attempt to become wealthy with their father-in-law’s money. In most cases, taking the father-in-law’s money stems from greed, not necessity. Even when the bride’s father voluntarily or somewhat forcibly gives dowry or gifts at the time of marriage, his respect for the son-in-law and his family subsequently decreases. I have witnessed this often. Life at the office is already difficult enough with the boss’s harassment; if you marry with your father-in-law’s money, you acquire another boss at home as well. Naturally! You cannot marry with your wife’s father’s money and then expect your wife to worship you with infinite reverence after marriage—that simply doesn’t happen!
Dadathakur’s sense of humor was remarkable!
Dadathakur regularly participated in storytelling programs at Calcutta Radio Station. One day, after finishing a program, as he was leaving the radio station, he met the young singer Ramkumar Chattopadhyay. He asked, “I often see you here, who are you?”
Ramkumar replied bashfully, “I sing.”
Who could match Dadathakur! With a gentle smile, he said, “Well then, how many seers of milk do you give morning and evening?”
Dadathakur’s biographer Nalinikanta Sarkar had undergone cataract surgery. When asked what the procedure involved, Nalinibabu explained that doctors replace God-given lenses with glass lens spectacles. Just as when a leg rots, doctors cut it off and fit a wooden leg, something like that.
After hearing everything, Dadathakur said, “You see, a wooden leg is actually better than a real leg.”
Nalinibabu asked in wonder, “Why?”
Dadathakur replied, “Mosquitoes don’t bite wooden legs.”
Ah, may Dadathakur’s immortal spirit possess the minds of Bengal’s womenfolk.
Reflection: One hundred twenty-six.
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Those who have seen Uttam Kumar lighting the lamp in Basanta Suchitra, or the hospital scenes in Ashok Suchitra, let me tell you something: during the making of those films, it was Suchitra herself who caused the rift in the Uttam-Suchitra pairing. Mrs. Sen was nursing some grievance or other against Uttam Kumar. Saptapadi came the very year after Hospital. There again—Uttam-Suchitra. Before filming began, on director Ajoy Kar’s advice, the legendary hero himself called to coax Suchitra out of her sulk. Word has it that Suchitra had been waiting for precisely this phone call. Women always win at these games of ego, don’t they? What else could be done! As co-producer of the film, Uttam Kumar simply had to make that call! Thank goodness Uttam did call! Otherwise, would we have gotten Saptapadi? Even if we had, who else could have delivered that nose-in-the-air declaration: “He won’t touch me!” with such perfect pique? Not everyone’s petulance stirs the heart, after all! Some people’s huffiness makes you want to send them straight to an ENT surgeon. Remember Rina Brown’s ego in that film? Women are like that most of the time, I suppose. They can’t bear even a hint of neglect. Even when the neglect isn’t really neglect at all! When Greta Garbo quit acting after the harsh criticism of Two-Faced Woman, everyone simply accepted her famous declaration—”I want to be left alone”—and what else was there to do but ruminate on this world-renowned beauty’s legendary looks?
We were in seventh grade then. One day our Bengali teacher Kajal sir came to class and gave one boy such a thrashing with his cane! Sir held up the boy’s exam paper for everyone to see. The poor thing had written “Suchitra” as the antonym of “Uttam” in his Bengali language paper. The Uttam-Suchitra pairing had wielded the influence of an entire institution.
Just think—what we gained because Uttam Kumar made that phone call!
Doesn’t it feel wonderful when you reconnect with a dear friend from the past—someone you once unfriended or blocked in anger or hurt—and friendship blooms again?
Let that renewed friendship begin with just a small text: “Such wounded pride!” Doesn’t even the thought of it stir something beautiful within?
Perhaps the friend has been nursing their hurt like that sulking albatross,
who, having been forced to take flight, was so deeply wounded that it never once looked back toward the earth. Those wings were so vast, after all,
that it must have decided
to live out the rest of its life supported by its own wings alone. What peace there is in shaking off that stubborn pride!
Even if they won’t say it, why don’t you be the one to say sorry?
Ah! How sweetly friendship makes us speak!
Just as Uttam Kumar used to say!
Uttam and Suchitra were very good friends. Was that really all they were—just friends?
It’s difficult to act out simple friendship when you’re carrying deep love. Imagine you’re performing such an act with someone. The person you’re performing for accepts it too. Here two things might be at play. Perhaps they don’t even know you’re acting, or for whatever reason they want to maintain a relationship with you but don’t want to name that relationship. You want them to love you, and if not that,
at least think of you as a friend. At any cost, if necessary. If this is the case, and they only consider you a friend in exchange for that price, then aren’t you always losing to the person they truly love or will love? Let’s leave aside such complicated tales. From what I’ve read about the relationship between Uttam Kumar and Suchitra Sen,
I never felt for a moment that theirs was merely friendship. They were such great artists, after all,
that they carried on the performance flawlessly until death—on life’s stage,
on the stage of their shadow-lives.