Wishing For a Rainbow
The hour hand of the clock positioned on the right wall just hit the 9 on the dot in that evening. To look at that brown wall clock, I didn’t have to turn my head to the right wall, only rolling my eyes was good enough. Class 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 legs of the tired body. Three steps I made: first and second step toward the wall and third step along the wall like the knight jumps over other pieces in the chess game. But all my cautious steps failed, and my backpack knocked down one of the photo frames off the wall.
There she was, started laughing.
The classroom was small and rectangular shaped, and decorated with so many frames-black frames, blue frames, wheat frames-hung on the wall. One was of spring coming on earth after winter.
There was no sound. There was no sound produced whatsoever upon the frame hit the red carpeted floor. A breath taking smile must have muted the sound of 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 existence of a poet in my head, reciting a poem,
” 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 again and again to my ears. It’s a kind of smile that stopped my world for a brief moment. Few seconds it lasted for, but it dilated the 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 along with her. Yes those’re. 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 smell of seven colors. The purity of those eyes could purify the black water of Buriganga1 as natural as the waterfalls of Alps and as clear as the crystal diamonds.
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 together 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, as we’re chatting, Rony, one of my best friends, burst into tears while 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 melody 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,17 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 5th June. His mother welcomed us at the door, a middle-aged woman, simple Bangladeshi housewife whose all sadness and happiness 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 makeup; 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 is tribal. We live in a society, don’t we?”
I stayed quite 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. 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 flee 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 next morning looking at her eyes.
I stabbed him. I bled him. Two options only I had and 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.
I was coward.
I was scared by the wild rainstorm. I stood in the hallway. I waited there until the nature clam down. 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, quitting all hopes on us.
I was taught, ” Stay away from the 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 societies. Therefore, I’m not allowed to break the rules of the societies.
Two lives were moaning, agonizing in front of eyes. But I was too weak to step up. I was wishing for a rainbow.
*******
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. This was all her fault. Why she smiled at me?
I blame the time.
If it wasn’t 9 o’clock, that room wasn’t that small then my backpack wouldn’t have knocked the frame down and she wouldn’t have smiled at me, and my heart wouldn’t have been bleeding since then.
It’s your entire fault whoever made that happen.
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 grounds. You step out; you are an outsider.
“Imagine there are no countries
It’s not 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.
Azmad,
We covered a lot of things you could edit while in class, so there isn’t much more for me to add. However, one thing struck out at me and has been bugging me for a while. It was only after rereading your essay that I picked up on it – you never went back to the singer whose song made Rony cry. The scene wasn’t as flushed out as it could have been. Is it possible to explain why that song caused him to remember the break up with his girlfriend? Or, alternatively, is that paragraph needed at all? I think you can cut that paragraph out and still leave the story intact, since we, as readers, can understand why Rony would have such a sad smile for you to see. I suggest you take a look at that paragraph and see if there is anything you would like to do with it.
Amzad,
We pretty much said it all in class. I thought your essay was lovely and your usage of imagery such as the butterfly and subtle things like the frames really bring out the beauty in your essay. You have a way with words!
I do agree with expanding on the whole chess board. It would be nice project to blanket your essay around that.
I honestly do not have anything useful to say to make this essay any better!
GREAT JOB!!!
Andrea
As much as I like the myriad symbolism that “Rainbow” could invoke, I still believe that it is one of the most cliched motifs we use in our writing. Don’t get me wrong, I like how you use it in the essay itself, but I am just ‘wishing for another title’–perhaps a little pun intended there.
The grammatical errors in your essay don’t bug me that much, but just for the sake of conventions, I think one stop at the Writing Center should suffice.
“My shoulder took charge of the backpack and legs of the tired body.”
I really think, concurring with the rest of the class, that you can really structure your essay around the chess game. In the class room scene, your motion is already limited by the structure of the room and the setting of the desks and chairs. It is especially interesting because there does not seem to be any other pieces present in that chess-board of a classroom.
Some of your sentences are just riveting, and the juxtaposition of your words is also very refreshing. For example, “melancholic melody” is a double whammy; it serves not only as an alliteration, but also as an oxymoron as well. Sentences like this, ” 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.” are in plentiful in your essay. I think what you are trying to do here is ingenious; you are taking an experience in Bangladesh and put that in terms that becomes relatable to your readers on this part of the world. However, I am not sure what you are alluding “heavy rain in November” to. Is this in Bangladesh or America; it would just give this sentence another dimension if it is the former. Then there is this: “I heard the wings of butterflies flapping around, spreading smell of seven colors.” And this: “Her smile was ringing in my mind, making music on its own.” In both the cases you are blurring the line between different senses: “smell of seven colors;” “her smile…., making music in my ears.” This just clearly describes the disorientation you go through when you experience something surreal: confusing auditory to olfactory to visionary.
“My identity falls flat outside of the board.” Are you sure these are your words? LOL. messing with you. This is what I would expect to hear from an established writer. The moment I read it and processed it, I had an epiphany; it was surreal.
I am not sure how conscious you were of the decision to not include God in your essay.
“I am not created by God; I am created by societies.” How about “I was created by God, but formed by societies.” This will fit, especially if you are religious. I say this because later on, you touch upon this: “It’s your entire fault, whoever made that happen.” This is just perfect. It makes the story more complex because here you are frustrated about these contingent events whose occurrence have nothing to do with society. In a way, if you are religious and especially in this case, you are blaming your God. No? Please keep this ambiguity and may be even explore it.
Few suggestions:
“If it wasn’t 9 o’clock, that room wasn’t that small then my backpack wouldn’t have knocked the frame down and she wouldn’t have smiled at me, and my heart wouldn’t have been bleeding since then.” How about, “If the room weren’t that small, my backpack wouldn’t have knocked the frame down; if it weren’t 9′ o clock, she wouldn’t have smiled at me, and my heart wouldn’t have been bleeding since then.” Just a slight shuffling.
As much as we consider Lenon’s “Imagine” a canon, and contrary to the consensus we had in our class, I really don’t think these lines go very well here. It sounds like an abrupt conclusion, a clueless jump into a liberal kumbaya-singing mode of co-existence, which goes completely opposite to the very theme of your story. Yes, we want peace, of course we do. But I think it is important to understand our problems and its complexity to it depth.
Amzad Bhai, Great Work. Keep it up.
Tenzin