A Story of Open Windows
My father always worried about me. So did my mother. So did my two elder brothers and friends. I was spoiling my life. I was stubborn. Idiot. I missed so many classes. I had poor grades. I was stupid. Moron. I was an undergrad at The University of Dhaka.
Room no. 630 of Surjasen hall in The University of Dhaka was my home for four years. Four years that I call the best time of my life. Four years that made me a concerned citizen. Four years that liberated my thoughts.
This room was designed for two students with two closets, two beds, two chairs, two table lamps. It had south facing two broken windows. Actually, they weren’t broken. I did. I broke them to make a free passage for the departed souls who sacrificed lives during the birth of Bangladesh. Once my grandmother told me souls visit us silently through the windows, and if you had the windows locked they would assume to have been forgotten.
Those windows also let the south-bound wind play around my room during the idle hot summer afternoon. Knowing that the wind needs a free passage to blow on, I kept the door open so that it could play around and make loose shits fly away without any interruption. They were my open windows, not broken windows.
Through these windows I watched the seasons change, leaves fall, and leaves grow. I watched swans swimming in the pond, the rain drops floating on the young water lilies. I witnessed trees give out rain drops to the pond and ask it to remember,
‘’ Hey Miss Pond, don’t forget my rain drops that I just gave you.’’
The pond answered back, ” Hey Mr. Tree I let you see yourself in the heart of me, did you forget that?’’ I always suspected their relation. And I also knew during any moment in next rainy season Mr. Tree would be on its knees, begging….
Let me introduce my roommate.
He was a freshman; young, smart and very introvert. We had nothing in common; he liked staying in the room, studying, relaxing, he was always there when he didn’t have any class. We barely talked to each other because of my ‘’busy’’ schedule, and I was always out for that. I came in room just before the sun rose, just after the students rose for Morning Prayer. And by then my roommate was dreaming, or having a deep sleep. Moreover, he was out while I was asleep. Sometimes I found a torn piece of paper, saying, “ Romel called you (not on the phone, in the air from downstairs’ –like, John, six thirty; John six-thirtyyyyy, six thirty Johnnnnnnnn. It’s my nickname). But I lied, saying him you weren’t in the room. Meet him if you can.’’
This poor boy suffered a lot for me. He had to answer all the questions regarding my possible existence on this earth, like, “ Is he in the hall? Is he in the games room, Tv room, or at TSC[1]?’’ Whoever came looking for me, left messages to him. He was my live voice mail service; he was my archive; because I didn’t have a phone. And I was nowhere to be found.
No. I was wrong. Someone would at least find me, and in a nice beautiful morning, instead of hearing birds chanting, I woke up hearing his melodious cursing voice,” uncultured, uneducated, idiot. How did they get admitted into Dhaka University?” That was our dear Ali vi, 68 years old, short and skinny, and his weigh would make any American college girls jealous! He every morning cleaned the roof of the first floor and was on fire, because we dumped all rotten fruits, and empty bottles on it. After a while, my roommate as well fell under his, Ali vi, eagle eyes only because he was my roommate. Poor boy! Live with me, suffer with me.
My little spaced room spread itself out during our midterm’s exam. I felt like it realized when it had to stretch and when to shrink so that all of us could fit into it. It then became a hub for young, smart and studious students who were there to get me ready for the tests. Seventeen of us crammed into a room for two. And my roommate ran away by then, and came back after my exams. Since then, his nightmare name was my exams.
After exams my friends would come over to my dwelling for fun. But we were too many for a two student’s room. As a result, when it failed to hold all of us, we had one more option left open that was big enough for twice as many as we were. That was the roof, the roof of Surjasen Hall. Risky though it was with having no railing around, we were too thrilled to notice it. One of us would have been dead if anyone ever had sleep-walked! Sometimes sudden rain hampered our roof sleeping and made us wake and run with our sleeping gears.
Those were my sweet, happy, and risky sleepless nights.
Nights end. Days begin. Months pass away. And years too. Like this cycle, everything goes to an end. So did my eventful four years. One evening in 2009, my father called, (I had a phone then because my friends made me buy one so they could find me at their will), saying, “ You’re going to USA soon. I have your visa.’’
My phone fell out of my hand. I looked at the skies with an empty sight. Clouds started gathering in the Autumn skies. There was no sound. But there was silence; silence that veiled the blue skies; silence that could make it rain. As I walking away, I was still hearing his voice coming out of the fallen phone. I felt choked.
Why I was feeling that way? Why couldn’t I think myself as the lucky one having US visa where all Dhaka University students dreamed for it? I still remember having been asked at freshman year what our aim were in class. All 180 freshmen in that oval shaped room answered one by one, wishing to go for higher studies in USA. My answer didn’t match with anyone else. In contrast, the whole class busted into laughs hearing my answer. And I was praying to dear almighty, ‘’ please, take me away or vanish me’’ for then.
He heard me. Though He didn’t answer immediately, He did after 4 years.
I was going to leave my open windows that constantly reminded me the patriotism of those 3 million fallen bodies during the 9 months long liberation war of Bangladesh. They whispered me,
“John. Wake up. Wake up. Tell us why we dedicated our lives? Did we devote our lives for a Bangladesh that would be slaughtered at every moment by the power-hunting and wealth-hunting mentality of political parties? Why do people still cry out for a fair justice under the independent skies of Bangladesh? Why do people die in the hospitals for the lack of blood? Why can’t you feed those hungry mouths, cloth those naked bodies? Shame on you. We didn’t fight to see humanity wiped out off our society. We fought to conserve the five fundamental rights for the people of Bangladesh.’’
I stayed quite, voiceless. I am afraid I don’t know the answer.
I was going to leave my friends. I was going to leave my 56,000 square miles[2]. I was going to leave my University, my Dhaka University.
How could I even think of leaving it that taught me how to think, generate ideas, read critically; taught me a good idea is strong enough to make a change; taught me to raise voice when needed, and told me my shoulders are big enough to take the responsibility of others who is in need?
How could I walk away from the university that created Bangladesh in 1971, that gave us a flag, a map, a national anthem?
But I left.
I did what my father wanted me to do. He didn’t want his son spoiling his life; he didn’t want his son being radical.
