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Thought: Eight Hundred Twenty-Seven
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One. Sometimes I become melancholy for no reason at all. Such gray celebrations of melancholy continue for long stretches of time. Lukewarm, untroubled, unbroken. I tell no one anything, and even while being among everyone around me, I remain alone. Everyone understands that something has happened. What has happened—no one wants to find out. No one bears the responsibility of keeping track of our sorrows, so there’s no desire either. People offer all sorts of remedies to lift one’s spirits. I keep listening and think, ah, if only one of them had the time and patience to listen to the words of my heart the same way I’m silently listening to theirs! Everything they tell me, I already know. I don’t need advice at this moment. I only need one person who will listen to my words quietly, who won’t judge me. No one understands this—everyone has only learned to give advice; no one has learned to listen. People to lecture are everywhere on the streets; people to listen are nowhere to be found. The world has no shortage of teachers, but a great scarcity of friends.
Though I may not admit it to myself, my heart has understood perfectly today that the person I love, who for many days now has been sending me dozens of “I love you”s every day, has never actually loved me at all. The person is essentially with me only to serve their own interests. This staying together is only in name, not in deed. It would be better not to understand that someone is acting out love with me. When one does understand, it becomes a tremendous problem. Then one can no longer accept them from within. The heart suffers greatly. That suffering is not from not having them, but from being unable to convince one’s own mind. Though the mind understands that they were never truly mine, it refuses to accept this. Rejection can be endured, but deception is very difficult to bear. My old person never returns; only their memories keep coming back.
Lately my mood turns sour all of a sudden. Why does this happen? I don’t know. The person I still tell “I love you” to every day—perhaps I no longer love them with my whole being as I once did. This inability to love is like cancer; it only keeps growing. As much as love increases, indifference grows much more. If not being able to love someone who loves me is misfortune, then not being able to love someone I have loved is equivalent to death. Removing someone from the heart is much harder than making room for them in it. Where I brought my body at the demand of my heart, there they drew their heart at the demand of their body. When the body comes at the true demand of the body, that’s called compromise; when the body comes at the false demand of the mind, that’s called sin. The sin whose torment makes me writhe—in the pleasure of that same sin, my beloved remains absorbed.
Often I feel terribly melancholy. Why do I feel this way? I can’t quite understand. Those I consider close—they are all only my relatives or blood relations; in truth, none of them are really my own. Someone who has no one to call their own can accept or reconcile themselves to this; but how can someone accept that those they have to call their own are actually not their own people at all? I have no answers to these questions. And because I don’t, my head aches terribly. When that pain ends, I sit gazing out the window with vacant eyes.
They see my gaze turned skyward; I see my gaze turned toward this meaningless life of mine.
I find myself crying suddenly. I don’t know why. Those I’ve always considered friends aren’t really friends at all—merely acquaintances. It hurts terribly to place acquaintances in the position of friends, only to cast them out again. The one who wasn’t there beside me in times of trouble—I foolishly considered him a friend for days on end. Today I understand: among countless friends, I don’t have a single person who would stand by me in crisis without conditions or self-interest. Someone who isn’t there when needed—whatever else they might be, they are certainly not a friend. Nothing is more foolish than mistaking acquaintances for friends.
Sometimes I feel utterly alone. I can’t fathom why. I realize that among seven and a half billion people, I don’t have a single person who is truly mine. My heart grows heavy. Why does it feel this way? When exactly did this melancholy begin? What makes my heart flee from home like this? I don’t understand—I can’t understand anything at all. I am no longer anyone to anyone. No one is anything to me. I live unconnected to every person on this earth. Every relationship before my eyes is nothing more than an obligation to be discharged.
So much is happening to me, yet I know not a single reason for any of it. Everything happening to me occurs without cause. Today I know that behind every absence of reason lies at least one reason.
Two. Behind the death of every person who commits suicide—writing in steady or trembling hand on a small note “No one is responsible for my death”—the person closest to them is indeed responsible. Sometimes that number rises from one to several.
If you investigate carefully, you’ll discover that such deaths are caused by precisely those people who, despite bearing all visible responsibility, cannot be held accountable. Even those who play every conceivable direct role in bringing about what society sees as merely a voluntary death somehow cannot be found guilty.
Life sometimes becomes terribly complex. We love certain people whom we find impossible to hate while living. We dream of living with certain people who eventually become the sole cause of our death. The very death that breathes continuously down our necks—we dream of filling it with life’s various remedies.
Do you know when life’s most difficult equation takes shape? When you discover that the person you love becomes the sole source of all your hatred. You can neither love them nor hate them—and forgetting is impossible! That unnecessary, irrelevant person becomes more precious than your own lifespan. There is no greater helplessness.
When hatred and love—these two forces—meet at a single point, that’s precisely when all of life’s troubles and crises begin. When this extreme contradiction of feelings arises within your mind for the same person, profound meaninglessness descends upon life. When someone is forced to hate, day after day, the very person they love more than their own life—that’s when the melancholy note of defeat rises to their hand, bearing the words: No one is responsible for my death.
In truth, every suicide is a perfect and premeditated murder.
Reflection: Eight Hundred Twenty-Eight
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One. When a woman once glimpses the shadow of her own father in a man, she wants to keep that man in her life at any cost. Women like to think about which aspects of their beloved resemble their fathers. Some men do this too. When they see the shadow of their mother in a woman, they want to hold her close. Human beings love to remain bound to the trustworthy love of childhood.
When we seek someone for a moment, we look for someone willing to indulge our bodily and mental desires. But when we seek someone for a lifetime, we look for someone willing to shelter all our weariness and unhappiness. So then we don’t merely seek a partner, we seek a mother’s unconditional affection and a father’s cool shade. When we find someone who can transcend the external form of the body and merge with our soul in the intimate depths of the heart, we desperately want to keep them close for the rest of our lives. At day’s end, human beings want to see themselves surrounded by absolute trust and tenderness. To live healthily, the security of peace is more essential than the cultivation of happiness.
When a person asks themselves in deep contemplation what they truly want, the mind then walks mostly in the pull of attachment—not beauty, not virtue, not wealth, but only attachment. Human beings love to remain caught in attachment. In the spell of attachment, humans rise above all logic and ultimately surrender themselves to the source of that attachment. When someone unattractive wins the love of a beautiful person, investigation will reveal that at the root of this mystery lies attachment. Once a person becomes bound by someone’s attachment, they become desperate to have them. In their eyes, that attachment-awakening person becomes the most attractive and beautiful person in this world.
How someone looks matters less than how they appear to whom. To put it simply: when you see someone and think, “So-and-so loves this person! How is that possible!”—that person is incredibly beautiful in so-and-so’s eyes. We forget that whoever loves someone surely sees them as beautiful! Even discussing this reveals foolishness. More importantly, who will feel good living with whom—none of us can decide that for others. Does the life of two people depend on whom we think they suit? Who are you to judge someone’s choice of partner when you cannot take responsibility for their happiness? Happiness, peace, contentment—none of these follow any universal grammar.
Inner beauty always surpasses outer beauty. With external eyes we see the person of the body, and with inner eyes we see the person of the mind. What a person sees with their inner eye becomes the greatest truth in that person’s life. We have neither the obligation nor the responsibility to determine someone else’s truth. Only fools try to impose the truth of their own mind on others. The truth that people try to impose is as much truth as it is a street vendor’s cheap salve. Let us remember that someone’s own understanding is far more important than our judgment about them. That understanding is the secret mystery behind all beauty in the world. Human beings see the world based on the truth of their mind. When a person changes, that truth of the mind changes too. As many people, so many truths.
Human beings live by focusing their entire gaze upon the truth of their own minds. Where the vision of our eyes ends, there begins the sight of the inner eye.
This is why the ungainly, bulging belly of a beloved appears as beautiful as the peak of Kanchenjunga, why sunken eyes rimmed with kohl seem to bloom radiant with the purity of lotus flowers, why even touching dark skin gives birth to a kind of sinless, celestial feeling within the mind. The harsh, discordant voice of a beloved spreads the magical melody of Ravi Shankar’s sitar. Those who do not know how to love will never understand any of this. We see the beloved as beautiful, think of them as beautiful, hear them as beautiful. The judgments and verdicts of fools about this naturally irritate us. We are so worthless and foolish that we live judgmentally even about those with whom we need not share our lives! All the ailments of this world stem from such idleness and poverty of our minds!
Love is an almost undiscovered enchantment. Those who get caught in this net cannot themselves understand what it is they are living within! Today or tomorrow, sooner or later, almost all of us get completely entangled in love’s such enchantment. You can easily pass countless judgments—half-understood or completely misunderstood—about loves you have never fallen into. Only when you yourself dive into something like that will you realize that everything you once said was based on conjecture and complete falsehood.
Two. Before calling someone a fool, it is necessary to first become human oneself. What is the point, really, of continuing to look at someone who seems worthless at first sight, who becomes unbearable, who spoils your mood? Does that person care about your likes and dislikes? Is that person harming you in any way? Does that person get paid when you look at them? If you don’t like them, don’t look at them, don’t go anywhere near them. That’s it!
Doesn’t like them, yet follows at their heels!
What kind of ox burns in such strange, foolish love!
I see some people who harbor infinite hatred toward a particular country. If we loved our own country even a quarter as much as we hate another country, our country could have progressed much further. A country advances through the sincerity of its citizens; what kind of mentality the citizens of another country hold toward that country makes no difference whatsoever to that country. Even the intense hatred of citizens from countries lagging behind ours cannot reduce our GDP by an iota, cannot hinder our progress in the slightest. Rather, instead of this, their love and sense of responsibility toward their own country would greatly increase the possibility of that country becoming our equal.
Even the fierce rage of a donkey cannot stir a single whisker of a lion!
Three. The most honest dedication I have ever read is in this book. It says:
To my wife Marganit and my children Ella Rose and Daniel Adam, without whom this book would have been completed two years earlier.
Four. Look, one day you will have everything, except me. That day you will understand. Around you will be scattered heaps and heaps of happiness, yet in my absence you will weep terribly that day. Even after much crying you will not get me back; before you will lie only my scattered fragments of memory.
**Thought: Eight Hundred and Thirty-Nine
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One.
I dream very small dreams. I will have two fluffy kitten babies and a puppy. Holding them in my lap, I’ll sit on the open balcony every evening with a cup of tea, watching the birds return to their nests in the sky. Spreading enchantment across the entire sky, rows of birds fly home. Some don’t return in formation—they fly alone. What is this called? Solitude? Self-confidence? Fearlessness? Or is this merely obstinacy?
I weave very small dreams. With my own money, I’ll build a small house. The walls of that house will be pristine white. There will be a large piano in the south-facing room. That room will be a trusted ocean of air. Returning from the office, in complete uninterrupted leisure, I’ll suddenly sit down at the piano. There I will create melodies, sing with abandon. Let it be off-key—it’s still my own voice! What makes me happy is surely the most beautiful music in this world. Time will pass in intimate conversation with myself, dispelling the fatigue of daily existence. In the rapture of melody, I’ll listen to the soundlessness of wind flowing by, following my own rhythm. This solitary living of consciousness—this very thing is prayer!
I have very small desires. I will write these desires in my diary. The day I have everything in life, that very day I’ll realize that perhaps I’ll never again have time in this life to fulfill my wishes. From that day will begin my practice of writing down my unfulfillments one by one in the diary. From the day a person begins to become human in everyone’s eyes, from that very day begins their anguished journey toward becoming unhuman. A perfect description of everything I will die without having in this life will remain in that diary. After my death, the gray ashes of that diary will bear silent witness to all my unfulfilled desires.
I have some tender indulgences. When I sulk during the rainy season and sit locked inside my room, my beloved will come running and gently knock on the door, saying, “I’m completely drenched in the rain! Won’t you take me in, at least take this bunch of kadam flowers from my hands? The ice cream bag is hanging from my arm—please accept these flowers and rescue me a little?”
I have some fragmentary dreams. Everything I own, I will write over to the stray dogs and cats on the streets and the homeless before I die. I will will away and donate every organ of my body. I very much wish that my beloved eyes continue to live after my death. May my kidneys save the life of someone dying. Everyone will know I’m gone. And meanwhile, the kohl of my two eyes will mark the attendance of my existence every single day!
My lifelong wish is that not a single penny be spent on me after my death. May the news of my death not even reach those close to me. Let them all know that I am alive. When tears fall for me, I feel as though the weight of sin has bowed down my entire consciousness! Even after death, I don’t want to take responsibility for anyone’s tears. A person who lives completely without expectations cannot, even in their lifetime, bring themselves to think of expecting even a particle of anyone’s tears after death.
I want my death to immediately kill all my desires, achievements, and dreams in a group. They are like my children. After a mother’s death, children often live on in neglect and indifference. Rather than such neglect and indifference, death is preferable.
Two. When Lata Mangeshkar was only 13, her father Shri Deenanath Mangeshkar died of heart disease.
The responsibility of caring for four younger siblings—Meena, Asha, Usha, and Hridaynath—along with their mother fell upon her tender shoulders. Even at that young age, she accepted this responsibility with utmost gravity and, as the family’s sole breadwinner, spent her busy days singing and acting in various musical dramas and films to fulfill her duties. Time flowed on, and with it, her commitments multiplied relentlessly. As the years passed, she eventually decided she would never marry.
For every perfect act of self-sacrifice, some reward is ordained. The sacrificial fire kindled by one who arranges to burn herself never dies out.
I quote from Sukumar Ray’s ‘Archimedes’:
‘King Hiero had given a goldsmith a crown to make from gold. The goldsmith had crafted the crown well enough, but the king suspected that he had stolen some gold and mixed alloy into the crown to conceal the theft. To find out if this theft could be detected by some simple means, he summoned his friend Archimedes. Hearing everything, Archimedes said, “Let me think about it.” Several days passed in contemplation. One day, during his bath, he had just removed his clothes and stepped into the bathing tub when some water overflowed, and suddenly a wonderful solution to the problem flashed in his mind. Where did the bath go then! Immediately he ran out into the street shouting “Eureka!” “Eureka!” (I have found it! I have found it!)… What he had found that made him so ecstatically absent-minded is still called “Archimedes’ principle” in science.’
The world has remembered Archimedes’ madness of that day as the story of an absent-minded scientist’s great discovery. Not everyone has such fortune; the rest remain merely mad. Everyone commits acts of madness, yet only the madness of geniuses finds place in the world’s history. People call someone mad whose madness ultimately remains nothing but madness. People don’t merely call such a person mad and leave it at that—they add another word and call them mad-fool.
Success comes slowly, climbing the stairs of failure, hand in hand with boundless dedication and calculated effort. There is only one shortcut to success—working with understanding and wisdom. The work that one does with love, spending continuous time behind it, eventually makes one skilled. The work of expert hands and clumsy hands can never be the same. There are always significant differences in the results of work. People say the fruit of waiting is sweet. In truth, it is not the fruit of waiting, but of active waiting that becomes sweet.
The more times and more forcefully one falls to the ground while trying to stand up, the more one’s mental strength and work’s edge increase. Let the nature of labor be such that the dark circles under one’s eyes from toil one day become the kohl of work’s recognition, reddening both eyes. Let the journey of labor be silent and uninterrupted; let its fruit’s manifestation be vocal and magnificent. The more one talks during work, the more people talk about them after the work ends.
One must learn to wait silently. One must know when to raise one’s voice. Can the end be guessed from seeing the beginning of a game? Perhaps it can be for some people. They are legendary players. If you belong to their ranks, that’s wonderful. But if you don’t, then prepare yourself so magnificently that however you play, the spectators never lose faith in you. Let everyone look toward you and wait to see when you will score that goal.
Become a Lionel Messi or a Cristiano Ronaldo.
As long as they remain on the field, everyone watches their feet with bated breath, waiting in eager anticipation to see when the ball at their feet will find its way into the goalpost. Even in the final minutes of the game, they can turn the tide of the match. No one can believe that today’s game might end without a goal from their feet!
Make yourself such a reliable magician. No one expects a tiger’s roar from a donkey, nor does anyone imagine a donkey’s bray from a tiger. The joy of living like a tiger lies precisely there!
Reflection: Eight Hundred Thirty
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One. All those who visit my wall are superior to me in every way—in knowledge, character, intelligence; in short, they are better in all aspects of enrichment. I feel no sorrow about this. I humbly accept your excellence with bowed head. How much can a person achieve in one lifetime anyway! A small life can be lived through quite well even without gaining much! You can rest assured of this: I am not a noble person like you, nor do I harbor the remotest desire to become one. I am bad, so I will go to hell. I have no objection to going to hell, but the way some of you try to drag me toward heaven truly irritates me.
I generally keep myself several hundred hands away from heaven’s agents. Let us remember that offering unsolicited lessons in virtue to someone whose burden of sin I won’t have to bear is nothing but presenting oneself as an annoying person. Whether one goes to heaven or hell is none of my business, but being busy trying to take someone else to heaven! What a ridiculous judge—hanging from the gallows himself while ordering someone else’s execution! When someone smokes marijuana, your lungs don’t burn, so why does your heart burn when they smoke cigarettes? Given the chance, every rascal wants to become God! At day’s end, they remain rascals, not gods.
I am irritated by all this. Seeing such expressions of irritation, some people, with perfect sense of duty, unleash whatever dialogues they’ve painstakingly learned in this life. A very common one is: “Pride is the root of downfall.” Listen, brother, someone who doesn’t know how to prevent downfall will fall whether they have pride or not. Learn to prevent downfall, and life will be pleasant. Humility is a great thing when shown in the right place. Misplaced humility brings sorrow. There’s no point being humble before a goat. The fellow only eats jackfruit leaves anyway—if it sees humility before its eyes, it mistakes that too for leaves and chews it up noisily. I see another dialogue: “A wicked person should be abandoned even if learned.” So brother, if I dance like a good companion before you, will I get money? Or if you certify me as wicked, will I wash that certificate and drink the water? By the way, if the person is so contemptible, why do you come to him and dance like that? Brother oh brother, have you no shame?
Let me speak about a relevant matter. At one time I used to promote the Writing to Words group in comments, now I promote Roupyarup group. Many people are upset about this too! What exactly they’re upset about isn’t clear to me. Roupyarup is my younger brother and his wife’s establishment. They sell silver jewelry online. In terms of quality, collection, and commitment, no one in Bangladesh comes even close to them right now. I only just told you about them recently! Long, long before that, the name of Bangladesh’s largest establishment in silver ornament sales was already Roupyarup.
The money that comes from selling jewelry covers the lion’s share of our household expenses. If I won’t promote that business on my own page wall, should I dance to advertisements for your uncle’s mangoes? What do I gain if you come to my wall selling mangoes, lychees, bananas, and grapefruits? Wouldn’t you work to boost your brother’s business success? Or is it forbidden for Sushanta Pal to do such work? Who made this rule? You? Oh really!? You are so sweet…so cute! Does Sushanta not eat or wear clothes? Yes, if my such ‘shameless promotion’ makes you itch too much, then you can unfollow or block me to keep yourself safe. (If you search on Google, how to unfollow a page comes up with pictures and videos. It would be good if you took a little trouble to look there.)
I don’t get paid when you follow me. You’re not even a customer of Roupyarup. I don’t even expect a cup of tea from you. I don’t have much to learn from you either. Despite all these ‘no’s, I don’t have ocean-deep true love within me that would make me embrace you and shower you with kisses when I see your ha-ha reactions or hate comments. I have no obligation whatsoever to show tolerance toward the rude and senseless. You can’t come to a page with millions on its ban list and create such a ruckus, dear Chowdhury saheb! I may be poor, but I too have considerable (Facebook) prestige!
I keep in mind that you’ve come here to enjoy the butter. You know me through my writing or words. Not a penny of yours was spent in getting to know me. Not a penny entered my pocket through your acquaintance. I didn’t send police to your house forcing you to know me. You got to know me for your own need. When that need is exhausted, forget me as quickly as possible—it won’t affect me at all. You read my writing for free, listen to my words for free, yet where do such expectations come from, boss?
Longevity is more urgent than immortality. Staying well is more urgent than love. Family is more urgent than Facebook.
(Have you noticed that I’ve cleverly promoted Roupyarup through this post? Has noticing this ruined your mood? Are all your hairs burning with rage and fury? Will you unfollow me this very moment and walk away? Do I now have to dance and sing Syed Abdul Hadi’s “Jeyo na shathi…” in a tearful voice for you? Brother…oh brother, just tell me what I should do…just once…please, I beg you! Still, don’t leave me! If you leave me, I’ll starve for rice, I’ll die for clothes. Your love, your affection, your respect, your reverence, your likes, your comments, your shares…it’s by chewing and eating these that my stomach fills, sir!)
Two. A few more books from my collection…
I have a great desire to someday make a documentary about my small library when I manage to organize the books. That would be useful to many people.
Sometimes when I share pictures of books and write something about books, those who think, “Look how that fellow is showing off!” I humbly tell them, “Please don’t think that way. What seems like showing off to you might be inspiration for buying and reading books for someone else.” I am showing off a bit—you take selfies to show yourself because you have a good face; I show myself through books because my face isn’t that good. But the purpose is the same!
Buying books and reading books may not accomplish much else, but for some people, at least, the mind moves forward a little. This is what I’ve learned from life.
Thought: Eight Hundred Thirty-One
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One. Being able to work hard—this is a tremendous opportunity. Not everyone is blessed with such a chance. Or even when they are, by the time it arrives, they no longer possess the mental or physical capacity to labor.
How so? Let me break this down.
We cannot simply choose to invest our efforts in work that helps us move forward. Often, time and circumstances are not in our favor. It also happens that we don’t get the opportunity to do the very work where our labor might yield fruitful returns. We may not yet be able to position ourselves in a place where our efforts would receive proper recognition. Not everyone is undervalued due to lack of merit; many are undervalued due to lack of opportunity. For others, the cause of their undervaluation lies in insufficient willpower. When such situations arise, the very opportunity to work hard fails to materialize.
It’s crucial to be able to discover work where investing time and effort can bring enrichment to life, or to keep oneself engaged in such work. Those who don’t have these two paths open to them cannot find opportunities to work hard, despite their desire to do so. People fail to progress not because they don’t work hard, but because they cannot work hard toward the right goals. There are many paths ahead; understanding which path is mine at the right time is essential. It also happens that the goal is indeed correct, but all roads leading toward that goal are blocked for one reason or another. Not finding a goal, losing the path toward the goal, being unable to align the goal with favorable circumstances—these three things can render a person completely helpless and ineffectual.
Many wander about like lost souls until they find a path where walking makes them feel, “Yes, this is exactly the right path for me!” Not every path is meant for everyone. No path is wrong, but every path is surely wrong for someone or other. The meaning of “wrong path” is wrong for a specific person or for a specific time or circumstance. A path that leads someone to their destination can never be the wrong path for them. A person’s intent and destiny determine their path. The rightness of a path is relative, so judging another’s path as wrong is profound foolishness.
Many people must wait day after day because the thought of work that could transform their fortune simply doesn’t occur to them. I’ve also seen many become discouraged after sincere effort and tireless labor yield no satisfactory results, eventually becoming disillusioned with life itself. The day that is not mine—even if I pour all my effort and labor into it, that night still passes in melancholy. It’s far better to walk toward small goals and achieve great things than to run toward great goals and achieve small things. Life’s beauty grows not through merit but through the strength of intent. People live primarily through a wonderful interplay of intent and destiny. Even those who don’t believe in destiny cannot step outside its bounds.
Your efforts are undiminished, your goodwill intact, your willpower unwavering—yet despite all this, somehow you cannot find that opportunity, or that opportunity is not being given to you, or it remains invisible even when it stands before your eyes, the opportunity through which you could prove yourself. I have seen this too: even after succeeding in proving themselves, many continue to be deprived of all opportunities, and remain so. Circumstances simply refuse to turn favorable, even after hundreds of attempts! In such cases, though the will to work remains, the opportunity does not.
If ever such an opportunity comes in life, when you are receiving the rightful reward for your labor, then that opportunity itself is the opportunity to work. At such times, the wise course is to shake off all laziness, excuses, and ego (the sense of self) and make the fullest use of the opportunity. Such opportunities do not come repeatedly. Many wait and still do not receive even one such chance. When working, it is better to work with full attention. For those who carelessly lose this opportunity, sorrow in life is inevitable.
People do not die from excessive labor; they die from the lack of opportunity to labor. The fatigue of labor is the very source of good fortune. The history of the world is essentially the history of those who have been able to make use of the opportunity to work hard.
Two. According to various scholars, ‘The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna’ is one of the 100 most important spiritual books of the twentieth century. The English translation of the Bengali work Sri Sri Ramakrishna Kathamrita was done by the distinguished writer and philosopher Swami Nikhilananda. The preface to this translation was written by the English writer and philosopher Aldous Huxley, and it was edited by the world-renowned professor of comparative religion Joseph Campbell and Margaret Woodrow Wilson, daughter of American President Woodrow Wilson. In this book, philosophy and spirituality are woven together in remarkably accessible language through conversations and stories. For relieving mental fatigue and finding answers to various doubts, this book proves infallible for many!
Those who have read ‘Devabani,’ a collection of several lectures by Swami Vivekananda, know how much the book serves as a friend when one wishes to dive into the ocean of philosophical and spiritual thought! I know of very few discussions of philosophy/Vedanta of such high caliber. From mid-June to early August 1895, at Thousand Island Park, Vivekananda delivered several lectures before a select group of disciples. Sarah Ellen Waldo had recorded some of these. These lectures are compiled in the fourth volume of Swami Vivekananda’s Complete Works.
Those interested in the Upanishads or Vedanta might leaf through the Upanishads translated by Swami Tyagisananda. There are few such heart-touching discussions of Vedanta presented in such simple terms. I believe that listening to Swami Sarvapriyananda’s lectures on Vedanta on YouTube will spread a kind of peace throughout the mind. I have found no better lectures anywhere for experiencing Vedanta. Through twelve lectures, he has explained Drig-Drishya-Viveka so simply that I never imagined the essence of this fundamental Vedantic text could be understood so easily. Reading Swami Lokeswarananda’s ‘Upanishad’ published by Ananda Publishers in two volumes might reveal some deeper, more solitary paths. The path of Vedanta has always been a solitary one.
Let me tell you how I read books. When I begin reading any book, if I find that I am not enjoying it, that what I seek is not there, I immediately stop reading it. One can tell by flipping through the pages whether a book suits one’s mind or taste.
I don’t believe that buying a book means you must read it. If I buy 100 books, perhaps I’ll read 10. Had I not bought those 100 books, how would I have known which 10 would suit my mind? Therein lies the joy of book-buying!
Let me clarify: I never read any book out of attraction or devotion to a particular religion. Where there is no literature, history, philosophy, spirituality, or psychological journey, there I am not either. I deeply realize that reading has no connection with religious practice.
We are grateful to several institutions for publishing books on philosophy, spirituality, and various psychological analyses at unbelievably low prices:
Udbodhan Karyalaya
Gita Press, Gorakhpur
Islamic Foundation, Bangladesh
Ramakrishna Mission Institute of Culture
Sri Aurobindo Ashram, Pondicherry
I love keeping some wonderfully excellent books from these publishers in my personal library. I’m sharing pictures of some books from my collection with you. Perhaps some of you will benefit from this. Incidentally, a few days ago I managed to collect 7 more volumes of the Veda-granthamala published by the Ramakrishna Mission Institute of Culture, which you can see in the picture. To my knowledge, out of 60 volumes to be published, they have so far released 36 volumes, all of which are in my collection.
Thoughts: Eight Hundred Thirty-Two
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One. Those who cause pain by being obtuse—when they begin to understand—somehow it hurts even more, I don’t know why!
Two. I never wanted to have you.
Then why am I crying so for not having you?
We most likely only wanted to win, not to be happy. That’s why victory came in this life, but happiness didn’t. People bargain with happiness hoping to win. Later, after becoming victorious, they want to bargain with victory, but can no longer do so.
Not everyone wants love; many want only a social identity. At some point they perhaps gain that identity, but lose love. Then, try as they might, they cannot understand what they actually wanted! In the weave of regret, despite having every identity, people live identityless.
Three. When some stranger comes and tells me, “I don’t like you,” I feel like saying to them: “What do you say! You don’t like me! What catastrophe! Then what was the point of my living all these years! What will become of me now! Should I immediately commit suicide by drowning in half a glass of water in your honor? Good question—does the water have to be mineral water? Or would boiled water be fine too?”
The person who doesn’t even know you—don’t you feel ashamed going to their wall or talking behind their back with all that chatter, brother? Idle person, so busy! Do you get paid for doing this? What’s the point of going to dance around on the wall of someone you don’t like? What’s the point of staring at the face of someone you can’t stand? If you don’t like someone, will a few of their hairs turn gray?
You don’t like me? Oh I see! So what…then? Do I even care? Why are you so cute, babu! Ummmah…!!
Four. You may be very sad that someone else has gotten the person you want. The person who wants to have you perhaps doesn’t know that someone is very sad having gotten you. Before getting someone, many things seem apparent from a distance. If you don’t get them, you can never understand what brings happiness and what brings sorrow.
Among the few infallible ways of knowing people, two stand out: lending them money, and marrying them. Until you lend someone money, many a devil appears angelic. The one you couldn’t marry always seems devastatingly beautiful. Everything we know about untested people is based on conjecture, and therefore far more likely to be wrong. Only one who has tasted knows how sweet which honey truly is!
Five. There are generally two subjects I am not prepared to hear or speak about:
My personal affairs
My office affairs
Why?
You have no personal acquaintance with me. You are neither my friend, nor my colleague, not even an acquaintance. You have never come to my home, I have never visited yours. There is virtually no possibility or likelihood of either event occurring. Therefore I have not the slightest interest in your personal matters and certainly never will, nor can I see a single reason why you should be interested in mine. Naturally, your comments, questions, and advice about my personal life irritate and embarrass me. I don’t even know who you are, nor does the slightest desire arise to know. What is the source of all this curiosity? One cannot ask personal questions of someone who doesn’t know them. Even if curiosity arises in the mind, it must be swallowed. Understanding this simple thing doesn’t require being a rocket scientist.
Considering my professional life, there should be no contact between us at all! Who are you? My esteemed stakeholder? My respected colleague? You are none of these! Then there is no relationship between us whatsoever! No, that’s wrong—there is one. Where? On Facebook, on YouTube. How? You know me from reading my writing, hearing my speeches, seeing my work. Beyond this, no other acquaintance exists between us. Seeing your unnecessary, unsolicited, irrelevant comments about BCS, office, government jobs and such is deeply irritating. Can one ask such questions of someone who doesn’t even know of your existence? Do I ever post anything that would invite such questions or comments? Speaking only about what I write or post would be basic courtesy. Even beneath a love poem, if you comment with words like BCS, jobs, cadre, English-math-guidebooks, office, then irritation is inevitable! At such times, I do exactly what you would do if someone irritated you.
In this life of ours, there are virtually no necessary people! We live solitary lives amid crowds of people! Trying to keep everyone happy means drowning one’s own life in an ocean of suffering. What does it matter to me if someone who irritates and embarrasses me is happy or unhappy! I’m not running for election, am I? Not everyone is needed to live beautifully.
The mantra for staying alive is simple: The fewer people you add, the more pain you remove.
Six. Fearing sin, I have deprived myself day after day of so many sinful pleasures in this life, yet in the end no virtue has accumulated in my record! How do I know it hasn’t accumulated? If it were bound to, then why has life turned out this way? Now I think perhaps those were merely lack of courage or opportunity, not fear of sin. It’s also possible that the race of virtue-loss in this life is longer than the virtue-gain of that life.
Seven. The fewer virtues one possesses, the more one searches for faults in others.
I have never yet seen a person of merit spending their time hunting for others’ faults. They don’t have that kind of time — all their time is spent cultivating their own virtues.
Eight. The person who says “You really can’t make tea at all!” and yet happily, eagerly, graciously sips down two or three cups of your tea — blowing on it to cool it — may not say “I love you” aloud, but truly loves you.
The person who complains daily, “My whole life has been ruined because of you!” and yet doesn’t leave you — may not say “I love you” aloud, but truly loves you.
After a tremendous fight and the three thousand and twenty-fifth breakup, the person who still calls to make sure you’ve reached home safely — may not say “I love you” aloud, but loves you from the heart.
The absent-minded, foolish person who forgets your birthday or anniversary but suddenly remembers and sheepishly puts a packet of your favorite fuchka or chatpati in your hands, or at least a candy — may not express “I love you” in words, but truly loves you.
The person who grows restless when you’re late returning home, who understands the reason for your sadness just by looking at your face, who can hear the sharp cry of melancholy hidden in the silence of your wordless smile — that person truly, truly loves you.
“I love you!” — how difficult it is to say it just like that! Only those who truly love understand this.
Love, in fact, is a relative matter. Different people love in different ways. Different people express love differently, receive it differently. You can say “I love you” while harboring heaps of hatred or indifference in your chest. Again, you can say “I hate you” while carrying a heart full of love, or you can simply remain silent, saying nothing at all. What a strange mystery this is! What an unresolved cycle!
Perhaps because love can never be explained through words or letters, we somehow understand that the person who often says “I’m leaving you!” will never actually leave. And we also subconsciously understand that the person who says “I’ll never leave you!” will indeed leave in a couple of days.
People can understand everything, yet choose not to understand even by mistake.
People can think everything through, yet lack the courage to think.
**Reflection: Eight Hundred Thirty-three
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One. The translated works of the man who shaped Rabindranath into Rabindranath deserve special consideration. Yes, among the invaluable gems we have received through the translations of Jyotirindranath Tagore, Rabindranath Tagore’s elder brother, “Gitarahasya” by Bal Gangadhar Tilak, originally written in Marathi, is prominent. Those who are dedicated readers of philosophy might keep this commentary on the Gita close at hand. I intend to write about other books in my collection that offer philosophical (rather than devotionally enriched) commentaries on the Gita.
The first book that enrolled me in the school of spirituality and philosophy was Sri Aurobindo’s “The Divine Life.” The original book was written in English, “The Life Divine.” One of my maternal uncles had gifted me this book. Reading a book written in such elevated English was quite difficult for me as an intermediate student. Later, I obtained a translation and read the book. Truth be told, even the translation was quite challenging to read and understand. In Bengali history, there are few scholars who match the caliber of sage Sri Aurobindo. If you wish, you can read about him on the internet, and you will receive wonder and joy as gifts for reading. Almost all the books published by his Pondicherry Ashram are in my collection. I will write about them sometime when I have the opportunity.
I would like to share the names of two more of my favorite spiritual texts: Paramahansa Yogananda’s *Autobiography of a Yogi*, and Mahendranath Gupta’s *Sri Sri Ramakrishna Kathamrita*.
For his collection “Songs of the Bengalis” (1905) — containing 5,663 songs written by 227 lyricists (with brief biographical sketches) — Bengalis owe a debt to the great scholar Durgadas Lahiri for another reason. Nearly a hundred years ago, he wrote commentaries, translations, and explications of the Vedas in forty-nine volumes (16 volumes on the Rig Veda, 2 on the Shukla Yajurveda, 7 on the Krishna Yajurveda, 9 on the Sama Veda, and 5 on the essence of all Vedas — Gyanabad). That immortal achievement is now nearly impossible to find, scattered across some ancient libraries in India. Akshay Library has published an abridged version of his invaluable work.
In my personal opinion, Rabindranath Tagore’s finest creations are his short stories and songs. Particularly, the infinite power his songs hold over our minds is universally acknowledged. The role of Rabindrasangeet in music therapy is undeniable. Researchers have endless interest in questions like: which song did he write in what context and with what thought in mind, how were the melodies and notations of various songs constructed, and so forth. Prabir Guha Thakurta’s *Rabindrasangeet Mahakosh* is a comprehensive reference work for learning about and understanding Tagore’s songs in chronological detail. Among the research books on Rabindrasangeet in my library, this is the largest in scope.
**Two.** How strange humans are! They think they are crying for love, yet they are actually crying for *maya* — attachment. Yes, sometimes people cry not from love, not from passion, but from *maya*. When we remember that person who left the deepest wound in our hearts and walked away, sometimes we wake up in the middle of the night, tears streaming from both eyes. When thoughts of them arise at high noon, sobs come wrenching up from the chest. Something burns and chars inside, and keeps burning.
The mind asks: What is this person to me now?
The heart answers: This person is still my life!
The thought that the departed person inflicted pain causes suffering, but a hundred times more painful is this imperishable memory: this very person once wept inconsolably at my slightest hurt. This very person once sang lullabies in the sweetest voice to put me to sleep. The person who now cuts off phone calls and pours their heart out to some third, new voice — this same person once could never sleep without hearing my voice. How much time changes everything!
We remain trapped not by the person themselves, but by the *maya* of memories entwined with them — that’s why we writhe constantly in such anguish. The heart only burns, and keeps burning.
When their favorite song drifts from somewhere, the heart weeps — the song I once waited eagerly to hear in their wonderfully off-key voice. Their favorite color, beloved poem, or their preferred tea stall — even seeing these things creates terrible melancholy. In such moments of heartache, suppressed tears awaken as we bite our lips; sometimes gentle smiles dance in our eyes.
Eventually we learn to hate not the person, but the memories. Yes, at some point we learn to hate even that tea stall where we sat together, that road we walked hand in hand, even that hooded rickshaw we rode together. Not the person who left, but the abandoned time itself seems treacherous. Yet for the beloved of that time, something nameless remains somewhere in the heart until death. That something constantly binds us — in love, in forgiveness, in prayer.
Love dies eventually; what remains is merely a kind of habit.
That memory-steeped familiarity gnaws at every inch of our hearts, devouring us whole. When we try to escape from it, we wonder: how can I flee from myself? When the body falls ill, medicine can save us, but when the soul burns out, no path to salvation remains open.
In our bodies and minds, these memories accumulate like termite mounds. Those termites eat away at us bit by bit, and the death of the mind occurs long before the death of the body. We drag this dead mind through life, keeping ourselves barely alive. The ability to remember—so celebrated in school examinations—proves equally suicidal for life’s trials.
Memory has no eraser. If it did, we would see countless people in this world living in peace, instead of dying by their own hands while trying to save themselves from memory’s conflagration.
The person now belongs to someone else—this truth eventually becomes bearable. What remains unbearable is only this memory: that this person, yes, this very person was once mine… completely and utterly mine alone!
In this world, no one truly belongs to anyone. When this realization dawns, it is truly too late.
Even someone’s corpse doesn’t torment us as much as those beloved, haunting memories spent with them.
Perhaps this is why we turn away empty-handed again and again, even when the one who left returns—though the very next moment we find the hands of the clock wanting to stop for someone unknown, our eyes moistening at the sight of moonlight, our lips trembling at the touch of rain… Oh, for whom do we die a little each day! We cannot take back the person, yet we cannot let go of that very person’s memory—this is what we call living.