People who are completely behind in life often come to me for career advice. For two reasons. First, I don’t scold them even when they ask utterly foolish questions. Nobody is more welcoming than me when it comes to asking all sorts of ridiculous questions. Second, they consider me one of their own. What this means is, they believe I’ve transformed from a donkey into a human being. Therefore, if they listen to my wisdom, they too can transform from donkey to human. This sense of kinship they feel toward me constantly reminds me that no one remains a fool forever. And it also brings back memories of what an exceptional breed of goat I used to be. I smile to myself—a smile of happiness.
When they come, no matter how tired I am, I make time, I talk with them. Someone came today as well. My posting is at the airport now. I returned from the airport at 10 PM, and tomorrow I have to rush back to duty at 5 AM. I can’t say “no,” so many people consider me approachable and come to share their troubles. I listen carefully, convince them that they’re not the most miserable people in the world. No matter how I write when I’m writing, my way of speaking is mostly goat-like in nature, so they can never think of me as someone distant. They feel peaceful, and so do I. If someone says they can’t do anything, I tell them that only oxen can do everything. Ah! This makes them so happy. But I don’t just leave it at that—if you can’t do anything, I also give them the wisdom of how to avoid trouble even when you can’t do anything. Why do I do this? I find joy in this very journey!
There are some benefits to this. It brings back memories of old times. Just like today, while talking a little while ago, I remembered that I once ran a business. I had a gift shop. Like any other shopkeeper, I used to call people from the street to sell gifts. (I was only slightly different in one aspect. That bastard education had inflated my prestige a bit, so I felt embarrassed to call out to people. When someone kindly came to the shop, I’d start babbling and sell them things. But my “Dobhana” really had a good reputation. Dobhana was the name of my gift shop. The shop had a huge collection. Some rare items could only be found at my shop. Many regular customers of Hallmark and Archies became our regular customers, meaning we lured them away, or perhaps they drifted over on their own. I sold the shop long ago. The shop is gone, but the memories remain.) I used to buy things for one taka from Chawk Bazaar in Old Dhaka and sell them to people for two taka with convincing chatter. There was no difference between me and the Class Five-Six pass shopkeepers next to me. They too would mislead people and sell earrings, and so would I. Truly, there was no difference. They were my colleagues. My most learned colleague had passed Intermediate on his third attempt, and since I had passed it in one go (I hadn’t completed my honors yet. I had plans to not complete my honors), my respect came after his, which was universally acknowledged. There was only one difference between us: when there were no customers, they might apply nail polish, while I would read storybooks, listen to songs, watch movies, write on Facebook. No other difference. That same street shopkeeper later came first in the BCS exam. So when someone tells me their subject isn’t good, their results aren’t good, I find it very amusing. Hey brother, the result I achieved in graduation, praise be to God, would require launching a major anti-study campaign with great effort. To become that much of a donkey would require burning not just twigs and straw, but big trees and heaps of hay. The fact that people now speak to me with some respect—that’s my fortune of not seven, but seventy million lifetimes! You crazy people! Keep trying! If you’re crazy, then I’m the emperor of crazy! You can never tell where life will take you and leave you!!
Today I was feeling quite peaceful thinking about something. Later I realized, peace isn’t in my destiny. Many people have been asking me in my inbox: Brother, are you ill? You haven’t written anything? Listen, dear brothers and sisters, there’s something called writer’s block. When this happens, writers simply cannot write. They lose the ability to write; permanently or temporarily. Many great writers of the world have fallen into this problem and, in their frustration, have even left this world. I was thinking, let me play along a bit, maybe this has happened to me too. That means I’m also, you know, a writer. The public’s love wouldn’t let me pretend to be a writer anymore. Cruel, merciless, ruthless, stone-hearted, tasteless public. What a pitiable matter! (Have you noticed that I’ve put on quite a bit of airs!)
“পাগলারা !!! চেষ্টা চালায় যা ! তোরা পাগলা হইলে আমি পাগলাসম্রাট !!”
জাঁহাপনা তুসি গ্রেট হো …🥰🥰🥰