Reflection: Fifteen.
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These days pass by—like murders. Inside me, I am becoming, fiercely, nothing but ‘I’ with each passing day. The others appear as either unwelcome or alien most of the time. Those who were close—I erase them with every passing moment. Even murderers aren’t this ruthless. Each day I kill someone dear to me, and just as often, I slip suddenly into one of them. Sometimes, not directly, but by detours—because some people are so good at pushing you away that I lose the courage to approach them directly. Through the familiar-unfamiliar streets of distant lands, I wander absent-mindedly. Walking on unfamiliar streets makes me feel so light! I walk swinging my arms and legs, swaying. Stopping before shop windows, I make faces at the mannequins. When I’m about to speak with a stranger, an infinite lack of inhibition possesses my body and mind. With some people, I even want to lose myself completely! In idle leisure, or between work, when I remember how long it’s been since I’ve seen my loved ones, my heart cries out in pain. Then the very next moment, I laugh thinking that they’re better off in exchange for my suffering. How many small and large incidents of this expatriate life I hide from them, afraid they’ll be hurt. Then I’m also afraid that perhaps they too don’t tell me so many things, afraid I’ll suffer in this distant land. How much weeping gets hidden behind skillful performances of laughter. I understand everything, they understand everything too. Yet both sides believe and become happy—thinking no mistake was made in the performance. In foreign lands, only work and more work. After the day’s labor, returning home, no beloved face meets the eye to ease the fatigue. Nothing is sadder than returning home with no one to ask, “Why do you look so tired?” Still, one must live—for oneself, for the dear ones left behind in the homeland. Only tears carefully put me to sleep. In this exile, no one else comes to lovingly stroke my head—tears are therefore more faithful than the best friend. Sometimes in dreams, father comes and lovingly places his hand on my head saying, “It’s not too hard, is it, my child?” I wake with a start. Burying my face in the pillow, I cry out “Baba, Baba” and weep. From somewhere, little sister seems to come beside me, takes my hand and says, “Brother, sleep. You have to get up early tomorrow!” I can’t say anything, just stare blankly at her. Here, even if I want to, my desires can’t breathe freely. Someone keeps shackling my heart, my eyes, my wishes moment by moment! Dependence is such a terrible thing! Paris’s glitter, modernity, luxury—I can only feast my eyes on them, not enjoy them—where’s the money for that? If I were to live well by throwing money to the wind as I please, how would those looking toward me survive? I’ve gradually learned to strangle even the desire for enjoyment. I haven’t eaten mother’s home cooking for so long! Mother cooks thick lentil curry so well, with sister’s ghee-fried eggplant. Ah, if I could have just a little! When I sit to eat, I just somehow swallow the food down. The distinct flavors of different foods—I no longer get those. It’s been so long since I’ve sat chatting with many beloved people together! Old friends seem like—the world’s finest people, I want to touch even the poor streets of my own city again and again. Crying until my chest aches, after the day’s labor my body often refuses to move. Dragging, pulling, I force my body along, make it work, convince it—I didn’t come here to sit idle.
Illness tries to settle in suddenly, and I stir restlessly—no, no, whatever it takes, I must stay healthy—if not for myself, then for my loved ones back home. How they depend on me with such faith. Besides, who would care for me if I fell sick in this foreign land? The extra expense of doctors—that’s no small matter either. Where would I find that additional money? I simply must stay well! Before delivering things to the courier office, I touch the luggage-filled belongings a little extra—knowing that thinking of my touch, they will caress these items again and again back home. I too will imagine I’m touching their hands when they return. When mother kisses the phone affectionately each time before hanging up, all distance surrenders to my feelings, falls flat on its face. I feel—there she is! Mother is showering me with love, her eyes dancing as she gazes at me. One can live each day for such intimate touch. The things I’ve bought for mother, I set aside separately and kiss them repeatedly, touch them to my eyes. While shopping, suddenly seeing some girl, she reminds me of my beloved little sister. I want to spend every euro in my wallet to buy her many things. I wonder, does she play the harmonica? If I bought one, would she take it? Lost in such thoughts, in the blur of tears and crowd of people, the girl disappears somewhere. The pain-soaked days of exile end in the silence of tearful lonely nights. Thinking of so many such things, I find myself gasping for breath. I can’t bear it anymore! My eyes truly well up with tears…
Quickly I return to myself. I take a deep breath. I am not there, this me is here! This me is quite well!—it feels wonderful to remember this. There is a kind of infinite joy in becoming someone else, in wandering through their life. Each person’s life has its own flavor. The varied textures of different lives take on different colors at different times. When living in one’s own life becomes breathless and exhausting, can’t one take a little stroll through another’s life? I’m not troubling anyone! What profit there is in this! Different countries, different times, different contexts, different events, different lives—in all of these I can remain in my own way, by my own rules, for as long as I wish! If I ever feel I’m getting too much happiness—even then I enjoy taking a quick peek into hell. These days I don’t get bored anymore! The mind’s travels require no passport, no permissions, no ticket costs, no worries about lodging and meals—just go wherever you please—you only need the desire. I go, I return—when and however I wish.
Thought: Sixteen.
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If there were a ‘he’, I would say—
“Hello! Listen, I’m not in the mood to cook today…….could you bring something home?”
If he were in a good mood, he’d say—
“Oh dear! By the time I get there it’ll be past evening. You can’t go without eating all this time!?”
And if he were in a bad mood, he’d say—
“When do you ever feel like cooking, tell me?”
(I know, and he knows—how many of his favorite things I cook for him. This thing he’s saying now is only because his mood is bad right now. Otherwise would he ever speak to me this way? I understand everything!)
If I were in a good mood, I’d say………
“Evening is fine—you come, we’ll eat together. In the meantime I’ll have a little something.”
And if I were in a bad mood, I’d say……..
“When do I ever feel like cooking, you mean? What are you trying to say? Speak directly. Whether I feel like cooking or not—don’t I still cook every single day, or don’t I?……. Blah blah blah………”
(Why would I say this? Because my mood is bad, that’s why! I’ll show my temper to my husband—should I show my temper to my friend’s husband instead? I’ll show it a hundred times, a thousand times. I got married precisely to have fights. If someone is married but has no one to fight with, then they haven’t truly been married at all!)
Thought: Seventeen.
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Imagine the fierce sun of Chaitra. Temperature at its peak. A single drop of water, more precious than an empire. Many Facebook pages are calling for people to place water on rooftops or balconies for birds—so the birds can find a little peace.
Jhilom didn’t like, share, or comment on any page, only placed water on the balcony and roof daily for the birds. Some birds drank the water, mostly sparrows. Seeing this brought Jhilom such peace!
Among those who had posted such messages, she knew a few of their acquaintances. During casual conversations, they were saying, “They tell everyone to put out water, yet they themselves don’t put out water for the birds. What a bunch of hypocrites!” They shout slogans in their posts, but why don’t they do the work themselves—many people spoke harshly about this in their gatherings. Jhilom said nothing. It occurred to her that something needed to be done for the birds. They had done exactly that. If they had put out water themselves, only so many birds would have gotten water, but by requesting everyone to do it, many more birds received water. This too was a kind of good deed. They may not have followed the principle “practice what you preach,” but they inspired many others to observe that practice. How is this any less significant?
I agree, it would have been better if I had put out water. I didn’t, true enough, but I got ten others to put out water—didn’t this benefit the birds even more? I’m asking you, could you have done what I did? Do you have that capacity or inclination? What I didn’t do, you did, and you alone did it; you couldn’t get anyone else to do it. In total calculation, who accomplished more work? You? Or me?
I’m telling you, stay completely silent. You know what you can do. You don’t know what I can do. I don’t even know that myself, so how would you? If you stop me, nothing will come to either of us, but many others will suffer harm. You won’t understand that, so stay quiet—let me do what you yourself cannot.
Someone does—alone.
Someone gets it done—through ten people.
Which brings greater benefit?
My revered teacher didn’t get the opportunity to study at BUET. From the persistence of that unfulfilled dream, he inspired and encouraged thousands of students to become engineers. Many of his students became engineers, students who could never have imagined they could achieve something so significant in life.
My uncle studied at BUET. Afterwards, he secured a good job and has given much to himself, his family, and certainly to the country—continues to give, and I hope will keep giving. Seeing him, perhaps one or two people might have been inspired, no more than that. Even those one or two were inspired by their own initiative upon seeing him; he didn’t actively inspire them.
Whose contribution is greater to society, to the country, and above all to humanity? My teacher’s? Or my uncle’s? Who deserves more respect?
What’s the point of complaining? Why must everyone participate directly in every task? How many people can we complainers actually get to do the work? Electric bulbs have their own light and illuminate with it. The moon has no light of its own, yet it too illuminates. Whose power, influence, and contribution is greater? You are intelligent, learned. You decide.
Some remain vocal.
Some others, silent.
Some exist in flesh and blood.
Others, without form.
…….as long as they exist, isn’t that enough?
In the chorus of all voices, may the melody of well-being resound—this is our prayer.
Reflection: Eighteen.
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Every mother arrives on this earth with an infinite talent for nonstop nagging. This work requires no logic, no reason—just the pure desire to nag. As usual, for quite a while now, Mother has been nagging about some old issues. Things that serve no purpose to discuss—mothers, these creatures, possess both the patience and enthusiasm for such conversations at epic levels. Even when her beloved heroine in her favorite TV serial gets scolded for no reason, all that rage comes tumbling down upon innocent me.
Mother often takes out her carefully preserved troubles, dusts them off, and cleans them. The troubles become dust-free, gleaming and spotless—and all that dust, along with the entire family, settles on my patience. I am the sole dedicated listener to all of Mother’s grumbling. Sister got married and moved away; there’s no one else left to listen. For this reason, sometimes I quietly endure it, and sometimes I start my own argument! After listening to Mother’s chatter for a long time, I said in anger, “You’re really a devil’s mother!” “What! My mother is a devil!? Because I’m such a good daughter, I endure everything and stay buried in this family. You people…..your fourteen generations…….blah blah blah blah blah…….!!” Women react several times more intensely to what they mishear; because they selectively hear precisely those things that offer the greatest opportunity to flare up easily.
Mission accomplished! Mission successful!! Yessss!!! Mother was so angry she didn’t even notice that I didn’t call her a ‘devil’s daughter’ but a ‘devil’s mother’—meaning I actually called myself the devil! Her head wasn’t thinking straight, so she just assumed I had called her mother a devil! After satisfying all the eternal nagging thirst of the feminine mind, when her head cooled down much later, Mother asked, “Hey, did you call me a ‘devil’s mother’ then? Or did you call me a ‘devil’s daughter’?” “Why, I said devil’s mother!” I replied in a voice cooler than usual. “Ohhhhh…….you’re playing tricks on me!? You’ve got some nerve!” That’s it! It started all over again!! Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah…….!!! No woman in this world has ever tired of this work. Neither did Mother. If my sweet sister had been in my place, she would have tactfully calmed Mother down long ago. Some women possess the strange ability to pacify people—my sister is that type. Let me give you an example of ‘Devil Me versus My Sweet Sister.’
A callback several hours after calling someone for an urgent need…….You called me and ruined my mood, damn it—I was taking an exam, and in the middle of that the phone started ringing! Do you understand anything? You’re completely useless……. blah blah blah…….
If it were my sister, she would have said:
Oh, I’m truly very sorry. It really was a terrible thing to do. Because of me, you had to face such a situation. It won’t happen next time. Please please, don’t take it to heart. I’m really sorry…….!
What I already said:
Listen, you fool, did I install a CCTV camera in your head that I can see everything you do—whether you take your exam or mess around!? Bloody hell! And what kind of idiot takes an exam without turning off their phone’s ringtone? Such nonsense! Listen, I didn’t call to chat about some romantic affair. Anyway, the reason I called…….blah blah blah…..
Thought: Nineteen.
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The doctor is somewhat short-tempered; even looking into his eyes makes the temperature inside your chest drop considerably. Very experienced, a bit gruff, but still, a good man. He has a reputation as a good dentist.
You know, all my peers are on the other side, and I’m still working for my living.
Yes sir, right.
Right? What do you mean right? Do you just say ‘right-right’ to everything? You’ve been agreeing with everything I say since forever!
No sir, I’m enjoying your conversation. Besides, the future of my teeth is now in your hands. It wouldn’t be wise to disagree with you, sir.
Hahahaha……well said. My practicing period is one and a half times your age. What do you make of that?
Yes sir, I understand.
What do you mean you understand? What do you understand?
You’ve been with teeth for a very long time.
Intelligent!! I used to think government people were stupid! Hahahaha………
Sorry sir, that was a mistake. From now on I’ll try to be stupid.
Are you being cheeky with me? You know, my son is older than you. My daughter could be your age. Both are dentists. My wife is also a dentist, but I didn’t let her practice after marriage.
Very happy to hear that, sir.
Happy to hear what?
That your entire family is dental.
Hah hah hah………Young man, I appreciate your sense of humor! If you ever come to Pabna, drop by to chat with me.
Sir, is it an invitation? Or a challenge?
Both!! Hahahaha………now let me see, open your mouth. Ahhhhhhhhhh………..
I didn’t prolong the conversation further. Like an obedient child, I did whatever he asked me to do. Ah, if only I could give one good hard bite to some dentist’s hand, my life would be blessed! How much the jaw aches keeping the mouth open for so long! Dentists don’t understand, won’t let you close your mouth. I just want revenge, just want revenge…………. What’s the point of living if I can’t bite a dentist at least once in this life? Grrrrrrrr…..
Thought: Twenty.
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When this unemployed ‘I’ of mine occasionally feels the urge to earn a little something, I set off on foot instead of taking a rickshaw for what would be a 30-taka ride — following the principle of “a penny saved is a penny earned,” I consider saving money as earning it… And I tell myself, “Walk, Dhruv, walk!… Walking is good for your health.” … Hahahaha…
I walk aimlessly down the street. What thoughts drift through my mind… Occasionally, the calls of empty rickshaws —
“Brother, going somewhere?”
I don’t answer, I remain silent — when you have no money in your pocket, staying quiet suits you best. I keep walking… Sometimes I stare in wonder at the tall buildings on either side of the road… I think, people actually live in houses like that!? Damn! Why shouldn’t they? Just because I don’t have one, does that mean no one else should? What am I thinking? Absurd!
Well, why don’t I have a house? No, no, I don’t need such a massive ten-story building — what would I do with all that? But why don’t I even have a flat? That’s truly necessary… Living in someone else’s house — it’s so painful, so irritating. Even when you pay good rent, it feels like the landlord is keeping you out of charity. Do people who own houses think of others as poor?
I’m thinking, if we sold all our village land, wouldn’t that make a crore? With a crore, surely… I could get a flat.
No, let it be. Let things stay as they are.
The fact that I don’t even have a flat made my heart heavy. Though, for an unemployed person, occasional melancholy isn’t particularly noteworthy.
The next moment, by sheer habit, I imagined that all the buildings in this Baridhara belonged to me…!!!
Whaaaat…??? Oh my God…!!! I shut my eyes in terror.
Forgive me, God! I don’t want so many houses… What would I do with hundreds and hundreds of buildings!? I’d suffocate… Please, forgive me… I don’t even want a flat… I don’t want anything… Still, release me from the ownership of all these houses. There’s pain in not having a single house, but it’s nothing compared to the torment of owning so many. Does someone with vast wealth truly have anything resembling a life? Excess money, excess trouble.
I quickly emerged from this assumption that “all the buildings are mine.”
Ah, what peace, what peace!
I don’t own a single house — this too is peace! I don’t have to worry about anything. Peace upon peace.
Ah, life is so peaceful…
And yes,
That 30 taka I “earned” by walking — that wasn’t earning, it was nonsense!
At the corner shop, as a reward for all that walking, I bought myself a 50-taka cone ice cream and a 25-taka packet of chips!
It always happens like this…
This is a sample of my income…!! Though the arithmetic works out to a loss, I still manage to earn quite a bit of peace.
Reflection: Twenty-one.
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Brinti was abroad for a long time doing her master’s, now she’s back home. She’s my closest friend. Her two-and-a-half-year-old son has been growing up with his aunt for almost two years now. He calls his aunt ‘Ma’, but doesn’t call his mother anything! When my friend gets leave and comes home, she spares no effort to shower her son with the joy of gifts. What to buy, what not to buy—how to draw her child close to her through presents—these thoughts keep her awake at night. Mothers who can’t stay with their children due to their busy lives, when they do come to their side, try to bridge months of distance in just a few hours—with some toys and treats. I watch and think, it’s that simple! These children are human beings, not robots after all! The other day I saw she had bought her son a small cage full of birds along with many toys. The birds shriek, the boy gets scared and moves away from the cage. I couldn’t understand at all—how would such a tiny heart find joy in watching some captive birds flutter desperately in a cage barely a foot long? Even if he did find joy, why should we give him that kind of joy? Wouldn’t it be better if he watched a crow flying freely in the open sky from the rooftop instead?
I feel like writing a little about my own childhood. Shall I write? Even today I wonder—was it because I didn’t get the scholarship in Class Five? Was it for that mischievous drawing of Rabindranath in a sari that I sketched on my exam paper? At that age, in the examination hall, it seemed to me that mother’s red cotton sari would look wonderful on Rabindranath, so without delay I dressed him in it. Perhaps sir’s thinking didn’t delve that deep. That was sir’s limitation of thought—what fault was it of mine? In childhood I was quite obsessed with drawing—whatever I saw, I felt compelled to sketch. My textbooks, rough notebooks, class notes, bed sheets, clothes, table cloths, money, and many other things had to pay the ultimate price for this urge of mine; even on the bathroom walls I would draw with water, whatever I could—two activities would go on simultaneously inside the bathroom! At one time I also kept a diary. Only sorrows were written in the diary, infinite was my engagement with suffering then, so much so that even the pages seemed to writhe in agony—there was happiness in the writing too, but less. At some point I thought—what’s the use of trapping life’s sorrows on paper pages? Let them roam free! Immediately, I gave up diary writing. Whatever I had written, I tore it all up and burned it. Now I don’t draw pictures anymore. But the attachment to pictures remains, that attachment doesn’t go away. Whatever I see, whatever I read, I mentally sketch a picture of it. On the vast canvas of my mind I give invisible things a beautiful or ugly visible form—in my own way… In the kingdom of my mind, I am the freest of all. When I feel like it, I turn love into a person and shower it with affection, and sometimes I give it a good beating too. Sometimes I fill sorrows into purple balloons and release them into the sky. Balloons of sorrow fly so beautifully. Even when I feel like capturing tears and making planks out of them, I don’t—I let them be, I set them free. Let them stay, they’re the only ones who remain with me all the time anyway. I carefully bottle special joys and cork them tightly. I turn fake happiness into ice cubes and store them. When fake sorrow comes, I make stones out of it and hurl them to crack that very sorrow’s forehead. Good intentions I turn into perfume and apply to body and mind. Even when I can’t destroy bad intentions, I at least make them into ugly, grotesque statues.
Just saying ‘Good morning’ conjures up a beautiful morning picture in my eyes, such pictures accumulate into heaps, and I can’t contain them anymore, so quite often some pictures—torment someone’s inbox! Hehehehe… Whatever I read, I keep imagining a picture of it in my mind, sometimes that imagination becomes truer than reality—I get scared, what if I imagine in front of someone who has the ability to read others’ thoughts! Everything stays fine—but sometimes, when I try to draw pictures in imagination of everything, I get stuck somewhere… like when I wear—in imagination of course—formal green shirt, yellow pants, blue belt, magenta tie, red shoes, pink socks, going deeper inside… brown ye…!! Hahaha… I’m a naughty old woman… but you… are a pot. (Don’t read with a space in the middle, mind you, under any circumstances!) “Girl, why do you laugh so much? Do you know, those who laugh too much have a lot of… hidden sorrow? What is it that causes you such grief?” “Grief!? Me!? My grief—what sort of thing is that!? I have no grief at all, sir! The fact that I have no grief at all, that is my only grief…!! Hah hah hah…”