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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.

                                                          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 5^th 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.

Dear Reader,

Finally I composed the first draft for my final essay. As I call it a lyric essay, I wanted to use more lyrical words throughout the whole essay. But it’s tough for me. I had difficulties finding the right words for the right situations and scenes. I always have this problem. During all the writings that I have been doing for this class, I came to realize that words are most important in any kind of writing. Words convey what as a writer I want to say, and what I want my readers to understand out of the essay. As a result, I am going to pay more attention on choosing right words from now on. I will work on vocabularies.

In my proposal, I named my lyric essay, “Seven Colors of Butterflies.” That was my first thought towards the essay. However, it totally transformed into a new one because I personally believe what message I want to get across doesn’t quietly reflect on the proposed title. Consequently, I changed it to, “Wishing for A Rainbow.’’ This new title holds the theme of my thoughts. Please accept my wish for a rainbow.

Now I am publishing it and looking forward to have your comments on it. I will try my best to refine it most based on your comments, because I believe in your comments. I greatly appreciate your time and effort on my essay.

Sincerely,

amzad hossain

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.

cover letter A story of open windows

It had been raining for three days in a row and there was no sign of it to stop. Overflowing were ponds and low lands area that drew some young minds together to a competition of floating paper-made boats and watching whose boat floated longest. The sun hadn’t smiled since Tuesday. The days got shorter since clouds dominated the Sun and kept him invisible for almost a good period of time. The kingdom of sun had been invaded and the blues of skies had been stolen. At least it was pretty clear that the mind of skies was so heavy that continuously three days pouring wasn’t even enough to make it little lighter. It was the fifth day of Rainy season.

The Faculty of Business Studies of Dhaka University arranged a program to welcome the first rain of the season in 2008. There is a funny story about the ”first rain.” Even though it rains for several times prior to the month of rainy season, we still call it the first rain of the year. It is very important and emotional to the rain lovers because a good half of our poetry is created around the beauty of rain. Young adults dress up to the color of rain and of wet nature. To my mind, the color of wet nature is similar to the color of a young woman after having the first bath in the first light of the day. Moreover, it, the wet nature, has a very unique smell and purity that blows minds and purifies souls.

The Institute of Fine Arts is the closest neighbors of the business faculty. Usually, Fine Arts department does it, celebrating Barsha1, better for it has more natural environment. The trees, ponds, birds dirt roads in it will make anyone feel as if they were in the woods. Moreover, one of the ponds is Timpani shaped and has untrimmed grass in it. You can sit on the edge of it with your legs hanging and feel gravitated to the center of it, and if you sit there long enough alone at night with no lights on you will feel as if all energy were drained out of your body that you were then too weak to stand up. Sometimes it makes me believe the cause of the rain in DU2 is the gravitational force of that pond. It pulls the rain on Earth. We pull the beauty out of the rain.

I am extremely connected to the rain like a poet connected to his poetry. I can feel the misty wind as a message ahead of it hits the ground of my land. My legs go nuts to meet the muddy fields and calm roads; my hands get impatient to touch the wet leaves. It excites me like a new line or theme of a poem excites the poets; it awakens my addiction to get out there and embrace it like an opening stanza rise and shine in poet’s mind and insanely drive him/her to give birth of it in words. It brings back past memories to think of and creates new memories to think about for my future self. I will be remembering the events being produced now at a later time of my life as a memory that will have set the ground for the new one to emerge. One memory connects another and helps create a new one. In my childhood during heavy rain we, I along with my siblings, were sometimes allowed to go out our front yard for racking mangoes. This memory of racking mangoes in my childhood planted a seed in memory that at the span of time turns out to be a growing and stronger element, which provokes me to create some new similar memories in my adulthood. The happiness associated with the rain allures me to walking under the rain after all these years. Still I smelled the same wet rain, inhaled the same wet wind in the most beautiful campus of my dearest Dhaka University, and as I walked by Modhur Canteen3 I heard a round table chatting about the recent step down of Fidel Castro after 49 years in power. I realized then why it was raining in mid-February. Farewell Fidel.

Dear Reader,

Having been asked to write a personal essay for this class, I found myself struggling to start off with the right one that will come through my pen easily while writing. There are so many events in my life i want to write about and I want to make sure after all these years I am still able to capture my old memories with same amount of emotions that it associated with. As a result, it took me a while to choose the right one from all; the right one that could challenge me, my writing ability.

Zinsser’s one advice that I find very encouraging is ” Writing well means believing in your writing and believing in yourself, taking risks, daring to be different, pushing yourself to excel” (p 302). I tried to write confidently, wanted to bring out the time as it was with write words. However, when I realized a team of great writers, definitely you guys are superb at writing nonfiction, is going to read my writing , my all confidence disappeared right away.

Nevertheless, I wrote, wrote about my feelings about rain and the rainy season. It was kind of challenging to me because basically I am writing only based on my emotions regarding rain, not a person. I don’t know how I did, I always feel like ”oh I could have written this sentence better or this line doesn’t exactly sound like the way I want it to sound etc.” There is always something to add, something to modify. I finally hatched  my first draft. Forgive me if I let you down.

Sincerely,

amzad hossain

It had been raining for three days in a row and there was no sign of it to stop. Overflowing were ponds and low lands area that drew some young minds together to a competition of floating paper-made boats and watching whose boat floated longest time. The sun hadn’t smiled since Tuesday. The days got shorter since clouds dominated the Sun and kept him invisible for almost a good period of time. It was is if the kingdom of sun had been invaded and the blues of skies had been stolen. At least it was pretty clear that the mind of skies was so heavy that continuously three days pouring wasn’t even enough to make it little lighter. It was the fifth day of Rainy season.

The Faculty of Business Studies of Dhaka University arranged a program to welcome the first rain of the season in 2008. There is a funny story about the ”first rain.”  Even though it rains for several times prior to the month of rainy season, we still call it the first rain of the year. It  is very important and emotional to the rain lovers because a good half of our poetry is created around the beauty of rain. Young adults dress up to the color of rain and of wet nature. I can’t explain exactly what color that is but I can tell it has a very unique smell and purity that blows minds and purifies souls.

The Institute of Fine Arts is the closest neighbors of the business faculty. Usually, Fine Arts department does it, celebrating Barsha¹, better for it has more natural environment. The trees, ponds, birds, dirt roads in it will make anyone feel as if they were in the woods. Moreover, one of the ponds is Timpani shaped and has untrimmed grass in it. You can sit on the edge of it with your legs hanging  and feel gravitated to the center of it, and if you sit there long enough alone at night with no lights on you will feel as if all energy were drained out of your body that you were then too weak to stand up. Sometimes it makes me believe the cause of the rain in DU² is the gravitational force of that pond. It forces the rain to pour.

I am extremely connected to the rain like a poet connected to his poetry. It brings back my past memories to think of  and creates new memories to think about for my future self. I will be memorizing the events being produced now at a later time of my life as a memory that will have set the ground for the new one to emerge. One memory connects another and helps create a new one.  In my childhood during heavy rain we, I along with my siblings, were sometimes allowed to go out our front yard for racking mangoes. This memory of racking mangoes in my childhood planted a seed in memory that at the span of time turns out to be a growing and stronger element which provokes me to create some new similar memories in my adulthood. The happiness associated with the rain allures me to walking under the rain after all these years. Still I smelled the same wet rain, inhaled the same wet wind in the most beautiful campus of my dearest Dhaka University, and as I walked by Modhur Canteen³ toward my hall I heard a round table chatting about the recent step down of Fidel Castro after 49 years in power. I realized then why it was raining in mid February. Farewell Fidel.

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