You confuse me with your readers, don't you? Your readers only listen to you, while I feel you. Even then, are we the same? I've seen some people follow you for no reason at all, while others do it for their own purposes. They don't even read your writing. They don't own a single book of yours. I know several such people. And they need you only for their own benefit. As a reader of your writing, I've never said anything to you in my life. Today I'm speaking. Don't take it badly. Your readers and followers often go to your wall and write lies. These same people also spread nasty things about you. You write such long posts—they should take at least half an hour to read, minimum twenty minutes; and some posts aren't fully comprehensible on first reading, they take time to understand. Yet these people share them within three minutes of posting. Fifty shares in ten minutes. There's a limit to foolishness. Do you read their comments? Most comment just to get replies. And they want to be your friend to show off to others or even to themselves that they're connected to you. Nothing else. Why would those who actually read your writing want to be your friend? And what would those who won't read a single piece do by being your Facebook friend? What's the point of wanting to be on the friend list of someone you could simply follow? These fools keep babbling without understanding. When they don't understand a post, they still comment. There aren't even ten people in your follower list who can offer proper criticism—you can trust me on this. Sometimes they praise you so much that they outright compare you to Rabindranath! How irritating it is to see! As if comparison itself expresses their love. You know what? They read neither Rabindranath nor you. Those who read your writing criticize your speeches; and those who watch your speeches but have never read a single letter of your writing—they criticize your writing. I mean, seriously? There should be a limit to foolishness! Those who keep saying they love you so much—if you kept them with you for three days, they'd run away. Why? Because you're nothing like what they imagine from seeing you from afar or reading your writing. Nobody in the world is like their writing or speech. Reading writing to know the writer, or hearing speeches to understand the speaker—I find both nearly impossible. Understanding you—I mean, as much as is possible—has cost me dearly. Being with you is one of the world's most difficult tasks. I don't leave because I can't abandon you. With your level of bad temper and stubbornness (along with some other issues), it's extremely difficult to survive with you. Yes, you have good sides too. And I'm crazy anyway, so don't count my calculations. Anyway, what I was saying—when I criticize, I do it line by line, ever since I learned to flip through a few books. This part is good, this part is average, this part isn't good—I like to speak exactly this way. But I'm not scholar enough to criticize either. I don't have the qualifications to say whether someone's writing is good or bad. Writing I can easily understand seems good to me; what I don't understand isn't good. That's my calculation. For instance, I used to read your English pieces with great interest, waiting eagerly, because I like your English writing. Yes, I don't understand the deeper meanings of many lines—they take time. Their literal translations make me laugh. I'd see those getting so many shares within two minutes! I don't like how you force rhythm in your poetry. I mean, when you pay attention to rhythm, you often can't write what you should—that's what I think. The ones you write without matching rhythm turn out relatively better. Again, most of the pieces with names, places, and characters don't read well. The English piece you wrote on the 4th or 5th of last month was quite good. If I start talking about your writing, my night will pass. There was a time I used to judge every line of yours, thinking about how much I liked or disliked each part. I was a regular reader of your writing, absolutely regular. By saying all this, I don't mean to suggest I'm some great reader of yours. There must be other people who, like me, read silently and—forget liking or commenting—haven't even followed you! I don't know why I'm saying all this today. I thought I'd never speak from a reader's position. And now I can't read anymore even if I wanted to. I don't go to your timeline either. You know, one can't be a reader or critic with personal possessiveness. Then the whole thing becomes completely one-sided. When you fall in love with someone, everything about them seems good. The good seems good, the bad seems good too. I don't read anymore because of this torment. It's not like my not reading will affect you in any way. But I can't read anymore—this is my pain, I deprive myself. From what topic have I wandered where! You know when I feel bad? When I see you confuse me with your readers or followers. If everyone were together, you wouldn't even be able to find me—thinking this brings a sharp scream from within. You give me the same place you give them, or perhaps even less! I feel bad thinking that I have many alternatives in your life, that my place isn't mine alone. But I didn't fall in love with you after reading your writing. I gradually fell in love with you after seeing you up close. At that time I forgot you were a writer. I didn't come to you after just twenty-two days thinking this person writes well, many people know him. I've treated you as a very ordinary person from the very beginning until now. I fell in love with you because I saw an ordinary person in you, without knowing much else. All my demands, my sense of entitlement—none of these are asked of a writer, they're all addressed to your individual self. You don't understand anything unless everything is spelled out for you. So I've spelled it out. I also know that every word, every letter of all these words is worthless to you. Those people who tell you, "Brother, my mother fasts for you," this and that, nonsense... do you know how many fasts I've kept for you, for which I don't even have a count, how many vows, how many shrine visits! Yet you've told me that all this is nothing but my pointless madness! I say so many things, but I don't feel like going around talking about such things like other people. Because it's natural that I'll do these things for the one I love! And what's the point of publicizing all this? What reward is there? One who loves doesn't speak of love. Those who don't know what love is—they're the ones who speak of it. I keep saying it because I like to say it, or perhaps I too don't know what love is. The people who tell you these things... that they do this or that for you—they actually do it just to be able to say it. Don't mind my words. If I started telling you what I do, you'd either think me crazy or not believe me at all. So be it! You won't understand my happiness or my suffering. You don't need to understand either. I've written such a long message that there's no space left in the inbox! Where do I find so many words! I know very well you won't even read it. Still, I wrote it. Listen, have any of your followers seen you cry like a child? Seen your emotions? Seen your vulnerability? I have seen it. Even if briefly, I've seen it. How you place me in everyone else's queue is beyond my comprehension. Anyway, it's time for the call to prayer now—I've said so much while fasting. Pray this much for me: that I may live well, otherwise that I may die. I once lived on mercy, now I don't even get that much. Let me just die, let everyone else live! Sorry, yes? I've overstepped my bounds far too much today. Your heart is big—forgive me. Though there's no point telling you all this! I forget in your behavior that I too am a human being. But there's benefit in telling Allah. He doesn't turn anyone away. Let Him know what needs knowing. You keep knowing about those who stay around you. You give your time to them—time is so precious! Let them explain to you what love is, how to love, what needs to be done. We who live far away don't understand these things. We can't show off so much either. Take your time to explain carefully to your loved ones—these aren't things for show. These are things to believe in even knowing we won't experience such feelings again. Why don't you speak? Just a little conversation keeps me happy. Would your happiness decrease if you kept me a little happy? Would you die if I lived? Fine, don't speak then. I know talking to me wastes a lot of your time. Listen, I want so much to see you that I go to YouTube videos, watch your interviews. I can't bear more than eight to ten minutes. Tears come. Well, why do you speak of your pain this way? Do you have to speak this way? I want to forcibly pull you away from there, stop you from speaking. If I had the power, I would definitely do this. Why do you fold your hands like you're asking for forgiveness? Why should you humble yourself? You cannot humble yourself.
Why do you have to write such vivid descriptions of how you were beaten by teachers in childhood, how and why they hit you? You studied so hard, yet they still beat you? And you would just stay quiet, wouldn’t even tell anyone at home? Why, why, why? Will you remain silent your whole life? Just endure everything? Never tell anyone anything? Just like how you don’t tell me anything either! Were you really that foolish as a child? Fine, you were. But tell me this—why do all those stories keep hitting me so personally? I keep feeling like these are current events. As if you’re suffering right now.
I’m interfering too much in your life, aren’t I? Will you scold me? Go ahead. I’m completely an outsider. When Facebook goes off, I go off too. So why do I keep getting inside you? Can you tell me why your pain, your suffering, criticism about you, jokes at your expense, slander—why does all of it affect me? It feels like someone is hurting me directly! Your writing, your poetry, the way you speak—everything burns me. How much more can you hurt me by avoiding my messages, tell me? Everything about you is tied to my pain. How many places will you exclude me from? Yet I remain anyway. Well, it’s shameful when an aunt cares more than a mother, but what can I do if it hurts? You’ll give me harsh words after this, won’t you?…just like you did that day? Go ahead. I stay far from your life anyway, but what can I do when the air around you touches me?
I’m going overboard with everything—ridiculously overboard. Instead of letting go of my claim, it seems to have grown even stronger. These days my heart burns terribly just to see you a little, but that won’t happen anymore. Listen, there’s a very good shrine here. I didn’t believe in shrines before. Now I do. Do you know what vow I made? You won’t think I’m crazy if you hear it, will you? You won’t laugh, will you? I vowed for my eyes to go blind somehow, by any means. Then one thing would solve everything. I wouldn’t want to see you anymore, couldn’t read your writing, couldn’t write messages. Don’t curse me. I’m not making this up, and I don’t want to claim any part of your life either. I’m just telling you what I did, that’s all.
দাদা আমাদের মতো আবালদের সিস্টেমে বাঁশ দিয়ে দিলেন।তারপরেও যদি আমরা বুঝতে পারি তবেই আপনার সার্থকতা
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