Unwanted Child (7/1)

The first year of my colorful university life passed by counting my sorrows, one by one. When I moved to the second year, the results told me I was gradually slipping from my position. This wasn't something I could accept.

I began studying with tremendous restlessness. But after a while, it seemed to me that I would be thoroughly thrashed in competition with the brilliant students ahead of me. The sixth Pandavas before me included four of my Notre Dame friends. Of the remaining two, one was from Bogra, the other from Sylhet. They had fierce enthusiasm for chemistry; they devoured it like oxygen. They studied in such a way that it seemed as if they'd known these topics for years and were simply revising now. Watching all this, I became a veritable malaria patient. As long as they were in sight, I remained calm, but the moment they disappeared, I felt as if fever was creeping into my body!

After quite some time, I began observing them closely from a distance. Just as the sun slowly emerges when fog lifts, I too gradually began emerging from despair. The company of the wise works like an antidote. In the second semester, I overtook two of them. Like a lost goat that sees its shepherd and comes running with confidence, I too ran toward the future, believing in myself. I believe that being late doesn't mean being defeated—perhaps it means something even better. When life wants to play with you, let it play. Take time for yourself. Move a little slowly. You can give the best answer by trusting in yourself.

When the results came out, my two friends whom I had overtaken were utterly amazed. Looking at their expressions, it seemed that if someone had told them that the River God Titas had emerged after piercing through four thousand years of history, they might have believed it, but they couldn't believe this result. Anaf directly asked, "What's this, buddy? How did you manage this?" Hearing his question, it seemed as if I had perhaps come seven hundredth in the admission test instead of seventh! (What would have happened anyway!) Whatever the case, I'll be grateful to him for life. So I replied mysteriously, "The secret disciple surpasses the guru, my friend!"

Through tremendous effort, I had managed to reach third position. I couldn't overtake the remaining two. They were one of the Creator's ineffable wonders. Anyway, I had tortured myself enough with studies by then, so I resigned at this point. One more thing—I'm leaving the responsibility of analyzing the compound word "study-torture" to you...

The days that followed didn't disappoint me much. The bakul grove of Baruni Hall, the banyan shade of the old arts building, chatting at the tea stalls, studying by flashlight in the library during load-shedding, sometimes taking boats out on the lake with girlfriends, exchanging sweet talk for marigolds... That's how those colorful times passed. We had a tendency then to compare the beauty of our campus with other campuses and boast about ours. But to do this properly, it became necessary to tour other universities. Every now and then, we'd set out with our bags packed. After wandering around various campuses, one or two would click their tongues sympathetically and say, "This hall's location doesn't quite match with the garden. Just look at our Jahanara Imam Hall and this hall's flaws become glaringly obvious. Jahanara Hall is simply unparalleled!"

The rest of us would suppress our laughter and join in the lamentation.

One day we all planned to visit Rajshahi, the kingdom of mangoes. No sooner said than done. We set off like a swarm of bees.

Our purpose: touring Rajshahi University campus and roaming the famous Paris Road. It wasn't possible to cover the entire campus in one go, so we identified some special places and halls. We didn't venture out the first day—we rested and made small plans. The weather in Rajshahi was pleasant. The next day we set out on our expedition with motorcycles, cameras, guitars, and art supplies.

The administrative building stood at the center of the campus. Moving slightly southwest from there, you'd find the central library. Whenever I see libraries, I feel like I'm standing before Santa Claus's enormous sack, filled with wrapped packets of knowledge. I get bewildered about which to leave and which to take—rather like deciding between milk and yogurt. In the end, you have to sit down with both pots. Without overthinking, we entered the sack en masse. Whatever came before us, we'd steadily stuff into our pockets. When the limits were crossed there, we'd tie a few around our necks and backs too; after all, I'm a Bengali, you see! Once we've got something, we don't let it go—not even a sesame seed should escape; whatever we see, we'll simply stuff it in. This is the Bengali nature, you understand!

But let me tell you an incident. I boarded a bus from Gazipur to go to Notre Dame by the reverse route. There was supposed to be a physics class test that day. Before leaving, I had gulped down two pieces of bread with jelly; I wanted to eat eggs. Mother wouldn't give me any, fearing I might get eggs again in the exam. I began my journey with slight dissatisfaction, hoping to find double eggs along the way. Whatever the case, I was thinking about all this while sitting in the traffic jam.

Right beside me, a middle-aged gentleman with a thin mustache, from the belly of his milk-and-ghee-colored punjabi, kept pulling out one greasy packet after another; I realized that the gentleman had gone to a feast and satisfied both his stomach and pockets.

This is the Bengali sense of taste!