Monthly Archives: May 2013

Dear Reader,                                                                                                               05/15/2013

It had never occurred to me until I wrote my first essay for this class that writing could be so powerful to express my feelings, my thoughts, and my unspoken words. Now I wonder how many of my thoughts died in me for not putting them in words. To me, it’s an abortion, suffocating my thoughts before they could make a difference in the real world. I felt like I had killed my self-hood all those days; I had lot of potential thoughts that could have stopped so many things around me which I didn’t like, or I at least could have made my ideas heard all those tough time in my society.

I believe any constructive ideas can change the notion of our passive living. We don’t live our own life. We live what we’re told. We don’t decide what is right or wrong; we’re taught what’s right or wrong. I don’t blame anyone for that but me. I thought, I had a hope, someday all these social disease would be cured, our people would live their life and no one would starve to death because of poverty.

I had tough time when I was in Bangladesh in every sector of my familiar environment. I shouted at police because they’re beating helpless people; I cursed out doctors because they denied taking care of the patients, they didn’t have empathy for their patients. I pointed out the corruption of student politics. I fought for the right of general students like me who’re not part of any political party. This was our choice for not being involved under any corrupted authority. That was our conscious choice.

My parents taught me, ” Be always polite with other people; be good to others.” Hey, I am sorry I can’t stand aside while the weaker one gets beaten by the stronger, while people are deprived of their fundamental rights. And I don’t regret for those reckless acts.

However, I have discovered a new weapon now. That will definitely give my parents a little peace in their mind, I know that. I will write. I will write about things that I like; I will write about things that I don’t like. I will praise them with my words; I will shout at them with my words. I will deconstruct the social construct in my writing. And I know my writing will be lot stronger than what I did in the past.

That’s all I have learned from our semester-long work together. Without this class, I wouldn’t have learned that I could write. And I thank my Professor Cheryl Smith for teaching me the new writing styles that I never learned before. Thank you my all classmates for giving me all feedback on my writing.

On 15^th May when I’ll walk out of that small room, I will tell myself confidently,” Hey, you can write as well.”

Once again thank you Prof. Smith for giving me all the appointments that I have asked for. I greatly appreciate your valuable time that you have spent on my writing. I owe you for that.

Sincerely,

amzad

 

                                                        

                                                         Wishing For a Rainbow

The hour hand of the clock positioned on the right wall had just hit the 9. To look at that brown wall clock, I didn’t have to turn my head to the right wall; rolling my eyes to the side was enough. Class had just ended. I rose from the chair and was just about to make a diagonal step to the front door. My shoulder took charge of the backpack and my legs of my tired body. I made three steps: the first and second steps toward the wall and the third step along the wall, like the knight jumps over other pieces in a chess game. But all my cautious steps failed, and my backpack knocked one of the frames off the wall.

There she was, emerging in my life with her full entity, encroaching on my territory with claims, stepping into my existence with the most beautiful smile I had ever seen. It was the kind of smile that who had it didn’t have to talk. I didn’t know how she had gotten into my ribs in those few seconds that hadn’t happened all those days since the semester had begun. She hadn’t existed in my thoughts even few moments prior to that magical moment with the backpack and the frame. Now she breathes in my breath; now she lives in my pulse.

The classroom was small and rectangular shaped, and decorated with so many frames–black frames, blue frames, wheat frames. One was of spring coming on after winter.

There was no sound. There was no sound produced whatsoever when the frame hit the red carpeted floor. A breath-taking smile must have muted the sound of the falling frame: A smile that could stop the heavy rain of November; that could make a wave in the calm Hudson; that could bring the Moon closer to the tallest tree in Central Park.

I felt the presence of a poet in my head, reciting,

“Spring dawns early through that smile in the winter world,

birds chanting push away the thick curtain of fog,

because she smiled.’’

That smile was like a Rondo composed by Mozart that returns to my ears with a blow of spring wind. It’s a kind of smile that stopped my world for a brief moment. It lasted for few seconds, but it dilated time as long as seven colors would have needed to turn into millions of shades, which would have splashed the eyes of beholders.

Her smile was ringing in my mind, making music on its own. I looked into her eyes to see whether they smiled too. Looking at her pupils, I felt mountains of smiley eyes gathered around that angelic smile- smile that makes cotton like clouds fly in the thin air. I heard the wings of butterflies flapping around, spreading the smell of seven colors. The purity of those eyes could even purify the black water of Buriganga¹.

She is true. She is my reality. All these experiences she has caused in me are as real as I am alive; it stems in my heart and I know how it feels.

Thank you my little class room for being little. Thank you my backpack for banging the frame on the wall. Thank you my destiny.

*******

While I was overwhelmed by that smile, a crying face started to dawn in my mind. A face that dried out from crying hours and hours; a broken heart that would never be healed like a broken glass, that always falls short when tried to fix back to the natural stage. Even the most flawless attempt to putting all the broken pieces together would decline.

During that spring mid-night in 2008, on the stairs of Curzon Hall in Dhaka University, Rony, one of my best friends, burst into tears when a piece of music came floating into our ears. We didn’t know who the singer was, what his background was. But the melody of that toner voice powered by the melancholic of flutes stabbed his broken heart again that had been stabbed so severely in the summer of 2007.

In 2007, Dhaka University was closed for whole June month for summer break. So, 13 of us planned for a tour. First we would go to Feni, my home town, stay there for few days, and then start off to Chittagong, Rony’s home town. After a short stay at Feni, we arrived in Chittagong on the 5^th  of  June. His mother welcomed us at the door, a middle-aged woman, a simple Bangladeshi housewife whose sadness and happiness were tied around that skinny tall smart boy who made it to the Dhaka University for the very first time in his past three generations. Having had late dinner, everyone was seeking a little room to rest their exhausted body; some of us found and some were still looking one. Suddenly, I heard a voice calling out my name, ” John, get in the kitchen.” That was her, Rony’s mom.

She believed I was the one whom Rony loved most. So just before our last moment at her home, she called me again in the kitchen, ” Do you know what’s going on between your friend and that girl?”

” Well, I know they love each other.”

” But do you know anything else about her?”

” Not that much.”

” She is not Muslim; and she is a tribal. We live in a society, don’t we?”

I stayed quiet with my head down. I sensed her frustration and anxiety. She put one of her hands on my head and said,” you can make him walk away from that girl. I know you can. Rony would do whatever you asked him to do. He is my only child.”

When we finally took our leave, I looked back at two helpless parents standing at the front door. His father was standing behind his mother, resting two hands on her shoulders and looking at our walking across the road towards the bus stop. I could still see the foggy glasses on his eyes from that distance, and I also knew the reason of fogginess. He was an accountant by profession whose job was to deal with numbers and calculations. But the irony is not all calculations meet the desired results in hard real life.

Her last sentence still echoed in my ear,” He is my only child.”

 

 

*******

” You break up with that girl,” I said.

” Why?” he asked.

” Because you two are not meant to be with each other,” I walked away, not giving him any chance to ask any question further. I almost ran away out of his sight like a fox fleeing to the nearest bushes after sensing the presence of the owner of the barn. I knew I just had turned his dreamy world upside down: a world what he painted with all colors of emotion, a world where he wanted to wake up in the next morning looking at her eyes.

I stabbed him. I bled him. I had only two options, and I was forced to choose one.

Stepping out of his dwelling, I noticed from a distance an injured butterfly struggling to survive in a rainstorm.  I ignored my mom’s advice,” Not helping butterflies is a sin.”

I asked her, ‘why?”

” They’re symbols of good luck. They fly to you being thirsty, and you must pour one or two drops of water on their wings and help them fly away, ” mom said.

Since then I treated all butterflies that came around my reading table placed beside the window. They flew in, sat on my books with a hope that they were in the right hands. One or two drops of water, that’s all they wanted from a tender hand, because they were thirsty from flying flower to flower under the burning sun. They were my guests, stopping by my window for a drink. I was their host, providing them with the sweetest drink. They thanked me with a lovely smile when they flew away, saying “Thank you, and have a good one.’’

I replied, “You’re very welcome.’’ And I assured them, ‘’ you will find me whenever you need me.’’

That was a promise that I made to those little, beautiful creatures. And promises must be kept; promises must be honored.

 

*******

 

I was a coward.

I was scared by the wild rainstorm that was turning down the divine nature. I stood in the hallway, drawing my eyes to a broken branch hanging on the electric wires, and wondering how a short, wild storm tore the branch that was the part of the giant tree just a few moments ago. I waited there until nature calm down.

I waited there until I transformed from a promising little boy to an unpromising adult, a responsible young to an irresponsible old and a freedom human to an imprisonment one. By then the injured butterfly went away out of my sight. I didn’t know whether it survived or not.

 

Maybe it survived for its strong wish to live. Maybe it died ashamed watching so called civilized human’s inability to rescue another life. Or maybe it lived by dying, abandoning all hopes on us.

I knew it would haunt me forever; it would mock my ego,

“What happened to that little boy who let us sit on his books; that helped us having water on the wings? When did that tender heart become so cold? I wish you had never grown up! I don’t know you anymore. You didn’t keep your promise that you made to us. You broke the promise. You broke the promise. You broke the promise.’’

I knew I was guilty.

I dishonored myself. I walked away from the duty given on me. I walked away from the duty that justifies my every breath in this living world. I live so long as my good will lives. I walked away from two lives. I walked into my grave, dragging my lifeless body into that black rectangular space where everything comes to an end in one day.  I knew my identity died at once as I failed to keep my honor. My first death saved me for the first time.

 

I was taught, ” Stay away from trouble. Obey the rules of the society. Do not get yourself killed under any circumstance.”

 

I am not created by God; I am created by society. Therefore, I’m not allowed to break the rules of society. Our created society now overrides the divine rules of humanity. It dictates our movements; it limits our thoughts; it manipulates our humanity for the sake of a set of social construct.

I felt the anguish of a flame, burning me inside like a wild fire burning the forest.

 

Two lives were moaning, agonizing in front of my eyes. But I was too weak to step up. My square land was taken like the king in chess by the opponent’s pieces. I was in check; I was confined in my own black and white land.

 

*******

She’s not Muslim either.

I know it by her name. I also know we two are from two different cultural backgrounds.

I blame that small room. I blame that photo frame. I blame my backpack. I blame that evening.

I blame the time.

If it wasn’t 9 o’clock, the room wasn’t that small then my backpack wouldn’t have knocked the frame down that wouldn’t have caused her to smile at me, and my heart wouldn’t have bled since then.

It’s your entire fault whoever made that happen.

I wish I could unlearn so many things that I have learned so far, and then relearn them in a new world where human life was more valuable than social life.

Lines are drawn around me like a chess board. I am simply another piece in that game where my movements are fixed, ruled and expected. You must obey the rules, not break the rules whatsoever. My identity falls flat outside of the board. You live only on the board, not out of it. And of course, no exception is given ground. You step out; you are an outsider.

“Imagine there are no countries

It isn’t hard to do

Nothing to kill or die for

And no religion too

Imagine all the people living life in peace.”

——Courtesy by John Lennon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1The central river of Dhaka, in Bangladesh. Dhaka is located in the bank of Buriganaga. And it’s water became literally as dark as black stones through the continuous pollution of greedy traders and our mentality.