Reflection: One hundred ninety-seven.
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I watched Federico Fellini’s La Strada.
After François Truffaut’s The 400 Blows (watching this film, one could never guess it was the director’s debut work), Vittorio De Sica’s Bicycle Thieves (our Satyajit saw this film and decided he too would make movies), Majid Majidi’s Children of Heaven, Walter Salles’s The Motorcycle Diaries, Ritwik Ghatak’s Nagarik, Satyajit Ray’s Apu Trilogy—after all these films, last night another neorealist narrative joined my collection.
Why was I born? ‘La Strada’ is the love story of two people from the margins who spend their entire lives searching for an answer to this question, living simply because death hasn’t come yet, for whom existence itself means somehow sidestepping death. Zampanò performs on the streets and wanders the roads; Rosa used to be with him. When Rosa dies, he buys her younger sister Gelsomina from their impoverished mother for merely 10,000 lire. Zampanò keeps Gelsomina with him out of necessity for his livelihood. La Strada means “the road” or “the path.” Gelsomina’s enchanting face, her fluid expressions, her loving sulks, her innocent love—transcending all of this, the road’s own narrative towers over this film. The woman who conveys everything with a glance—her love, her temporary lack of love, her anger, her hurt—need not speak these things aloud. Like our Suchitra Sen, this film’s heroine Giulietta Masina has brought to life the character’s innocence, sorrow, joy, pain, and petulance through masterful expressions of eyes and face. Without seeing the movie, no one could imagine how flawlessly she accomplished this task!
When women who like someone discover, somehow, that the man they care for once liked, or still likes, another woman, they keep asking, keep asking—did that woman do this or that, would she do this or that—everything the questioner does or doesn’t do or cannot do; what is he thinking about that woman—whether the man thinks of her at all or not, what makes that woman more or less beautiful than herself; and so much more. No matter how much the man says “no” to all these questions, no matter how much he evades them, it accomplishes nothing; rather, this way the woman unknowingly makes the man remember that other woman even more, even if he had forgotten her! We see this play of female psychology in this film too, when Gelsomina frequently asks Zampanò—did Rosa do this, would she say that, how did she do this work, what did Zampanò do with Rosa, what didn’t he do, how did he do it—everything. These very curiosities of women seem to keep women womanly, and then one cannot help but love them. Of course there will be nagging in love, though this nagging isn’t as pronounced among men. But then, are men really behind when it comes to loving completely with everything they have? Is this indifference? Or detachment? Or apathy? Or an innate masculine reluctance toward incorporeal Platonic love? Well, that discussion doesn’t belong here.
In this film too, we see the same truth. Il Matto, another performer in the circus where Zampano and Gelsomina worked, who would often provoke Zampano on some pretext or another, is one day murdered by the hot-headed Zampano in a fit of rage. The irony lies in this: when Gelsomina, disgusted and despairing over Zampano’s abuse, his infatuation with other women, his physical violence, his indifference and many other matters, had decided to leave him, it was this very Il Matto who told her that nothing in this world happens without reason—she was with Zampano, let her remain so; she should never leave him. Though he himself loved Gelsomina and as a token of that love had removed the chain from his own neck and placed it around hers. Il Matto’s carefree, laughing way of living life simply would appeal even to those consumed with chasing careers. In Life is Beautiful, Bicycle Thieves, Children of Heaven, Amélie, Ikiru and several other such films, this manner of living life simply, without regret, is something to observe with wonder. That whimsical murder strikes Gelsomina’s mind like a severe blow. She could not forget this incident by any means, and kept talking about Il Matto again and again, unconsciously. Zampano leaves this mentally devastated, wounded woman sleeping by the roadside and goes away. He returns to his bohemian life once more. Years later, he hears a stranger singing a song whose tune he had taught Gelsomina. Speaking with that woman, he learns that after he had abandoned her, the helpless Gelsomina had found shelter in their home for some time, and later died. She had learned that song from Gelsomina. This news awakens old melodies and old memories in Zampano’s heart! Did the tune of Wordsworth’s Solitary Reaper move the poet in just such a way?
Zampano’s indifference, apathy and irritation toward all of Gelsomina’s emotions, feelings, expressions and sentimentality had once compelled her to think of leaving him. But when Zampano wants to leave her at someone’s house, by then she has fallen in love with him—so much so that she thinks, if she doesn’t stay with him, who will the man live with? (If I don’t live with you, who will?) We feel intense contempt for the material calculations of the man defeated by this eternal love of woman, when we see that the allure of an unfamiliar, apparently free life makes Zampano ponder like Kundera’s novel, abandoning his accustomed life—perhaps life lies elsewhere. We keep feeling that this is life’s ruthless defeat at the hands of livelihood! In the film’s final scene, we see the protagonist Anthony Quinn, having lost all of life’s music, collapse and weep by the seashore; before him lies a comfortable, meaningless, unbearable life. Has the director here given some indication of how an excessively careerist mentality sometimes renders life so lifeless and tragic?
Footnote. The Serbian band chose their group’s name ‘La Strada’ from this very film. Bob Dylan created his famous Mr. Tambourine Man under the influence of this film. This movie’s extraordinary heroine Giulietta Masina was director Fellini’s wife.
Thought: One hundred and ninety-eight.
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In childhood, on Mahalaya mornings, Ma would wake us very early. We would all gather to listen to the Mahalaya songs in Birendra Krishna Bhadra’s intoxicating voice. For over an hour and a quarter, the music would carry the advent invocation of Goddess Durga. The stirring and sanctity that those words and melodies created in the soul—that still happens. Childhood joys and feelings don’t change much. Some inner things never truly fade from body and mind. This is what makes us human. When someone attacks these depths, no matter how logical their assault, we simply cannot accept it. This is natural, eternal. So neither the extremes of militant faith attacking other religions, nor the pathology of militant atheism declaring all religion meaningless—we take none of this lightly, and never will. What I have carried all these years and lived well with—who are you to tell me I’ve been carrying something wrong and living wrongly? I’m not going to disturb your beliefs. The core message of all religions is the same: Live, let live. Departing from this reveals weakness and ignorance. A person is responsible for their actions, not their birth. Religion isn’t something one chooses through personal judgment after birth. When I’m judged by something for which I deserve neither credit nor blame, that judgment reveals thoughtlessness.
The Mahalaya music “Mahishasurmardini” that has been awakening our hearts and minds since 1937 on the gentle dawn of Mahalaya, swaying us in unbroken rhythm and melody—its composition and introduction were by Banikumar. The music was created by Pankaj Kumar Mallick. When this magnificent dawn song was first recited on All India Radio in 1932 in Birendra Krishna Bhadra’s arrangement, it was called “Sharad Bandana.”
“Today in the pre-dawn of Devi-paksha, the advent message of the luminous Mother of the Universe, Mahashakti, resonates through sky and air. May the sacred hymns of the Great Goddess awaken in the human world the wondrous inspiration of earthly bliss. Today in the autumnal skies, Goddess Dawn proclaims the auspicious moment of Mahashakti’s manifestation.”
Doesn’t listening to this somehow stir a strange old fondness? Don’t you feel as if those days have returned? This isn’t just music—it’s an emotion! This is part of the fabric of our growing up. In childhood, during Puja time, there was no school. Not having to study was always pure joy. Mahalaya music meant the beginning of days when we wouldn’t have to study! I still feel that old, authentic pull in my blood.
The gentleman’s emotion-drenched voice reaches its inaugural fulfillment in the welcoming invocation, followed by three thunderous blasts of the conch shell. Then we listen in infinite enchantment: “Your flute of light has sounded, the world is intoxicated…”
Ah! The entire body and soul seem to awaken completely!
This song too was written by Banikumar and set to music by Pankajkumar. Many of us perhaps do not know about Supriti Ghosh, who sang this song. She was one of the foremost artists of the twentieth century. Her contributions to modern songs, Rabindra Sangeet, and Nazrul Geeti are worthy of morning remembrance. But she has secured a permanent place in our feelings through Mahalaya’s “Your Flute of Light Has Sounded.” Hearing this song, from childhood to now, one feels: the festival has arrived! The festival has arrived!!
This feeling is so transcendent that it cannot be explained in writing. Then one feels that the most beautiful feeling in the world is “the festival has begun!” This feeling is worth a hundred thousand rupees!
On September 23, 1976, during the Emergency, an alternative program titled “Devi Durgatiharinim” was broadcast in place of “Mahishasurmardini” on the dawn of Mahalaya. It featured actor Uttam Kumar, singer Lata Mangeshkar, and various other distinguished personalities. Later, largely through Banikumar’s solitary efforts, our Mahalaya songs once again became part of our pride. Just as Emperor Shah Jahan has the Taj Mahal, Banikumar has Mahishasurmardini. Even when a movement arose claiming that Birendra Krishna Bhadra could not recite the essence of Markandeya’s seven hundred verses of Chandi or the Vedic and Tantric interpretations of the Great Power because he was not a Brahmin, Vaidyanath Bhattacharya—that is, Banikumar—firmly and decisively blocked it from the outset. He was a close friend of many famous personalities including Nazrul and Jarasandha. He was himself a good writer. His contributions to radio drama remain eternally memorable.
Though Birendra Krishna Bhadra enjoyed sky-high popularity as a narrator, radio dramatist, playwright, or stage actor, he is best known for being the reciter of “Mahishasurmardini” on radio and for providing commentary on Rabindranath Tagore’s funeral ceremony. The glory of Mahalaya lies in announcing the Goddess’s arrival at the end of the fortnight of ancestors. We bow in reverence during this autumnal moment to Birendra Krishna Bhadra, Pankaj Kumar Mullick, and Banikumar for establishing this moment as sacred in our hearts. Through the work and efforts of certain creative individuals, our subtle feelings have been gradually shaped since childhood. When something else is imposed upon these feelings, we face an existential crisis. One who has no existence has nothing to fear losing. They then declare rebellion. Therefore, there is really no such thing as the “best” opinion. The way people learn to live well, or rather, learn to live well before they even develop the wisdom to understand it—thus becoming habituated to it—when this is proven false or wrong, it becomes forced imposition, a silencing of voice. Lennon was undoubtedly a great artist. But how can I consider Hemanta, who has nurtured my heart, mind, and soul with utmost devotion since my childhood, lesser than Lennon? No logic in the world applies to the purity of feeling. Religious sentiment is among the purest feelings in the world.
Today is Mahalaya. Sacred conch shells resound and echo everywhere: The Goddess has arrived! The Goddess has arrived!!
Religion belongs to each individual, but festivals belong to everyone. Autumnal greetings to all. May everyone’s festival pass well.
(I wrote this piece on some Mahalaya dawn.)
Thought: One hundred and ninety-nine.
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“Will you take me with you, boatman?”
In these words lies woman’s eternal form. When you discuss Kapila’s character, highlight this aspect thoroughly. Look, Kapila is actually a very powerful female character in Bengali literature ………. blah blah blah ……….. I’ve forgotten Madam’s name. (I mean, I won’t say it.) We used to call her Kapila Madam. She would talk about Kapila constantly in class. Always talking about her, she herself had begun to look a bit Kapila-like after a while. I was very fond of Madam in those days. Just to please her, I had prepared notes on Kapila’s character analysis, digging through library books for quotations and references. (Though that question wasn’t “important” for the exam.) Seeing my notes, what a smile Madam had—and seeing that smile, how happy I was! Madam wasn’t beautiful, but she had something, you know. Friends from Chittagong College’s 2002 batch, those who still remember that dashing Physics teacher Rafika Madam (I mean, how could we forget!), do they not remember at all the mischievous glances of Kubera’s beloved Choplachahni?
A furious summer afternoon. Chittagong College gallery classroom. Second floor, I think. In one of those galleries where sitting by the window you could see the road between Chittagong College and Mohsin College, class was in session. That day, for quite some time, a very cute little mouse’s ear-twitching and scampering had completely derailed the lecture about my adolescent girlfriend(!) Kapila. In those days, we were of an age to do other things while sitting in class. Through the gaps in the leaves of the old banyan trees, people walked on the road, cars raced by. On the rusted brown grille of the window, some disgustingly large ants were fighting over a dry leaf. What was on that leaf, who knows! I was secretly chuckling because I had sneakily seen what the two boys in the bench in front of me had secretly written on paper to throw at the girls sitting in the front row. (Mobile phones weren’t common then. Even our fathers didn’t have mobiles. It probably cost 10 taka per minute to talk.) A girl (I won’t name her) had dressed up with dark orange lipstick. Everyone was teasing her, calling her “so-and-so’s wife.” We were in C section, that so-and-so was in another section. Sitting in the very last bench by the window at the top, I was watching all this as usual.
The white Milkvita vans would come and stop, and that day too one had stopped. Suddenly I saw a little girl running across the road, screaming. Near the rear wheel of the milk van, a crawling-age child was sitting with its mouth open toward the sky. Milk that had dried on the van’s body was probably dripping drop by drop through the low rod beside the wheel. That’s how it drips. The child was perhaps drinking it. Hidden behind the wheel, it wasn’t clearly visible. Of course, even if visible, those who don’t need to see—that child belonged to that society. The van was about to start, and the child was clapping happily right beside the wheel. If the wheel moved forward even a little, the child’s pointless existence would leave this earth and find refuge only in lines of poetry—that’s where the child was positioned. Seeing this, the little girl (her older sister perhaps?) had started running. Running through the middle of the road like that, one can’t run carefully.
The milk van wouldn’t start that day, and so the child lived. It wasn’t that the driver refused to start the van to save the child—he couldn’t even see him, so how could he have saved him? He too was among the crowd of onlookers gathered around the lifeless body of the little girl who had been flung aside by the impact of a yellow taxi. That day, I ran out of class to the street on the pretext of going to the bathroom. (If I had told the truth, Madam probably wouldn’t have let me go; besides, what business do respectable people have rushing to accidents involving these lowly folk? They’re still alive, haven’t died yet—that’s reason enough.) No, the girl hadn’t lost consciousness. Her leg was cut, blood spurting out in jets, and her hand seemed sprained too. Writhing in pain, she was looking for her brother. She knows that her very existence means nothing more than a little smile from that tiny child. Some people live only for another’s smile. A few people carried her to the medicine shop. (They could bandage her there.) Two inhuman creatures pocketed the loose coins and torn paper notes that had fallen from her hands; I saw them. Perhaps they aren’t actually inhuman—they’re just poorer. But then again, by what logic should such utterly helpless poor people remain human? They are indeed inhuman!
I ran back to class, grabbed my bag, and entered the next class saying “May I come in, sir.” The next class was Physics. I had a habit of reading ‘Gitabitan’ while sitting in class—I always kept it in my bag. With a couple of friends, I’d sit at Parade Corner and show off by reciting lines from Gitabitan by heart. Sometimes, to impress the girls in class, revered writers would come to some of our lips during Bengali class. (I realized later that girls aren’t impressed by this—rather, they think such boys are fools.) That day in Physics class, both Rabi Thakur and Mojammel Sir had failed before that street-sweeping beggar girl.
Three-two-nine…! Three-two-nine……!! That day no one said, “Present please!” Not because the boy with roll number 329 sat on the last bench with his face buried in his bag, his eyes wet with tears (for adolescents, like many other things, crying too is private—so they don’t cry for show), but because the boy who usually gave his proxy wasn’t in class that day.
Reflection: Two hundred.
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My birthday is November 2nd. Happily, Shah Rukh Khan was also born on that day. I like him. For some mysterious reason, God didn’t give me the natural talent for disliking great people. I am a person with the immense gift of blindly loving great people. Tendulkar could have made a little effort to be born on that day too. I would have liked that. November 2nd and April 24th are the same to me. So at least for my sake…
I don’t believe in astrology. My sense is that everyone reads horoscopes and picks and chooses—taking only what pleases them. Like this: “Romance is favourable,” that sort of thing. I do the same. I’ve noticed that on days when my romance is supposed to be favourable, I get scolded more by my boss. There might be some mystery to this that I don’t understand. I found it in Humayun Ahmed’s writing: “Though nature dislikes mystery, it loves creating mystery.” Quite right! Of course, if you don’t have a girlfriend, what else will you get but a boss’s scolding?
To survive in this world, you need someone to scold you too. Every girlfriend is somewhat like a boss. Tell me, do those who have girlfriends also get scolded by their girlfriends when romance is favourable?
(I’m genuinely hoping for answers in the comments.) A girlfriend’s scolding is better than a boss’s scolding. Whenever I see “romance favourable” in my horoscope, my heart starts pounding. According to my birth date, Western astrology says I’m a Scorpio. Oriental astrology says I’m Aquarius. My mother prefers to think of me as Aquarius (Kumbha).
What I do is look at both horoscopes. Then, using the rules of set theory in algebra, I take the intersection of the two and pick whatever seems good.
Not being able to take “romance is favourable” is a terribly painful thing. So I’m in pain—terrible pain.
I had decided to remember Kaosar Ahmed Chowdhury forever for that song “The Hour for Reading Poetry Has Come.” Those who write beautiful songs, compose melodies, and sing—I simply want to love them all; they always feel like my own. Whenever I see Ahmed Imtiaz Bulbul, I think how we received that exquisite melody of “Let’s Open All the Windows” because of him. Again, when I hear “Evening Has Come Again,” I feel a strange ache in my chest for Happy Akhond. Tell me, don’t some people remain unfree from others’ selfish expectations even in death? I keep thinking that if he had lived, perhaps we would have received something more. Only his own family remembers the person for the person himself. There’s something selfish in how the rest of us remember. What an honour it must be to become the object of such glorious selfishness! And I’m reminded of that inexorable line from R.K. Narayan’s “Under The Banyan Tree”: What is the use of the lamp when all its oil is gone? Such a deeply, deeply true thing to say!
I don’t read newspapers much. When I read the first issue of Prothom Alo on Saturdays, the first thing I eagerly turn to is Kawsar Ahmed Chowdhury’s weekly horoscope page in the weekend section. I do this for two reasons: out of affection for him and for the sense of humor in his writing. I’ve noticed that some of his words make me want to love them. Why this happens is hard to say. There’s no reason for wanting to love something—it just happens. But I can say with certainty that the credit for this affection goes not to the horoscopes he provides, but to his style of writing. I feel somewhat uncomfortable saying I don’t believe in horoscopes, because his horoscopes often align with my life. He follows Western astrology in his writing. Let me share one day’s entry that I particularly liked. For Scorpio he wrote: “An empty house and a house full of emptiness are not the same… just as being far away and being distant are not the same.” I liked it for two reasons. One: I simply liked it. Two: He wrote “The hour for reading poetry has arrived.”
For those who read Humayun Ahmed, here are two quiz questions: One: Which writing influenced his character Himu? I mean, after reading which book did he decide he would create Himu? Two: He had decided he would write poetry. It was our great fortune that another Humayun unknowingly diverted him from writing poetry and made him the storytelling Humayun instead. Who was that great benefactor?
Thought: Two hundred and one.
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“Gargi, can even such a fool become human?”
Did Binata know that like Gargi, she too would have to immerse her beloved Ram in the blood-river of her own heart? What strange offering this devotion of the heart yields!
This love too is somehow strange, isn’t it, sky? The purer it is, the more painful.
Today Binata is terribly, terribly, terribly alone—more alone than even the sky! That sky is so good—it gives space to the lonely in its breast, with infinite tenderness! Her friendship with the sky washes away much of her pain. Against that infinite sky of white silk, some divine magic plays and plays—from the very moment of that sky’s birth, even today in the same way! Everything about the sky intoxicates her; a kind of thrill keeps announcing in her heart, in her chest, in every pore—this one sky will never leave you. Hold onto it with all your might… Live like that! How comforting that life is! Just live and see!
Whatever else may be lost, this love will never be lost—Binata now knows. Whenever the transparent body of her eyes turns upward, the sky speaks with tremendous love: “Binata… Binata… Binata! You silly girl! Listen. You are not alone—I am here beside you! Look! Scatter all your blue sorrow into my blue. Give me your pain and fly, live fully! When you’re born, you must live! You’ve embraced me in such love—how can my beloved be alone again? Am I not here? I won’t be lost, I am here, I will remain as the eternal companion of your love! Keep faith! I love you too!”
Binota’s reassuring smile says,
“Is that so, mischievous sky? You won’t disappear from beside me? You know,
that day I was telling you about my beloved, wasn’t I?
We had so many dreams wrapped around you,
you know? Sometimes,
in that silvery light that escaped breaking through heaven’s doors, we two would drift together past rows of bamboo groves in some distant village, floating on country roads in the cricket-song of crickets, joy breaking all its dams to drench us, and we would sing blissfully to the wind’s melody…….
With the light of my eyes I had seen beyond my eyes. In my heart today I shall see,
when there is no light……
You’re laughing so much? Very well,
isn’t that so? Perhaps my voice is a little off-key,
but does that make my love off-key too, tell me?
Listen now, listen, and don’t laugh anymore, don’t laugh. Can you imagine, because my
beloved loved me, was he enchanted by my songs,
or because he was enchanted by my songs, did he love me—
I never investigated that, but
this much comes to mind: every day he would insist I sing for him!
I simply had to sing! The magic of my off-key seven notes seemed to carry him away to that distance…….far, far away,
where in the sacred gentle touch of two souls,
in the enchantment of love’s new bliss, thousands upon thousands of years pass by, yet
it feels as though just a single moment went by!
How precious that not-realizing is! Today, how many days have passed since I felt that joy, sky! I feel so terribly alone, it’s so very hard to swallow these lumps of tears!
I am so weary…….this ‘I’ gets dragged and pulled toward an inexorable death, very close,
quite close indeed—who pulls,
why they pull,
how they pull—I’ve given up seeking those answers too, that was long ago. Listen now, on some day, silence had touched us. That day,
on that endless green carpet
my beloved held me wrapped in supreme tenderness. Infinite eternity fell face-first before the briefest moment. Do you remember,
that day when we melted into one, drenched in your moonlight?
What a feeling that was! So intense! So clear! You know, sky, in this story of my blissful not-having, two bright little fairies would flutter about—the elder sister Attainment, and younger sister Expectation. Those two sisters were growing little by little in that sparkling kingdom of my imagination. Even now, they love me dearly,
they protect me,
they float my sorrow away on distant winds and fly it away with tinkling laughter—and I think,
such truth,
what else is there? In this enchantment, what joy, what joy—if only you could understand!
Tell me, sky,
isn’t it true that hearts break like pieces of glass!—do they really?
The person who creates glass,
how helpless is that very person before such riddles of glass!
Can you imagine?
A piece of glass remains just a fragment,
so do pieces of the heart remain the same?
Have love,
affection, trust become so fragile that like glass they shatter everything to pieces and return their creator empty-handed? When tenderness enters a person, it’s great danger, sky!
It can’t be removed,
can’t be erased. That tenderness grows and grows,
and in time becomes larger than the mind, more rebellious than the heart,
spreads wider than empires. Tell me, sky,
when those two little fairies grow up and overwhelm me with a thousand questions,
what will I do then?
I know nothing at all!
I just keep offering in sacrifice all my living dreams. What anguish there is in the immersion of Goddess Durga—
does anyone but that devotee understand?
They don’t understand, they don’t understand.
So their eyes can effortlessly make even a barren desert vanish with a single breath. They see,
a clay doll floating,
drifting away,
about to sink any moment—that’s all!
And they understand nothing more,
never think deeper. That little glimpse is enough for them to survive!
Listen, O sky,
won’t you give us a little rain? I feel such shame showing my tears! I can no longer chain myself with these tears!
What agony!
Such anguish!
Give us rain, please!
Let yourself weep!
I promise you,
you won’t have to fall alone—this friend will companion your tears with that old faithfulness. My heart has grown so heavy!
For a while I’ll scream and weep torrentially. I want to feel light, to float like a bird’s feather,
to sway like silken hair.—I can’t bear it anymore!
Today, embracing your rain-body, let me surrender some more dreams that lie written in the ledger of the unattained…….”
“Dear Gargi, yes indeed,
Man becomes an ass!”
Reflection: Two hundred and two.
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“………..Of all my writings that people have stolen and passed off as their own, this piece has been plagiarized the most. Among these petty thieves are university professors, private TV channel directors, and even certificate-obsessed dunces of the highest order.”
For those distinguished gentlemen who have been somewhat ‘offended’ by my mention of ‘university professors,’ a few words:
One. You can certainly copy someone else’s writing and share it on your wall. This is good work. It will benefit many of those who follow your posts. So then, sir, you surely know the name of the person whose writing you’re sharing, don’t you? Then why the need to share it marked as ‘collected’? Would it really be so difficult to write their name? Or does this fear work on you—that some of your friends and followers might migrate to their fold! When someone comments on that writing, wouldn’t it be better not to give the impression that ‘the writing is your own’? No matter what your own child looks like, there’s pride in raising them up. Your child, your pride. You’re taking credit by passing off someone else’s writing as your own—later, when the poor soul who commented expects another good piece from you, won’t you find yourself in trouble? Or will you hunt for someone new to copy-paste from again? An ass births an ass’s offspring, not a lion cub. First become a lion, then roar. Why invite this trouble home before that?
Two. I’m not willing to discuss the pain of plagiarism or engage in any kind of argument with those who cannot write. How can a man who is impotent understand the love for his own child? He lacks the very capacity to give birth to a child!
Three. I am not a writer; at best, I birth Facebook statuses. Therefore, a writer’s magnanimity is absent in me. I have enough time on my hands to be petty and base, because unlike a great writer’s work, not many people copy my writings. A couple do their copying, and I start screaming like a small-minded person. I know I’m small-minded. So, great soul, why do you steal the writings of small people?
Four. If even a Harvard professor steals or attempts to steal some creation of an uneducated village shepherd, hiding that poor shepherd’s name, what else can that unfortunate shepherd call the esteemed Harvard professor when venting his anger? One must call a Harvard professor a Harvard professor, mustn’t one? If someone calls a Harvard professor a plagiarist, only those who themselves harbor plagiaristic tendencies will voluntarily drag it into their own basket and take offense. Some time ago, some writings of the revered writer Humayun Azad were accused of plagiarism with evidence. This certainly didn’t cause the entire literary community’s honor to crumble into dust.
I’ve rambled on too much. Let me speak briefly now. I’m a terribly foul-mouthed sort of person. If you steal this fool’s writing without attribution and get caught, I promise you—this wretch will immediately set about rescuing your entire lineage. A thief has no high or low caste. A thief belongs to only one caste: thief. Either share my writing with my name mentioned, or try writing something yourself. Thank you.
Brother, I too am an academic plagiarist. By Google Uncle’s grace and kindness, I too completed my honors and master’s just like you. But I never entertained the thought of passing off Rabindranath’s poetry as my own to ‘woo’ my beloved into love. Have I ever been generous enough to share my beloved’s right to kiss with that old man? If I cannot do that, then why this momentary foolish self-satisfaction? Learn to kiss your own beloved with your own lips! Isn’t it more glorious to earn the ability to buy your own car rather than falsely claiming the driver’s car as your own to ‘manage’ your sweetheart? A life adorned with lies is such a fragile life!
Say NO to non-academic plagiarism!!
(Once upon a time, I used to get very angry when someone stole my writing. This is a post from that period. I don’t get angry anymore. Anyone can steal any of my writing as they please and pass it off under their own name. No problem!)
Thought: Two hundred and three.
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What’s the bill?
65 taka.
He pulled out some loose change and many torn, small paper notes from his pocket. As he counted out 65 taka to hand to the footpath vendor, the joy and satisfied pride I saw in that 10-11 year old child’s eyes and face clearly showed how remarkably similar our feelings of laughter and tears are. How much difference is there between that day’s footpath party and a birthday party at the Westin? Here, the meaning of money becomes utterly meaningless. Simply becoming happy is such a tremendous thing. Oh! How wonderful it feels to be happy!
So many people don’t get the chance to see their next birthday. If I too had been among them, what would really have changed in the world? I lived one more year—that itself is a bonus! There’s joy in being alive. Joy in happiness, joy in suffering. One who hasn’t suffered doesn’t understand the meaning of happiness. Doesn’t even keep track of it.
Just the other day. The widowed woman who sweeps our office veranda cooked exquisite rice pudding for all of us on her only son’s birthday. Before this, I didn’t even know her name. I was content just dirtying the clean veranda all this time. Yet because she fed us pudding, I even asked for her permanent address! Shame! How base I am! I reflected—the price she paid for this pudding with her heart, could a Dutch-Bangla Bank ATM booth ever pay such a price? How could it? Where would it find space to hold so much?
Let me return to that tiny child’s story. I was left speechless that day by her sense of self-respect. Standing at a distance, I watched as she asked her street-child friends if they wanted anything more to eat, even after being given half a glass of milk and bread. I had never before seen half-past-eight on a new moon night glow so brilliantly.
I couldn’t finish my coffee that day. Not because my own salty tears had fallen unknowingly into the cup—I simply don’t drink cold coffee.