The Story of Life's Greatest Week

(I’ve written quite candidly about some of my rather childish thoughts and actions in this piece. If anyone finds it unpalatable, please feel free to skip it.)
It was most likely mid-2011, the month of Ramadan. I was then pursuing my MBA at Dhaka University, living on the second floor of the IBA hostel in room 202 on Green Road.
The 31st BCS written examination was coming up. The results of the 30th BCS hadn’t been announced yet. (Those of us who joined the civil service in the 30th batch had to take the 31st BCS written exam. Since the 30th BCS results came out before the 31st BCS viva, I didn’t bother attending the viva.) I was preparing for the BCS exam while simultaneously managing my Master’s studies.
I had long since given up tutoring and business. I survived by gradually depleting my bank savings.
When the money ran out, I would call home, and my younger brother Pappu would break a fixed deposit and send me funds.
I had sworn to myself that even if I died, I would never tutor again. I had to become a BCS cadre—there was no alternative in my mind if that didn’t work out. One of my limitations is that I cannot work with multiple alternatives in my head.
I think in straight lines. I work with my utmost dedication, keeping one inclination at the forefront. Earlier, when I was preparing for the 30th BCS exam, many of my friends would say,
“If Sushanto doesn’t get into BCS, what will he do? With his undergraduate results (second class, 2.74), he can’t get into corporate!” Hearing such talk, I developed this stubborn resolve that I would enter through the best gateway to corporate jobs in Bangladesh, but I wouldn’t use that degree for employment. It was from this obstinacy that I took the IBA entrance exam and enrolled.
I could work with extraordinary patience, gritting my teeth through the labor. I fasted regularly. The IBA hostel served lunch, but I wouldn’t eat it. I tried to understand the feelings of those who fast.
For as long as I stayed in my room, I would study. After a very light iftar in the evening, I would return to my room and study again. I would study until dawn, then eat a small meal for sehri and go to sleep. I had classes at IBA in the morning, so I couldn’t sleep in even if I wanted to; this was one of the reasons I kept fasts.
My habit of fasting during Ramadan began from that time.
It was unthinkable that I wouldn’t pay the entire or partial bill at any table where I sat. My principle was: if I couldn’t afford to pay the bill, that food wasn’t meant for me. At that time, I had confined myself within limited means, creating an ‘artificial crisis’ of money. “As many things as I can live without”—this was my philosophy then. Since I couldn’t pay bills and felt terribly dejected, even kind words didn’t sound pleasant, so I had largely cut off contact with friends. I wouldn’t go to any gatherings. Since most of my friends had quite good jobs, I had to endure subtle mockery or sarcasm.
I had completely isolated myself. I lived alone with myself. In this life, I have never borrowed even one taka from anyone. If necessary, I would die of starvation rather than bow my head before anyone—this I held as gospel. I lived most simply during that period, eating with very few items, so I would sit at tables in the IBA hostel canteen where fewer of my acquaintances sat. Many times I ate only vegetables and lentils. Rice cost 12 taka, vegetables 10 taka, lentils free. Sometimes I even ate with mashed vegetables and lentils; that cost 17 taka. I wasn’t poor, but for the first time in my life, I made myself experience what poverty felt like. I subjected myself to immense suffering, day after day. “I am the master of my fate,/ I am the captain of my soul.” I wouldn’t allow myself to go anywhere for leisure, wouldn’t let myself sleep properly, wouldn’t let myself accept anyone’s praise. The boy for whom his parents had shed tears, whose younger brother’s head had hung in shame before friends, whose existence had minimal value in society’s eyes—such a person had not the slightest right to enjoy life. That time was a preparatory phase for encountering beautiful times, a period of willingly embracing darkness while awaiting light, my time of worship. Surely no worship has ever succeeded in this world without immense suffering. In Christianity, this is called the Life of Penance and Mortification—purification and salvation through self-inflicted suffering. There are many psychosomatic benefits to this. You learn to bow your head, self-control increases, you get the urge to work tremendously hard and move forward. It’s better to suffer than to achieve nothing in life. Every person loves themselves, wants to see themselves praised, dreams of becoming important in everyone’s eyes, works day after day to make their family happy through their own merit. When they constantly find themselves neglected and trampled, they feel a kind of burning from within; this gives birth to infinite positive stubbornness; from this inner impulse, people rise up again. Prolonged psychological inner burning creates explosive emotions that generate incredible willpower and motivation within a person. The external world then barely touches them anymore. Regular practice of this allows people to continuously elevate themselves to higher levels through tremendous devotion. It’s a slow but continuous process. Once mental strength emerges, no external influence or event can stop a person anymore. Taking oneself to a detached, indifferent, fearless level, the readiness to move forward alone and unwavering on the path to fulfilling dreams develops subconsciously in the mind. Success is a selfish lonely game.
Four or five days remained until Eid. I didn’t have much money. I called home. My younger brother informed me that the few fixed deposits we had were all maturing within the next few months. The nearest maturity date was 10 days away. If that FD was broken at that moment, the bank wouldn’t give any benefit—we’d only get savings rate interest. Without thinking, I decided to manage somehow with whatever money I had. My younger brother asked, “Brother, won’t you come home for Eid holidays?” I said, “No, I have work.” I had already decided to subject myself to another form of torture: I would spend the entire Eid holiday alone in the IBA hostel, wouldn’t go home, wouldn’t spend it in comfort. He said, “Brother, wait, let me get money from father and send it to you.” Since 2011, when I entered undergraduate studies, despite my upper-middle-class father’s strong objections, I had never taken a single paisa from him; instead, I had often forced gifts upon the family. For such a person to ‘extend his hand’ to his father after all these years was tantamount to death. Something inside me said, no, I would never surrender. Let me see what could be done. I told my younger brother, “No need. I’ll manage. Don’t tell father and mother about this under any circumstances.” “How will you manage?” “I sometimes teach at an IBA admission coaching center here. I’ll get some money from there.” I lied to my younger brother. That Eid holiday period was for me a time to understand life, to experience how it feels for a man to walk penniless on the world’s paths, a time to learn hands-on how valuable 10 taka could be. My roommate at the IBA hostel was Ujjal-da. Due to some of his peculiar characteristics, he was one of the most unique people I’d ever met. Nobody could imagine how generous and simple a person could be without seeing him. I haven’t seen many people who played so carelessly with their own talents. A man who could have worked at a good institution with a fat salary if he wanted was a poor unemployed person. Hearing my phone conversation, he said, “You can take some money from me.” I said, “Oh come on! I don’t need it. I have money.” “Come on man! Take 500 taka from me. I’m not giving you this money as charity. You absolutely must return it.” “Brother, where did you get the money from?” “I won some money from prize bonds. My plan today was to break 500 taka and give 10 taka each to 50 poor people. Right now, you’re also a poor person! Hahaha……. Come on brother, take it. I’m not helping you. Return it when you remember. Okay?” Five hundred taka was a lot of money to me then. For the first and last time in my life, I borrowed 500 taka from someone. (Later I learned that Ujjal-da himself had borrowed 1500 taka from Arif bhai two days earlier, and from that he gave me 500. Only he could do such a thing. Once during intense winter, I had gone to Bandarban with him. Then he had given his own sweater to a poor man. He had no other warm clothes with him.) At that moment I had a few hundred-taka notes in my hand and exactly 10 days ahead of me.
That one week was the best week of my life. The canteen had closed for Eid.
The cheapest food shop next to the IBA hostel was called (probably) Bhai Bhai Hotel. But even there you couldn’t eat rice within 20 taka—it cost at least 38 taka. I convinced myself that nobody dies from not eating or eating less. Otherwise, millions would have died during the Liberation War. Compared to the work they did without eating, eating less, mine was child’s play! I bought cheap bread from the shop. I would eat that and fill my stomach with water. Only I and my God knew about this incident. Ujjal-da had left for his home in Chittagong to spend the holidays the day after. I would tell myself, “You are nothing to this world right now. You haven’t been able to fulfill any of your responsibilities toward your family. Among your batch, you are the most behind. Because of you, your parents are humiliated before everyone. You haven’t been able to arrange your life due to your own mistakes, so you have no right no right no right to enjoy life……!!!” I realized then that you could live eagerly awaiting just one bowl of lentils and one plate of rice. This way I ate for one week: biscuits and bread, chips for a day or two. Every day I slept about 4-5 hours. The rest of the time was devoted meditation and prayer—preparation to touch dreams. After one week, when I calculated and saw that I had enough money for the remaining 3 days to eat rice once and bread once each day, that afternoon I ate rice at that cheap Bhai Bhai Hotel after a ‘long’ week. Egg curry and thin masoor dal with fluffy white hot rice blooming like flowers. I still remember clearly—it felt like I was eating ambrosia! I don’t recall ever eating such delicious food anywhere else in my life. (In childhood, once due to an accident, I had to go without rice for a week. I was very small then, studying in class two.) The very next day the canteen reopened. I ate there for the remaining two days. You could eat on credit at the canteen. I could have eaten on credit there if I wanted. I have never bought anything on credit in my life. I didn’t buy on credit those two days either. On the 11th day, my younger brother sent 50 thousand taka to my account. I had never understood before how devastating financial hardship could be.
Today, at 31 years of age, what I learned from that one week of worship, I doubt I could have learned from reading a hundred books! Worship teaches you to see life.