Thought: One hundred forty-eight.
……………………………………..
Not liking something is also a good thing. If everything were likeable, ‘liking’ itself would become meaningless. How many strange desires crowd my mind! Most of my desires are absurd. Like right now, for instance, I feel like saving you!
Were there no other desires left in the world? There are, of course! But this is what I desire right now—what fault is mine? Can all desires be spoken of, or should they be?
Sometimes, not speaking is more fitting, not speaking is proper. Why can’t I find someone to whom I can speak everything that comes to mind, with complete openness?
You are a person, but not such a person. Why aren’t you such a person?
What I think about you,
what I construct in imagination,
what I weave in feeling—I know I do all this because of wrong impulses. Such impulses must not be indulged at all. Yet it’s in those very dreams that I live—what can I do, tell me?
What’s the gain in loving a mirage?
What’s the gain in loving the momentary rainbow that comes with sudden rain? Or in being intoxicated with love for the strangely beautiful blue kurinji flower that blooms only once in twelve years?
There’s no gain in loving these fleeting guests. But I love them anyway. Let them be momentary, yet they are manifest—they will surely appear in expectation, they don’t live in deception, they don’t deceive even wearing masks. Even if their existence is false, I’m loving them knowing this—that what I love is false. A known lie is far better than an unknown lie!
True ‘waiting’ is better than false ‘hope,’ however patient it may be. Known ‘genuine bad’ is better than unknown ‘false good.’ Better to wait an entire age for certain hope than to have daily hopes turn to disappointments.
Hmmmm! What happened today? Is someone—I mean, is someone dear getting married? Nilita, yes, such things happen!
Be calm. Why are you ranting so much?
Sometimes something unknown creates such turmoil within the mind; what exactly it is cannot be said, cannot be explained—it can only be felt deep inside, one keeps feeling that an intense pain has knotted itself and stuck near the chest.
Aaaahhh…….where are you? What are you doing?
Here, take your noodles!
Are you working?
Will you eat, or shall I feed you?
(May everyone have a life as beautiful as imagination!)
Why some people remain so obsessed only with physical attraction, I don’t know. I don’t know what pure physical attraction is like—but those who will never be able to realize the intensity and feeling of attraction that goes from mind to body.
Among the terrible helplessnesses in life, one is not being able to forget anything at will. The sharper one’s memory, the more unhappy they are. Can what is dear, what merges with existence, ever be forgotten? At best, one can pretend to forget when necessary. Life passes in such pretense. Let it be selfless, yet may no one ever force anyone to perform false acting. Selfish reality is far more beautiful and comforting than selfless false acting. May everyone live in truth, however bitter that truth may be—this is my prayer.
I said what came to mind. There’s no certainty I’ll be alive tomorrow. Let my desires live on, if not in the ‘unknown,’ then in the ‘known’ imagination.
All sorrows remain in memory……
Still, what’s wrong with pretending to forget?
If nothing else comes of it,
at least life survives!
Someone’s careless blurting out…….someone else’s swallowing everything without hesitation—this is life!
In the end I’ll be fulfilled by emptiness,
I’ll breathe in the fragrance of dried flowers,
touch the sky on a moonless night, and even with wet eyes I’ll say laughing, truly I tell you, I’m doing wonderfully!
If there were someone, a ‘she,’ I would call and ask for a picture of her hands. Along with her hair—I mean, hair attached to her head. Her two hands would be mine, so I’d keep them with me.
Come, let’s not sleep all night today!
All night we two will read books together, you’ll read half aloud, I’ll read the other half. But you’ll make the coffee, and I’ll feed it to you. Will staying up all night make work too difficult tomorrow? Oh, poor baby! Never mind, go to sleep…….If only there were someone, a ‘she,’ how happy I would be!
Let me tell you the truth. Actually, her absence doesn’t cause me any un-happiness; rather, the emptiness created within me by her not being there—that’s what makes me unhappy. If her presence would have made me happy, then more than her credit in that happiness would be the credit of the feeling of happiness that would have been created in my mind by her being there. No event makes us happy, no event causes us pain; rather, our mind’s reaction to that event is responsible for our happiness or sorrow.
Not receiving love sometimes creates a yearning (or emptiness) within people, and yet even when someone receives much love, they remain in a strange kind of yearning. The neglect and resentment that arise in a person from too little love—too much love often frightens that very person somehow. I don’t know which of these two is preferable, but I think the yearning of not having is much better than the yearning of having.
Thought: One hundred forty-nine.
……………………………………..
The girl reached Ajanta only to discover her destination should have been Ellora. Alas!
I’ve witnessed many such jokes of fate in life, so perhaps there’s nothing new to be amazed about—the girl wasn’t amazed either. That one cannot be angry with a helpless girl, alone in an unknown, unfamiliar new city amid a crowd of strange unknown people—even this doesn’t occur to anyone. The girl was supposed to come, the boy doesn’t remember, so he’s left; far from hearing any apology, the girl gets scolded over the phone instead—her tired body, disappointed mind, and unknown fear empty her head. Nothing to be done, only waiting for some new joke of fate……The girl busily engages once again in her perpetual failed struggle to convince herself, as always—I don’t love anyone. May everyone be well. Love is false, only love songs are true. Playing in her headphones: Let me know if you suddenly feel like crying…….
All this agony of this moment,
all this torment,
all this rage,
all this wounded pride,
all this burning pain—come morning, the girl will forget everything. The hurt will remain inside, but outwardly she’ll become completely normal, as if nothing happened. How much transpires in secret at the ocean’s depths, hidden from all,
no one knows; but does the ocean care?
The ocean is calm on the surface, turbulent within. Who can read the depths from the surface? Or who would even take on the burden of understanding so much?
Why should they?
What obligation is there to shoulder such responsibility?
The best time to truly see someone is when they’re asleep! I see Mother constantly, but when she’s sleeping,
I sit beside her and quietly, quietly drink her in. Sleeping people seem so beautiful and enchanting. Sometimes I feel like
setting up a camera to watch myself sleep for a bit!
As if that would be beautiful—a ghost is a ghost even in sleep, at best,
a sleeping ghost—that’s all!
Even asleep, a ghost looks like a ghost. I know…….huhaha! Someone, ‘he,’
whom I’ll never have, how many nights will that blessed woman stay awake just to watch him sleep after marriage! Oh! The very thought makes me want to tear out every hair on my head from sheer joy. Truly,
the thought that you don’t love me
brings such pain. Still, I’ve accepted it. Let love move to its solitary rhythm. If two lives can’t be arranged together,
let at least one life survive,
let the other be arranged—this is my prayer. And listen,
sometimes pretend to sleep. Then you’ll have proof of my words. When the full moon’s radiance comes to kiss your soft cheeks, when night’s spell possesses your entire body and carries you away to that distant realm of stars,
then that poor soul, instead of sleeping, will watch your eyes,
touch your face with her whole heart. What else can she do,
tell me? You’re so busy—where’s the time for her to simply gaze at you to her heart’s content? She surely won’t be foolish enough to miss
the night.
The person who exists in my selfless feelings—
everything of theirs is mine—perhaps more than mine. Life is actually like the eye, but it must exist like the mouth. If only one could exist like the eye—just seeing and seeing,
saying nothing, letting all resentment and reproach gather silently in the eye’s corner—the way clouds gather in the sky’s corner during heavy rains, saying something in the eye’s language that no one is obligated to explain or understand,
then I would have been saved. But life won’t pass in such quiet contemplation of the eye, will it?
Life isn’t actually like anything—life is simply like life. Life isn’t good,
life isn’t bad, life isn’t happiness,
life isn’t sorrow—life…….is as it is.
It’s fun time! When Mother plays ghost and says,
“Look, how do I appear?” “You look exactly like a ghost’s grandmother! Hee hee hee……”
What!
What happened?
When something’s funny, you have to laugh. Have you forgotten that too?
Laugh a little! Don’t you know, when you laugh…….you look like a horse’s egg! (Such fantasies I weave around him! If he only knew!)
If I call, will I get a thunderous
scolding,
rain-like scolding? Then,
why don’t you send a selfie!
Why do you act like this for no reason?
Where do my texts go?
Do they just lie there unread?
I can’t even figure that out! Hey boy! Come here a bit!
Who likes talking to themselves alone in the inbox, tell me?
Didn’t I message you that day to thank you for feeding me all those things? I did, because I absolutely don’t like fruits, salads, milk and such—I don’t eat them at all. But since I tell you and brother to eat them every day, I have to eat them too. I can’t very well ask others to do what I don’t do myself. But those I tell to eat don’t touch the food—I end up eating it all. Seeing you sit before me that day and eat those things brought me such peace.
Now tell me, what am I doing? If you can guess, I’ll give you whatever you ask for. Can’t tell? All right, I’ll tell you. I’m reading a book. Whose book, do you know? Fine, I’ll tell you this too: Satinath’s. No, I’m not reading your beloved ‘Jagari,’ nor ‘Satyi Bhraman Kahini.’ Which book is it—can you tell? If you can… I read lying face-down on the bed, hunched over the book—this is my terrible reading style… if you can tell… I’ll change this old comfortable style from my childhood just for you. Absolute promise!
In time, one comes to understand exactly how much salt water was pointless and irrelevant. No one will account for the stifled breaths, how much time momentary emotions have stolen from life before vanishing somewhere. Coming to life’s final day, perhaps this understanding will expand even further. Perhaps only on the other side will we find life’s final sum. Life like a simple math problem—when it works out, the examination time is over—nothing more can be done!
“You don’t seem to care anymore? You don’t listen to what I say. You don’t do what I tell you to do. Huh! You don’t seem to care anymore now?”
I laughed out loud for a long time after reading that text. You’ve got it exactly right. I truly don’t care about you, sir. Not at all! Because why would the question of caring arise for someone I live for with true, honest feeling? Where my very existence is imperiled without you, there caring becomes utterly trivial, utterly repulsive. To have to care for you—I’ve never been able to think of it as something so insignificant.
Thought: One hundred fifty.
……………………………………..
You’ve made me cry so much. (Though it’s not your fault at all.) Still, your punishment is this: you will not leave Nalanda without seeing me, even for a moment. I’ll kill you outright! I really could do it! I know you won’t do it. Stay well, stay safe. When it’s time to come, tell the pilot to fly the plane a little faster! Otherwise, I’ll kill that fellow too!
“I’ll stay in room eight-oh-eight at the Gyanatika Hotel!”
What beautiful words! What’s there to say about this? What if someone enters the hotel room and murders you? When I go to Vaishali, I’ll stay at that very hotel. Even if room 808 isn’t available, no problem—I’ll just move in with whoever is staying there. If they won’t let me, I’ll punch them straight on the nose and force my way in. I must stay in that room. Even if it’s a boy, no problem at all. He can stay wherever he likes, in the bathroom if necessary! But about the bed—I am sorry! No sharing allowed! I’ll take the bed, he can stay anywhere outside the bed. Listen, couldn’t you do one thing? Please hide something written somewhere in that room! When I go, I’ll search and find it!
You must write it for me—My sweetheart, have a nice stay! Something like that! Because I’m certainly not traveling all the way from Bangladesh to ‘nearby’ Vaishali just to see some love note written to one of your other beloved girlfriends, right? Sir, you absolutely must write something!
Just don’t write that you’ll pick me up and slam me down!
It could happen that someday I might just rush to Vaishali to see what you’ve written.
(Give me a photo of your room—and you must definitely be in the photo too!)
I want to see you very much. I have another wish too—but I can’t say what it is. (Actually, I don’t have a second wish; I just said that to make you think and torment you.)
Should I bring my pillow along and come over?
What do you say?
Will there be a little space in the room? I can’t stay in cramped quarters though—the cockroaches of my mind are quite troublesome. Just give me two-thirds of your bed space, that’s all I need, not a bit more. Hee hee hee…….I won’t bother you at all while sleeping. Occasionally you might discover yourself as a football on the floor!
I promise,
nothing more than that. If you feel someone tugging hard at your hair in braids, you should assume it’s purely in sleep. And if I absolutely can’t control myself, then maybe someone might lovingly embrace you from behind. No one will bother you beyond this at all. There are many, many other things—no one will do any of those things. I’ll bind all desires with chains of straw!
Promise! Hey you!
Shall I come…….shall I?
You say nothing! You’re truly a sack of rot. I’ll tie your hands and feet and dump you right into a pitcher. Hmmmm…….
I really liked your dress-up. That means, I’ll wear those too. Yeaaaah…!! Except for the shoes, would you let me wear the rest? I mean, I’ll wear them once and return them right away! (If you bathe regularly, then give me the underwear too.) And one more thing,
you don’t need to wash your dress before giving it!
Actually, that’s what I want, I mean,
I want unwashed dress—I’ll take in a bit of your body scent. I’ll keep one of your t-shirts and wash and return the rest. You won’t get the t-shirt back, that’s mine. I’ll smell it every day. And yes,
I’ll need the wristwatch too,
I might not return this either; if I do return it, I’ll keep the hour hand and return the rest. Since your two hands belong to me anyway, so does that!
You must courier it to Nalanda’s address as soon as you land in Dhaka!
Darling, would you gift me a three-by-six? I want to hold you close to my chest, but that can’t happen,
so at least I can wrap myself in what you give me…….;
In exchange, I’ll gift you the entire Vaishali!
Go on, Vaishali is yours!
Except for the girls there!
(Don’t say again,
what shall I do with this Vaishali?)
Why don’t you check the message?
I’ll miss getting my 3-by-6
if you don’t see the message!
I want to give you my autograph for you to throw in your dustbin. Believe me, I’ll sign it very beautifully. Even if my handwriting is ugly, beautiful writing will emerge—I need just such a pen! Remember to buy and bring one when you come,
how about it?
Should I go sit at the airport right now? What time is your flight tomorrow? A selfie please…….even smiling with unbrushed teeth will do. I want to hear your voice,
I can’t even call you. Phone busy busy busy…….what are you so busy with?
Which old woman in Vaishali are you romancing with,
huh? Do they sell attitude bags in Vaishali?
Have you bought my ‘that thing’?
You don’t have to give a selfie huhhhh, what a show-off! Am I not sitting here waiting to give you a selfie wearing the 3-by-6?
Ah, I know,
only that spins in your head!
Fine, nothing is needed. Just come back safely!
(This won’t be seen either,
I know!…….and
if nothing else, you could at least see messages sometimes to fool me!)
Rainwater falls through holes in the tin roof, so first a small bowl was placed,
then a large bowl,
then a bucket, when that didn’t work, a drum…….finally, why not a pond!
Work is being done to stop the rainwater, isn’t it?
If possible, something even larger could be provided. But somehow there’s no initiative to close the hole in the roof. One class of people doesn’t understand that the hole needs to be sealed,
and another class of people, for some strange reason, nurtures the hole. If needed, they’ll provide an ocean instead of a pond,
but they’ll survive keeping that hole intact!
Reflection: One hundred fifty-one.
……………………………………..
Mother’s Day wishes to my loving mother. Sir,
what gift have you bought for your mother?
Would you show me?
Where are you?
You’re not going off to Kundpur again, are you?
Why won’t you give me your home address? I want to come to your house. Just because I won’t agree to one condition, you can refuse to meet me, humiliate me this much,
cause me such pain! If this sits well with your sense of humanity,
then truly I have nothing more to say.
Please pick up the phone. Give me a break for Mother’s Day. Please let me come to you. I just want to see you a little. I don’t want anything else. What’s wrong?
Oh come on, I have to come all the way from Ikshaku. Why can’t you understand I should leave right now? Why are you delaying so much? What’s the matter?
In my anger, sorrow, and pain, I feel like murdering you peacefully. I’ll throw your teeth right under a bulldozer and crush them to pulp. Do you know what I could do to you?……….I can’t do anything to you at all.—And you know this very well. That’s exactly the problem! How utterly disagreeable, all this nonsense!
I’ve come to a religious program. So many, many, many people. I feel like beating up these people for no reason at all. They can all share the beating that’s meant for you alone. What’s the problem with that?
I’m alone on a bus. Going to your place. There’s no driver on the bus, but the bus is moving. Should I get off? Do the ghosts of imagination bite?
I still haven’t eaten anything. Only ‘drunk’
water.
: Strange!
What’s it to me if you don’t eat?
: Hehhhh
What’s it to me if I don’t eat? Huhhhh!
Come on, tell me nicely when you’re coming to Nalanda!
Meeting outside is quite troublesome!
We’ll see,
just as I’m preparing to strangle you with the noble intention of murdering you, someone will say: “Hey, isn’t that Piyas bhaiya?” After a while we won’t be able to meet at home either. Suddenly some piece of furniture in the house will grin and say: “Helloooo Piyasssss…….!” Huhhhhh!
Ay P…….ay! Got hungry for a fee. Will you?
Also got thirsty for P. Ay P,
I P!
(Seriously) You are a PEEEEE…….(truly a ‘P’ indeed!)
I don’t have any new books to read, and no money to buy new books. Could you lend me your house please? What’s the harm in lending your house for a bit?
I’d stay a little with the books!
Huh!
In the rain-soaked Lalbagh Fort
taking the sky along
keeping the earth in touch
come, let’s get wet!
In the rainwater
let’s be purified.
………..will you get wet?
Peaceful, beautiful, gentle rainy afternoon…….
The desire to embrace so tightly—this
‘desire’ itself makes me want to speak it aloud.
You know, the other day a shopkeeper cheated me out of 15 rupees, then returned it the next day with an apology. Of course, not all cheats are alike—some realize their mistakes and later burn with remorse. Some people are born to live happily by deceiving others. And some are born to live happily while being deceived, understanding everything.
Accumulation of centuries
Heart like crushed stone
The clamor of silence
Weary, enchanting shadows
Time’s wild sprint
In the end……
Only a long sigh—life!
Trapped in civilization’s web
Barbarism’s frenzied exuberance
Closed feelings with open eyes
Merely stuck on paper—conscience!
A household with books. In that household, the visible loved ones diminish while the invisible ones multiply. I give time to those loved ones—whether dead or alive, imaginary or real; I feel so close to them, and whether they cry at their own sorrows or laugh terribly—I cry, often cry, sob uncontrollably. When I suffer, when I die, none of them will shed a tear. By what magic do these lifeless books become such cruel rivals to a beloved! Ah! What strange peace! I have kept them alive in unrequited love’s reciprocal love, and I myself live on.
Achievement? Perhaps only unbearable agony—agony for which there is no cure—living with that agony trapped in the chest; I have understood that to keep love alive, people love to endure terrible suffering—that agony for which no cure was ever born, that pain which has no question of death; yet with it comes the skillful performance of living with a smile—no one can detect it, perhaps the paper people on book pages understand something and smile knowingly; but there’s no gain—characters trapped in thousand-year-old or contemporary stories will never come alive for me!
No conversation,
no love,
not even a trace of sympathy; yet this helpless living with those merciless books—living only to weep!
I think, still………books are better!
Thought: One hundred fifty-two.
……………………………………..
Sixty-nine. Your favorite number. My favorite number too is sixty-nine. 69…….69…….six-nine…….flipped around, nine-six. My beloved nine-six. I am a chaotic life, I am chaotic life itself. I know why you told me you like 69. (I’m not as foolish as you think I am. Actually I am—even more foolish!) Whatever you like, I like too. Yet see how different our reasons are for the same preference!
Don’t come near me saying there’s no gain. Oh my, the boy’s life is ruined by all this gain-gain talk! Don’t you become good! The things you say to me! I listen and my ears burn up. One of those dolls in your showcase will come alive someday and throw you down, you’ll see!
Perhaps I’m the fool—wherever it rains, I hold the umbrella in the opposite direction, only to get soaked in the rain. Nothing feels good, I’m annoyed with myself.
I’m feeling an urge to just blend someone. If only I hadn’t done it!
Hmm! Please come forward,
let me blend you a little. I won’t blend too much,
just a bit. Pleeeease!
Do you know what your ‘beloved’ will say to you most often?
“Why do you torment yourself so much?”
Really, P, that poor soul will suffer terribly. Do you know where the deepest pain will strike?
The thing that will nearly destroy her, yet you’ll dismiss with a mere flick—
is that you’ll never truly find where her pain lies. Match my words against your life later.
All this mingling with so many people,
all these countless experiences—truly, they’ll be of little use in real life.
This fool has said whatever came to mind! I just can’t say… don’t be angry,
because one can only ever be angry with me,
right? What about when I get angry—
doesn’t anyone ever ‘resolve’ my anger?
Thinking about you is giving me a headache. The headache is making me nauseous. Please don’t give me a selfie! I want to see you. If I see you, I’ll get my passport to heaven!
You commit so many sins—
when this thought comes to mind, I can’t stay still anymore. I don’t want to let you commit even the slightest sin. “I can’t control myself; what I do might be sinful,
yet I do it anyway”—please don’t say such things anymore,
just remove the ‘might be’ part. We may commit sins,
but that doesn’t mean we won’t acknowledge sin as sin. You’ve created this headache,
now make it go away. How will you do it?
I don’t know. However you can, just do it!
Our desires are the same,
our wants are identical—yet in our reasons… there’s a world of difference between us.
Is there truly nothing in me then? Well,
after your marriage, will messaging you be forbidden?
Will I always be able to say whatever comes to mind,
as I do now? Can I send any message I want?
Tell me, P!
You never say anything. So there really is nothing in me after all. I’ll have to hang a rope of grass!
Should I hang myself,
P?
Do you understand what I’m saying?
Why do you fall silent,
P?
Answer my question. I want a completely honest answer.
It would make me very happy
if you would give me a clear answer. I’ve been wanting to know this from you for a long time. Please tell me!
Do you truly see nothing in me beyond the physical?
“Your inner beauty draws me to you far more than your outer beauty.”
I became so very happy!
Tremendously, immensely, overwhelmingly happy. In my joy I want to embrace you. To embrace you once with all my heart—something far, far, far greater than many physical unions. I found release from a suppressed anguish I’d carried for so long. My tears are announcing that relief.
Even an imagined response from you brought tears to my eyes. Of course, your real responses also bring tears,
though those tears have different reasons. Tell me,
why are you like this?
The acrid smell nearly made me retch—I had applied just a tiny bit of castor oil to my hair,
and that was enough! Yet, this same foul-smelling castor oil I once had to drink—three whole bottles, one after another—for an illness. Oh!
What a wretched experience! Allah,
forgive me. Under pressure of circumstances, people are often compelled to do anything. Life is like that too. The path someone swears they’ll never set foot on
often becomes the very path their life ends up walking—perhaps through their own fault or virtue, or sometimes, caught in fate’s snare. Some are punished because they committed crimes,
some are rewarded precisely because they committed crimes. In this life, I’ve seen no shortage of criminals being rewarded for their deeds! Whether people can walk their chosen path, or can quickly gain the strength to adapt themselves to an unwanted path they’re forced upon—a moist prayer remains for them.
Night deepens, and with it, silence. All sounds become soundless. But do they really? Some sounds of weeping always remain, or some of laughter;
some sounds purely of emotion,
some of anger or hurt feelings. Sounds persist under the guise of silence—deceiving everyone to leave oneself alone with oneself.
I only keep getting crushed. I’m earning a PhD in crushing!
: Oh
crush-weaver! How much longer until the postdoc?
My heart has broken into billion
billion billion pieces seeing my handsome rickshaw wala!
Now I’m crawling around collecting the pieces of my heart.
Rather than giving your all to expect a life filled with love and then suffering from it, it’s far better to live knowing that life will be suffering—that’s the real suffering of living.
When I see your photograph, just as a whole rush of fondness stirs,
at that same moment a sharp, stinging ache begins in my chest. Why does this happen?
Are the lines of joy and sorrow drawn with the same stroke?
Thought: One hundred fifty-three.
……………………………………..
This rain,
this!
Won’t you touch her just a little!
I’ll watch you touch fiercely,
In that very touch I’ll touch her too.
Blessed rainy afternoon.
Listen here,
the ego box!
Couldn’t you set aside the ego-fuss for a while sometimes?
Huh! Then this poor soul could catch her breath a little. Are you eating seasonal fruits? Or are you troubling the household by not eating anything just because you’re staying alone? Hmm?
Are you eating properly? Or do you forget to have breakfast before going to the office?
Hey there, mister! I search for you with a lamp, you understand?
Searching with a lamp means
calling you. The lamp’s wick is relationship and the kerosene is entitlement. There’s the lamp,
there’s the wick,
there’s the desire to light the lamp…but oh, only the kerosene is missing!
So my lamp doesn’t burn, doesn’t spread light,
my room
remains dark.
People’s unhealthy attraction to beauty (healthy attraction is no problem), a kind of fierce wounded desire to become beautiful, the particular anguish harbored in the mind over “Why am I not beautiful?” and
the special melancholy over
“Why are others so beautiful?”
the suffering from seeing people’s special fuss only over the ‘handsome’ or
‘beautiful’ ones, thinking oneself ugly, forcing oneself into fake beauty that isn’t natural, finally finding peace in being able to think
“I am beautiful!
I am beautiful!”
after achieving at least virtual beauty,
and being able to enchant others not with true, genuine beauty
but with coated and effect-laden beauty!—seeing all this, I feel a merciless sorrow for them in my heart. Why do people forget that the most beautiful and the most ugly person on earth were both created by the same Creator, who surely doesn’t create anything that is purposeless and ugly, that the beauty of the human mind is humanity’s achievement—with that, one can conquer the world!
Of course I too am attracted to beauty. I too like to cultivate beauty. I’m only against the coated, fake beauty whose pursuit makes people forget to care for their inner, true beauty and sometimes makes others forget it too. I tend to my inner self carefully, and that keeps my outer self naturally cared for.
I live alone with my mother. In Dhaka, it’s not very easy for a mother and daughter to live alone in a rented house. Girls in this society live as public property in everyone’s eyes. A girl who has no father,
no brother—
her situation is even more dire. One part of society becomes very happy to find a helpless girl, another part becomes very happy to find an independent-minded girl—because
both types of girls are easy to exploit. Whether we call it women’s liberation
or women’s subjugation,
both are nothing but clever ways to convince and exploit women. How much more I can confine myself within certain boundaries,
I don’t know. All the rage seems to crash down upon myself. When I go out, I fear returning. Still, I’m doing quite well. I have no illness in my body,
no struggle for food. The Creator has kept me very well. May everyone be well.
Tell me, are you becoming more of a machine each day than the machine itself? Why I said that, I’ll tell you later. How is your beloved ‘she’?
Mother, father, little one,
vacation, you and
‘she’…oh my, how beautiful!
Even thinking about it feels so good. Such intense joy brings tears to my eyes. There aren’t very strong ropes to hold back tears, are there?
The moment desires sense they will never be fulfilled, they seem to grow ever more frantic…….
“Come to me, P, please come to me. Come before my eyes this very instant.”
(I want to call you right now and say exactly this to you.)
P, shall I tell you of a desire?
I want to mix rice with my own hands and feed you. I want to hold you and force-feed you three plates of rice mixed with thick lentil curry,
mashed potato and egg-eggplant fry!
Would you object to eating morsels from my hand? If not, I’ll feed you one day. Even if you object, no problem—I’ll still feed you! Though,
I might die and become a ghost before I ever meet you! Or you might die and become a spirit!
(Both beautiful and ugly people become ghosts after death, not princes.)
No no,
why should you die first?
What would I live for then? Who would love your beloved ‘she’? What would happen to your family? You stay alive instead.
Gentle-calm or turbulent-wild, colorless or blue sea you love,
don’t look down on me for wetting myself in you daily, clinging to your shore.
You don’t know—I have been nurturing within myself for ages a sea far vaster than you; I understand the intoxicating pain of your mad waves.
That sea doesn’t make waves, but if you look at it and think
this sea doesn’t know how to make waves—you’d be gravely mistaken.
One day I’ll send messages tied to strings. The mind doesn’t always want to understand everything;
sometimes it can’t—seeing the helpless message just makes the heart feel bad,
and explaining doesn’t make it better either?…….then I’ll grab the string and give the message a sharp tug to send it faaaaar away to the other side!
For now, I won’t ramble anymore. In the pain of my period, instead of yellow mustard flowers, I’m seeing red roses before my eyes. It feels like
I’m sitting in a rose garden, delirious with fever-talk.
Thought: One hundred and fifty-four.
……………………………………..
To those who aren’t hypocrites, hypocrites appear hypocritical; and to hypocrites, those who aren’t hypocrites appear hypocritical. Who appears hypocritical to you? (Don’t answer,
I didn’t ask hoping for a response. I wouldn’t enjoy hearing your truth-telling.)
Hey sir, please remove that profile picture! You look like a girl! I’ll gift you a three-piece suit!
When there’s self-interest at stake, people find time to inquire about someone’s cat’s welfare, let alone the cat’s photograph. But without self-interest, even if you lay dying on your deathbed,
and your anguished heart cries “Pray for me”—no one will spare you even that small moment. This is reality, we must accept it. If you can’t accept it, nurse all the pain you want in your own heart,
no one will be affected in the least. Life truly teaches us every moment.
If someone finds cleaning up their chick’s droppings more important than visiting the dead,
then that’s what they’ll do. It’s their right, isn’t it? You may suffer pain equal to a whole world,
but you must also accept this:
the burden of your infinite anguish is certainly not theirs.
Question: What is the moral of
the story?
Answer: Humayun Ahmed’s
song “Maro Chika Maro Chika Maro Re…….”
from the play ‘Package Sangbad’
is an exceedingly delectable song.
Damn this love!
What would it take to lessen love?
Would shaving my head bald and spending this one life like that reduce love? Or
would I need to do something even more drastic?
My golden Bengal…….(I’ve actually written the next line,
read it at your own risk.)
I feel like kissing. Now what shall I do?
Don’t get me wrong,
I want to kiss your lips,
your eyes, your forehead; not ‘anywhere else.’
Tell me, can one find a ‘humiliation tree’?
Buy me one as a gift. Every day that tree will bear
‘humiliation flowers’
and ‘humiliation fruit.’ I’ll tuck the humiliation flowers in my hair and roam around as a manager for Toto Company,
I’ll make juice from the humiliation fruit and sprinkle rock salt and chili powder on it and gulp it down in one swig. With humiliation upon humiliation, I’ll remain perpetually absorbed in humiliation. You won’t have to trouble yourself humiliating me anymore.
I have 5 kilos of anger toward you, 10 kilos of hurt feelings,
and 15 kilos of pain. I need your left ear!
I don’t know what I’ll do with it, but I need it. (I implore you, don’t let thoughts of Van Gogh from ‘Lust for Life’ start swirling in your head now!)
: Oh Maitri! What’s happened to you these days?
Why have you suddenly become so restless?
: What can I do, tell me!
It’s all just wretched hormones at play! What’s my fault in this?
Waiting and waiting for a single selfie, grass grows in my bones,
along with fields of worthlessness—as a bonus.
Issssh, the women’s endless serials just won’t end. Okay,
I’m leaving. You have your lizard-fry soaked in mint juice. Good half-night half-morning!
If we could solve the equation that the mutual importance of a line segment’s two endpoints must be equal—
many stories of life would end before they even began. Alas,
life’s line segments become infinite lines, while life’s lines end as mere segments.
Tell me, how did you get such a fever?
Why have you caught a cold? Give me a selfie, let me see your condition. If you don’t feel like giving it, you don’t have to. There’s no point in doing anything unwillingly, even though life runs mainly on…….unwillingness.
How did you get such a high fever?
You are very, very, very bad, my dear. You don’t see a doctor when you’re ill. You think you belong only to yourself. Perhaps you don’t belong to me after all,
but those who love you,
those whose existence you don’t know, will never know,
you could at least stay well to keep their hearts at peace. Do whatever you wish,
go ahead! I pray
the fever breaks soon.
Listen, fever! I’ll give you ice cream,
chocolate,
buy you lots of balloons;
please just go away.
It’s unbearable seeing you online. Please please please leave this place. Rest. Try to sleep. And…….thank you. (Not for anything in particular)
Don’t gooooo…….may the Creator bless everyone.
For the fever, please go to a doctor instead of playing doctor yourself. Why must you always be so obstinate?
Don’t you know how much your mother suffers when you’re unwell?
Even if parents don’t know, they still suffer,
because they sense
their child isn’t well. Parents alone suffer far more than I or anyone else ever could. Go for their sake at least,
please go to a doctor. See a doctor. You won’t need to take leave from the office for this. Just walk straight out of the office. Later you can say
the fever’s delirium took you somewhere—you know nothing about it. It’s actually not a bad idea. Try doing just that,
nothing will happen.
Alas, not all of life’s ailments can be cured with paracetamol. If only patients understood this!
One who doesn’t understand can be made to understand.
One who understands—
making them understand is a burden.
You’re the second type. All responsibility is mine—this burden is entirely self-imposed. (Has the fever come down?
Tell me bit by bit,
how are you feeling now!)
I’ll give you my dear bikini…….fever, still you won’t go far, don’t leave my beloved in your care!