Two professions command my boundless, unquestioning reverence and love: teachers and doctors.
Pay doctors too little, and they will heal less. Pay teachers too little, and progress will be stunted. These two truths I have always held as articles of faith.
The more helpless teachers are in a country, the less developed that nation becomes. In many countries, teachers’ salaries exceed those of other professionals. There, a culture of sincerity and accountability among educators has long been established. In our country, the difference between teachers and beggars—two classes of professionals—is at most etymological: the suffixes “ok” and “uk.” This is a deep shame for us. That no one will be eager to serve properly without proper respect is hardly something that needs explaining. I cherish a quote from Lee Kuan Yew, the founder of modern Singapore: “If you pay peanuts, you will get monkeys for your Ministers.” Unfortunately, we in our country grow up with the mentality of seeking service from our ancestral monkeys. As a result, when we grow up, we return to our former birth. Remarkably, our transmigration works in reverse: a regression from human offspring back to apes.
In our country, teachers’ dedication to their work has never been properly cultivated. It is true that work outside their primary duty—teaching—is also work, and undoubtedly good work. It is equally true that when a son neglects serving his parents while constantly devoting himself to serving his in-laws, even a fool understands his ulterior motives. But since the culture of shirking primary responsibilities has long received tacit approval in our country, no one considers it particularly reprehensible. The resulting problem is this: when a teacher regularly teaches in class—though this is their duty—students perceive it as their special virtue. When they receive the service that is rightfully theirs, if they mistake it for a special favor, it should come as no surprise that after graduating, they too will internalize such a culture and serve accordingly. A nation that cannot teach its children the difference between rights and favors becomes corrupted across various spheres.
Translate into English:
The patient died before the doctor arrived.
The patient died after the doctor arrived.
Didn’t we all learn to translate these two sentences in childhood? The purpose was primarily to teach us that “had” comes before “before” and after “after,” followed by the past participle form of the verb. But I wonder—couldn’t similar sentences have been taught instead? For instance: “The cat fled before/after the dog arrived.” Nothing of that sort was taught. Those who first planned to teach translation with such sentences must have had it in their subconscious, I presume, that there is some connection between human death and doctors. Modern dying patients, without medical care, rarely survive long on divine intervention alone.
Of course, whenever I think about the relationship between doctors and patients these days, the Tom and Jerry cartoon invariably comes to mind unbidden. I won’t delve into why this happens, out of gratitude for the fact that, in reality, people don’t understand what medical care truly means until they themselves or someone close to them falls ill. Someone who struggles to breathe and fights for life—isn’t it better to occasionally hold them underwater? Isn’t that right?
That’s why doctors sometimes voluntarily go on hunger strikes, observing work stoppages. I see nothing wrong with this. Sometimes one must raise one’s voice to secure rights. But the doctor who denies medical care to someone forced to fast daily due to poverty—whether for personal gain or mere whim—even if such a doctor fasts not just for one day but day after day, it matters nothing to us. Of course, such doctors don’t need to go on hunger strikes. They too have their community; but it’s a weak community. In a community where individuals become powerful before they unite as a group, there’s generally little solidarity.
Studying medicine is quite difficult. Getting admission is even harder. Who studies medicine? Those who come first or second in school and college, who achieve good results—they do, don’t they? What does this mean? Doctors are generally the country’s brightest students. However, if parents considered the profound disillusionment doctors face after graduating, many wouldn’t send their children to study medicine. In our country, the BCS Health Cadre remains one of the most neglected cadres. If people knew beforehand the conditions under which doctors must work, many wouldn’t join the BCS Health Cadre. Of course, considering doctors’ intellect and the ‘competition’ in BCS Health Cadre, one can certainly say that a doctor candidate who can qualify for BCS preliminary but doesn’t get the job is a rare species. There may well be differing opinions about this. I myself have seen my double-standard doctor uncle successfully fail in the BCS Health Cadre twice despite taking the BCS exam twice. So I won’t enter that debate, but now I feel like contemplating—that day isn’t far when we’ll no longer see doctors who are alumni of the country’s finest institution, Dhaka Medical College, passing BCS preliminary exams just on the strength of basics, waking up and taking the exam without much preparation. On that day, teachers will only teach students one translation: The patient died because the doctor arrived.
Why did I mention Dhaka Medical College? Because even now, getting admission there is the most difficult among medical colleges. I mention ‘Dhaka Medical College’ only to illustrate difficulty levels, nothing more. Now, those reading my piece—hasn’t the word ‘even now’ started causing confusion? It should! Even as I wrote, I felt strong internal objections. Why? ………… I’ll tell you.
After the allegation that medical admission exams were conducted with leaked questions became firmly embedded as ‘proven truth’ in everyone’s minds, I received at least a hundred messages and calls about this matter, almost all from innocent younger siblings like yours and mine. Reading their messages evokes a certain helplessness. ………… What kind?
Let me tell you about a message I received. It contained a boy’s profile link and some ‘objectionable’ photos, which convinced me beyond doubt that this eunuch-shaped intellectual donkey would surely grow up to become a barbaric ‘doctor.’ He’s among the top 20 in the national merit list and is waiting to study at Dhaka Medical. I looked at some of his wall posts. This boy who can’t even write properly in Bengali or English—by any stretch of the imagination (if I said the doctor saheb ‘can’t write,’ he might slap me with a defamation case! The ‘unearned sense of honor’ of the incompetent can be quite fierce)—how he managed such results doesn’t require a NASA researcher to figure out. There are many more such examples. These very students from this batch will one day perform open-heart surgery on you, me, or someone we love, and will ‘accidentally’ leave a scalpel or scissors carefully tucked inside the heart before stitching it up.
I’m not saying everyone in this batch is incompetent. I’m saying a flawed examination system calls into question the merit of all successful candidates. Recently, the preliminary and written exams for the 35th BCS concluded. Due to the government’s strictness and sincerity in the recruitment process, candidates took their exams through a very fair and transparent procedure. If the viva exams are conducted in the same manner, we believe that those who become cadres in the 35th BCS will certainly not have empty heads. Very few will become cadres like “herons dying in storms.” But for those who will become doctors through the recent medical admission exams—forget about paying fees to see them; even if they provided free board and lodging for patients, time will tell which brave, miserly patients would dare to accept treatment from them. Now people from our country rush to India even for headaches; by then they’ll surely rush to India even for hair aches—and rightly so!
One day at PATC, a retired secretary of the Government of the People’s Republic of Bangladesh said something quite remarkable in class: The biggest disadvantage of government service is that you can’t abuse the government at will. If we can’t even abuse the government, what’s the point of being a citizen?… After many days, for some reason, the sir’s words suddenly came back to me from deep anger and resentment.
Reflection: One hundred thirty-five.
……………………………………..
: Brother, I had something to say.
: Go away and die. Don’t bother me.
: Brother, it’s actually urgent. Urgent for you.
: Spit it out.
: I’ve stopped looking for a girl for you.
: Oh.
: No brother, I’m serious.
: When did you start looking?
: Brother, I really was. I swear to God.
: Very good of you. Now go soak some puffed rice in Sprite and eat it. I’m writing. Get lost.
: Listen, bhaiya,
my sixth sense is telling me,
you’re never going to get married in this lifetime.
: Boys don’t “get married,” fool,
boys “marry.”
: Oh
I see, like that!
No one’s going to marry you,
bhaiya. This is absolutely true. You’ll see.
: Why?
What’s wrong?
: Everyone I tell about you
says the same thing—
that you apparently belong to this entire world. No one has the right to make you their personal property.
: I see. You don’t need to look for girls for me anymore.
: Bhaiya, bhaiya, listen, listen—if you get married, how many people will be heartbroken! Breaking people’s hearts is a sin,
bhaiya.
: You never do any work when I give you something to do. You’re just good for nothing. Stop bothering me. I’ve figured out exactly how far you’ll go.
: Hey!
I’m telling you!
You just want to flatter people into doing your work!
: How am I flattering you?
: Why?
Just because I like your writing, you tell me to copy all your manuscripts. If someone compliments your hair, do you ask them to count each strand? Do your own work!
: Shut up, you cheeky thing! You’ll get slapped! You don’t have to do anything.
: Thank you, bhaiya!
I was telling one of my beautiful friends about you. Well,
I’ll just say no to her. What else can I do! Hehe……….
(If you had a little sister like this, wouldn’t you want to just pick her up and give her a good shake morning and evening?
Little sisters are all menaces to the world!! The cuter they are,
the bigger menaces they become.)
Reflection: One hundred thirty-six.
……………………………………..
Those of us who stay busy like ghosts for the other five days of the week—you can’t say anything to us on our two days off. Like this………
Do you really need to sleep this long?
You could at least clean your room a little.
What would happen if you organized your clothes a bit?
There’s dust all over the computer table,
don’t you see?
Little household chores are also work,
aren’t they?
Go get this from the market, bring that back.
What do you do sitting at the computer all day? Doesn’t your back hurt!
Will it do to just watch movies all day?
What’s the point of reading so many books?
What have you accomplished in life?
No work at all, just listening to music!
Why are you lying around all day?
Go on, have a bath and come back—won’t you eat? Bathing whenever you feel like it,
what kind of bad habit is this?
Nothing has any proper schedule, why is it like this?
Every holiday just going off on trips, right?
Don’t you have any work?
Every evening off to some program. Look, the great cultural activist has arrived! What pretense!!
(What am I supposed to do if I don’t go out—sit at home and lay enormous horse eggs?)
When will you get a haircut? Trying to be Devdas?
Such a loafer! Blah blah blah
. . . . . .
And so much more like this!!
Dear struggling brothers
and sisters, come, let us stand together against this limitless injustice-oppression-tyranny of the masses. Right now!
Come, let us sing the praises of idleness. Before time runs out, let’s live a little in life,
in our own way. (I mean, at least let’s not be lazy about standing up for ourselves, how about that?)
Thought: One hundred and thirty-seven.
……………………………………..
I don’t like it when my inbox is filled only with talk about BCS and careers. It’s extremely annoying!! What’s the need to be my friend just to know about BCS and careers?
All my content is public anyway!
What’s the harm in taking a little trouble to read it? And is it written in some law book that being on the friend list of someone who topped the BCS exam will automatically make you a BCS cadre? I never even looked at any civil servant before I got my job. So what?
Did I not get a job? Did I not become a civil servant? If someone constantly bothered you about careers,
how would you feel—please think about it?
Within my modest abilities, I do as much as I can, don’t I? I actually prefer writing other kinds of things rather than motivational pieces. Those are dearer to me. Still, I write them, don’t I?
Do I now have to recommend guidebook names too? Some people even write harsh words and behave rudely. Why do you do this,
brother? Don’t you feel even a little compassion when you see me? (Crying emoji here!)
Believe me,
I’m also a human being!! My day is also 24 hours long. Public service isn’t my only job! I also have to listen to music, watch movies,
read books, flirt with beautiful women. When I see a beautiful woman’s “hi-hello” in my inbox, I too jump up with joy, just like you!
I secretly sneak into beautiful women’s profiles and look at their photos, and get crushes that are totally devastating! You do it too,
don’t you? If you don’t, see a doctor—quickly!
Why should your message be as important to me as it is to you? Still, I reply, don’t I?
Because of one silly message from you, someone else’s very important message gets pushed down after 100 messages. And I don’t even notice it. Tell me, is this right?
This is my personal profile,
not a BCS factory. I’m just an ordinary Facebook user, I’m certainly not some motivational chicken that will keep laying motivational eggs all the time.
At Facebook’s inaugural ceremony, Rabindranath Tagore lamented in his keynote address: “Alas, who in this world wishes to be a beauty’s brother?!”
I too wish
that no beauty on earth
would call me ‘brother.’ Dear beautiful women, don’t you have fathers and brothers at home?
Then why must you go dying in search of brothers outside?
Beautiful women have no hearts in their chests as it is,
and on top of that, if they keep saying ‘brother, brother’ all the time, how does that feel, tell me? You think the same way too,
don’t you? Or am I wrong? Because I can never be a hypocrite, I’ve missed out on many earthly pleasures
that I too could have had.
I say directly what I have to say. I kick hypocrites and push them far away. Why should everyone need to pretend to get by in this world?
To me, the most obscene curse word in the world is: hypocrite! Better to be a scoundrel than to
be a hypocrite! Please don’t come to me thinking I’m something I’m not. I’m telling you the truth—
you’ll be disappointed!
I’m not some saintly type. Deep down I’m ‘wicked as truth itself,’ absolutely primitive! My biological feelings are exactly like yours. I too grew up with childhood experiences like standing very cautiously over a hundred-taka note lying on the street, making sure ‘no one sees me pick it up’
and appropriating it when convenient. I too need the bathroom. When I’m in a bad mood, I too feel like breaking things. I feel like punching certain people in the nose,
or at the very least calling them ‘son of a pig’
in anger. I’m not an alien,
brother. Like you, I too get angry,
I too hurt. Just because I stay smiling doesn’t mean I’m very happy. Perhaps the person who can smile most beautifully in the world is the saddest person in the world. The one who cheers everyone up often has a very heavy heart. You’ll never know this. At day’s end, the child seems right…….actually, no one is happy.
Thought: One hundred and thirty-eight.
……………………………………..
Humayun Ahmed once went to see a skin specialist. I’ll tell that day’s story in his own words:
About fifty patients are sitting there. My number is fifty-one. I’m sitting there, just sitting. Feeling a bit embarrassed too. Because the doctor’s huge signboard says—Dermatologist and Venereologist. I keep thinking
everyone probably assumes I’m a patient of the latter disease.
Brother, tell me,
who else besides Humayun Ahmed could have written this? Who else in our country has ever been able to write like this—
show me. To those who prefer to forget Humayun the writer and dance around Humayun, Shaon’s husband, I say: if you’re feeling too itchy, either apply Pevisone where needed,
or you’re given a thousand and one Arabian nights to write a masterpiece like the Nandita Naroke that Humayun wrote in one night. Try writing even one line! Frivolous itch-mongers!
There was a time when Bangladeshi people only read West Bengal’s Sunil-Samaresh-Shirshendu. Humayun brought home readers back home. When told that Humayun increased the number of readers in Bangladesh, he jokingly replied—
Another misconception is often voiced about me. They say I have increased the readership of books. But I haven’t increased readership. If I had increased readership, everyone’s books would sell better. I have only increased my own readership. If I had truly increased readership, then all books would see higher sales.
Indeed!
Our readers read Humayun Ahmed’s books more than they read books in general. The Japanese read Haruki Murakami’s books more than they read books generally. When one writer called Humayun Ahmed a cheap, commercial writer, I heard a publisher respond on a talk show: “Brother, it’s precisely because I publish Humayun Ahmed’s books that I can cover the losses from publishing books by writers like you. Otherwise, I wouldn’t dare to publish books by writers like you at all.” I say the same thing—for many years now, we’ve watched Sakib play cricket more than we’ve watched Bangladesh play cricket. Our good fortune is that Sakib is our country’s son.
Right now we desperately need at least one brilliant writer like Humayun and a few more audacious players like Sakib.
Let me return to the old saying that I believe with all my heart and soul:
Though my guru frequents the tavern,
Still my guru is Nityananda Roy.
These two lines are quite famous. Many have read Ahmed Sofa’s “Though My Guru.” But who actually wrote these lines? I quote from the Anandabazar Patrika:
‘Though my guru frequents the tavern/ Still my guru is Nityananda Roy.’ With these two quoted lines, that mythology is dedicated to the ‘post-drunkards.’ The author is Gora Ray. This seemingly unknown vagabond writer has playfully engaged in deep theoretical discussions about liquor through his various tales from home and abroad. The name of that remarkable book about bottles is not ‘Bottle’ but ‘The Chronicles of the Quart’ (Bibhab). In the preface, the author writes about himself: ‘Gora Ray was born in the Treta Yuga. Acquiring knowledge in various subjects outside formal education and distributing it free of charge is his life’s purpose… Earth-traveler Gora seeks to prove that three-fourths of the world is water.’ And to prove this, Gora has composed an extraordinary aquatic mirror. Finally, from wheat beer to Scottish ale, various beverages and snack-facts are included as annotations. Is Radhaprasad Gupta alias Shantulbabu’s worthy successor finally liberated from the bottle? Accompanying this is the book’s cover. Using a fresco from the roof of a tavern in Alicante, Spain, along with various beer company labels, advertisements, and beer-related cartoons, Saumyen Pal has crafted the cover.
In the twenty-fourth chapter of the revered Sri Sri Ramakrishna Kathamrita, titled ‘Father is dharma, father is heaven, father is the supreme penance,’ we find—
[Worshipping the guru as one’s chosen deity — abandoning the guru is forbidden even if his character is flawed]
Girindra — Sir! What if parents commit some grave offense, some terrible sin?
Sri Ramakrishna — Even so. You mustn’t abandon your mother even if she is unchaste. When certain gentlemen suggested making their guru’s son the new guru because the guru’s wife’s character had been compromised, I said, “What’s this! Would you leave him and take his disciple? So what if she’s fallen? You know him as your chosen deity. ‘Though my guru frequents the tavern, still my guru is Nityananda Roy.’”
In other words, those two lines belong to Sri Ramakrishna. They have been used in various contexts since. Even if one lacks good character, abandoning one’s guru is forbidden—what profound wisdom! That’s why we see how disciple Sunil Gangopadhyay remained day after day at the feet of his alcoholic guru Kamal Kumar Majumdar. Better the company of a learned person of bad character than a fool of good character.
Let me end with a quiz: Can anyone tell me the name of that snobbish writer from the talk show?
Reflection: One hundred thirty-nine.
……………………………………..
Brothers, let me give you
some free advice on ‘winning over women’—
it might come in handy.
If you want women’s attention, the less you envy others, the better. If you can avoid it altogether, even better. In my limited experience, I’ve observed that women don’t like jealous men. This isn’t because women dislike jealousy itself; rather, it’s because jealousy is an entirely feminine trait. A man who envies less trusts in his own abilities. Women prefer confident, magnanimous men. Such men are generally mentally strong and possess powerful self-confidence. Only he who has received respect himself, or has the capacity to earn it, can respect others. To envy others means believing in one’s heart that one cannot accomplish the task oneself; this diminishes love and respect for oneself. One who doesn’t know how to respect himself cannot grasp where others deserve respect. A boy or girl who never came first or second in school or college surely cannot tolerate those who do achieve such ranks. This intolerance gradually seeps into their blood. When they cannot tolerate and display sick jealousy, everyone around them understands that they are weak people. Women are intelligent; they certainly understand! From civilization’s earliest dawn until now, women have never liked weak men. Why would a woman go to someone from whom she won’t find security? One who cannot tolerate others’ happiness surely lacks security himself. Which woman would love such a spineless boy? At most, one can pity him, not love him. Only those who lack the strength to stand up bark and howl while crawling before or behind those who do stand tall. Only those who lack the ability to fight like lions howl like dogs. Which woman would want to love a boy with such canine nature? How can a boy who cannot stand on his own feet guarantee to help another stand? One whose days pass in jealousy is self-satisfied with his own weakness. How can one who cannot conquer his own weakness face the world? Women, though it may take time, eventually see through such deceptions.
I say again: just as women won’t like you if you roam around wearing women’s salwar-kameez, they also won’t like you if you live with ‘women’s jealousy’ in your heart. To me, a boy who envies others’ good fortune seems like a helpless woman wearing bangles. (I’m not saying all women are helpless bangle-wearers.) Every man afflicted with sick jealousy is weak; therefore, an object of women’s pity.
Reflection: One hundred forty.
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: So many of your words are exactly my own thoughts—why do you write them down? And if you must write, why tell everyone?
Let some pain remain mine alone!
You must stop giving these to everyone from now on. Why do you give away my words to others? By what right?
: What are you saying?
Why would I speak of your pain? I write about my own feelings.
: Your feelings? If you take away even the sensations of my suffering,
what will I live with? A person must live with something or other. Otherwise one dies. Let me at least live with my pain. Everyone has taken everything from me. Alas!
Don’t I even have the right to keep my sorrow?
: If my words have caused you pain, please forgive me.
(I fell into thought—what has become of me lately?
These days I can’t give anything to anyone,
yet I keep inflicting pain with careful precision. Raw, festering pain the color of deep blue. One can live to receive pain,
but can one live to give it?)
: No,
you’re not at fault. No one gave me anything; at least you gave me this pain. Better to receive pain than to receive nothing at all. I feel pain when I hear good words, I feel pain when I hear bad words;
so much pain
that now I don’t even want to cry anymore. When I can’t cry, the pain grows worse,
keeps growing.
Having said this, the girl began to weep freely. Nature is so cruel—
those whom sadness doesn’t suit at all,
she burdens with all the world’s sorrows. In that moment I couldn’t quite understand what words might lessen human suffering. I couldn’t bear it, yet I could do nothing for her;
I remained utterly still and mute. Sometimes such moments come
when being held close by someone dear brings more peace than the most beautiful language in the world. When emptiness clings to every part of thought, when you reach out but no one comes to take your hand, that’s when the tears come. Yet still you don’t want to cry. Perhaps tears whose death is meaningless
are born already dried.
It’s actually with our closest ones,
our dearest,
our beloved that we treat most badly with the greatest ease. We preserve their existence with such tremendous neglect. They keep us always wrapped in such a vast ocean of love that we complacently assume its waters will never run dry. In exchange for their one sea of pure love, we seem to return to them one sky of solid suffering, and keep on giving it.
Since nothing exists in the invisible,
all visible relationships there are void, fragile,
utterly meaningless. The accounts of such hollow relationships remain hollow to the end. When a relationship is built entirely of lies from beginning to end,
neither of the two entangled in it gives the other anything real; no one understands this better than they do themselves.
They never send each other even a single ‘dot’, never accidentally sigh for one another. The two of them keep looking at each other, yet neither truly sees; they keep talking, yet no real words pass between them. Is this too life?
Through the entire expanse of their two existences, only one refrain circulates endlessly from one to the other—how much longer!
Sustained by these two words alone, how many times they have died, keep dying—this count only the two of them know. And no one else ever will.
One can survive many storms, but when the very foundation on which a person stands begins to shift……
Anger rises; sometimes pain. Some live on anger, some live on pain, some live on ragony.
P.S. Rage + agony = ragony. Just coined it.