It was a dark and stormy night...

I wrote the central gist of this little piece many years ago, given the title above as the topic of the essay, for a school assignment in year 8 or 9. I was made to stand up in front of the class and read it out loud. It was momentous, especially at that age when the creative part in me sought after any acknowledgement and revelled in applause, while withdrew into seclusion and took a million steps backward at the mere mention of criticism. It was a delicate time and my feelings and opinions raw – fresh out of the oven! I have attempted to the best of my ability to recapture and rewrite the basic story, staying true to the formidable, crude and unadulterated thoughts that occupied my mind at fourteen/fifteen, once upon a time. However, the treatment had undergone unforgivable reparation and wear and tear of age. I have also added a few parts taking recent events into consideration that made me remember this story in the first place. I feel the need for it to be retold. The time is right. 

It was a dark and stormy night. The occasional pitter-patter of rain on the corrugated rooftop was making me jump out of my skin and the constant slamming of the window, two feet away, was a rude intruder on my first brief respite of the day.  Lately any little sound or smoke or glare was enough to terrorise me. The foreboding ominous silence in the air bore down on all of us and crept up like a poltergeist at any opportunistic moment.  It was as though God had lifted a Hand and conjured up an eclipse to make the sun disappear in this otherwise sunny country of mine. The once lush-green, picturesque landscape was smeared with a splurge of dark paint that disseminated with unbelievable speed and strength. 

I eavesdropped on my father and father-in-law’s after-dinner conversation last night and realised my hypothetical assumption of a prejudiced solar eclipse was probably not too far from the truth. Apparently the international media had shunned all coverage of this neglected, trivial part of Pakistan.  We were cloaked in utter darkness, the mysterious Hand in play again, efficiently blocking the sun in East Pakistan.  The brooding anticipation was a silent scream and the fate of our people rested in the frail hands of a few. 

I remember when I was younger my father often said how there was much more than just a linguistic gulf that separated us from our mother ship.  There was much more to it. The prevailing ghosts of the past would never leave us at peace.  The struggle for an identity that began with the language movement in 1952 was only the initiation of a chain of awakening that would ultimately either end in segregation or absolute silence.  Voices of those young martyrs had been omnipresent these last nineteen years, resonated in the air, sojourned here with our innermost thoughts to evoke the pain of suppression that would someday translate into resistance.  Alas, the fire that had erupted then was spasmodic. There was a lot of smoke since then, but no reignition of that fire. 

The recent development or lack of it (certainly no pun intended), in the past few months had hardened our resolve and our backs were up against the wall. The pulse had suddenly quickened here and everyone everywhere felt as though they were waiting for a bomb to go off any moment! The atmosphere in my husband’s old family home was no different. My days lately have been packed to the brim with household chores; not something inflicted upon me by my in-laws but more of a self-help pertinence program. I was making my physical strength count for something, if not my brain in anything. Under the current circumstances, my brain or particularly my views and opinions were of no significance to anyone. It was interesting to remember though, how this one night had changed the direction of my life, my story forever. Following a political deadlock, when on March 7^th Mujib beckoned people to launch a major campaign against the precedented onslaught from the Pakistani Army, I silently watched my father pack me up along with my belongings and set me off to marry his best friend’s son. While I knew the entire family well and cannot say I disliked my husband previously, far from it, I barely knew him. At nineteen, my knowledge or expertise in most matters was not consulted, needless to mention.   

The twist in my tale though was not the raging war in the backdrop or merely the fact that I was married off in a day’s notice but the night of the wedding when things took a more complicated turn. There were talks of the Muktibahini forming an alliance of resistance that I had grasped from scraps of my father’s conversations previously but what I did not realise then was how my husband played a centric role in this movement and moreover was due to leave for training on our wedding night! Things had a tendency to come crashing down on me one after another and my clutter of emotions reminded me of my late mother’s knitting hank with the needle inserted right through the centre. I looked immaculate, impeccable on the outside but the knot inside just kept getting tighter. For the first time in my life, I could empathise with my father’s sentiments in regards to this region’s predicament: spinning out of control, at the mercy of others and heading in the deep gutters of unknown. 

Looking back, outwardly, I had known my husband all my life. He was present on all my birthdays, common weddings we attended, other family functions etc. However, he was eleven years older and belonged to another generation altogether. I still remember how his voice commanded attention in any gathering and his views and intellect, though contemporary, was well respected even amongst the older orthodox family members. He was a mystery to me. I was in awe of him then and he had given me all the more reason to be in awe of him now. The hurried ceremony of our wedding night, the one pensive steal of a glance in my direction, the million untold unsaid conversations, the firm press on my left shoulder and the brisk walk out the doors without looking back were the only legacy of our marriage he had left behind. When I paused from cramming my days with frivolous tasks, pouring over those handful scenes was the sole companion of my respite. 

If there was one lesson these times of desperation had taught me, it was how quickly you adapted to change. While I was busy fighting my own battles, my father on the other hand was left to fight loneliness. Post my departure from the long-standing habituated surroundings, I watched him grow older and paler in a matter of weeks and would find him make his way to the doors of my new home on a daily basis. I would look forward to those moments he was under the same roof; not to be able to share our feelings, we had never really done that since my mother passed away, but to adhere to that non-communicable stance of unabated reassurance that we had grown so used to over the years. It was funny how the ominous silence pursued us everywhere, seeping through the walls and pouring into our hearts. My father had lost his child and only companion; lost the hurriedly appointed new son-in-law and this house had lost the apple of their eyes – their only son, all in the same night. So much loss had shrouded an ever-prevailing doom over the household. 

At that point of time, I had grown to accept the long days of impending disaster as a way of life and hence was totally unprepared for what was to happen next. That night, my father had dined with us as per normal and resumed to the living area for tea when the shrilly ring of the phone that had not rang in the past few days, woke every one of us out of our reveries. Clutching myself I intently watched my father-in-law’s face for any sign of emotion that would confirm or challenge my worst fears. When his expression interestingly shifted to one I had only witnessed back in the times forgotten, I slowly let my breath out. The colours that his face displayed though, were still unusual and I was intrigued. I hid myself out of sight, afraid to reveal my edginess but peeked from behind the curtain that divided the living area from the dining in sheer anticipation. The conversation lasted for the briefest of minutes but my heartbeat doubled in that time. Not being able to hold myself for long, I hopped out of my hiding place as soon as my father-in-law replaced the receiver. The piece of news he had to deliver, however, sent us all reeling back in reaction at first, and then slowly engulfed us in relief and the most exhilarating form of happiness each of us had experienced in a long time. The son, the husband, the son-in-law was being returned to us that very night for a mere few hours!

The atmosphere that descended on the house, followed by this announcement, was most extraordinary. It was Eid, it was Durga Pooja and it was Christmas all at once! My mother-in-law fled to the kitchen and started gathering ingredients to whip up all her son’s favourite delicacies while the two fathers pranced about shouting unnecessary instructions to each other in preparation. I quickly slipped out of the scene to escape to my bedroom that never really had a chance to become ours and shutting the door, slumped against it. I was trembling and I thought my heart might burst out any second. I ran to the standing mirror next to the bed and stared at my own reflection. What I saw there took me by surprise. I realised that I have not once looked at myself properly since the night I was married and the metamorphosis my features had undergone, had totally passed unnoticed. I was much leaner than I remember myself; cheeks had hollowed, overall drawn in. There was an air of melancholy about my appearance and a belying calmness that had never existed before. Unconsciously I picked the simple blue saree I had donned during the hurried wedding ceremony and proceeded to the kitchen.

In the next few hours, I had broken exactly 2 glasses, 1 plate and a small bowl. But that was not the most embarrassing part. I had actually caught my mother-in-law try to suppress a grin as I took to cleaning up the broken pieces, muttering half-composed ineligible apologies under my breath. 

By the time we had finished, the dining table was laden with innumerable delectable items and the feast was fit for a king. The scene had miraculously switched from that of an impending doom to an impending celebration. And then it was just a matter of unnerving anticipation. Initially we sat around the living area and exchanged for the first time all the fears we had held back and did not speak of earlier, regarding the Muktibahini and the country in general, fates of both now irreversibly intertwined. The conversations soon lost steam and fizzled into silence. Within a few moments an unmistakable knock on the door ripped that silence apart, exactly like the ring of the phone prior and sent us all flying in different directions! Something really strange happened to me just then. While I was by no standard a shy person, and even fantasised a few times about the possibility of throwing myself in his arms at the first sight, I did quite the opposite. I bolted inside and hid in the bedroom unable to control my breathing that had by then surpassed all extent of preposterousness. 

I felt more than heard his footsteps and the exhaustion in his cracked voice. I had no recollection afterwards of when I had stepped out of the room and taken the few decisive steps inside the adjoining area to finally find myself facing up to him. I could not be sure whether it was the sheer incredulity on my face that shot his head in my direction and to be quite honest I could not care in that moment! As I stood there defenceless, studying his face in utter concentration, his features creased into the most beautiful crooked smile. I felt an electrifying connection with him and was besotted by this being, a man, who was willing to stand up for what he believed in and go any length to protect it, a man who was fearless, a hero. It was a moment of all-consuming bliss and one, I would learn later in life, I was destined to experience for the first and last time. Before I could open my mouth and utter a single syllable, my hero was whisked away unceremoniously by the family! It had not occurred to me until then that he had not only returned to me, but to us. 

The rest of the night was spent in meaningless chatter, unabashed display of love and most importantly in feasting gluttony. Tears of joy, pangs of fear, clinging physical love - no stones were left unturned. The sudden sound of laughter seemed indecent somehow to the invisible ears of the cold, sterile walls. I suddenly became a bystander to this joyful scene of reunion and yearned for just one more opportunity to translate into words what my eyes were trying to communicate the whole time. Suddenly it hit me that the two of us had never really uttered anything meaningful to each other since we became man and wife! 

To my horror, the night scurried past in a wink of an eye. Soon it came to the dreaded moment of bidding farewell to our hero: a rare species perhaps sent with a purpose unlike the rest of us who arrive in tears, stumble along, make do and leave this God’s green earth with no particular imprint whatsoever. But my husband was not destined to be one of us. God must have had bigger plans for him and all I ever wanted from that God at that very moment was to return him to my arms for our first embrace and not deny us the life together I had only dreamt of until then. The sense of happiness, I learnt, was treasured so because it was short-lived. It ended as suddenly as it had begun and our lives were in the throes of gloom once more. 

The consequent nine months of my life was spent in a harrowing nightmare, the details of which cannot be done justice to, even if I recount it a thousand times, in thousand different ways. The magnitude of the catastrophe that befell on all of us and the goriness of the events often made us question the existence of the same God, at least within the realms of our boundary. It was a bloodbath, the aftermath of which would leave generations gaping in pain. The tears dried, emotions choked, we were thrown back in time to a primeval survival-of-the-fittest contest. The end result? The bloody birth of Bangladesh – a free nation.  

As for my husband, I never saw him again after that night. My hero went onto join the league of countless other martyrs who disappeared into oblivion without a trace. Our only consolation lay in the accounts of his fellow surviving compatriots who persistently repeated how he had valiantly fought till the end. We could only hope that he was in a much better place somewhere, away from the rest of us survivors who were as good as dead. And to this day, he remains an unsung hero, like many others. 

The old family home where we married was not there anymore, neither were his nor my parents alive. The past had shut its doors, leaving only a window of memory for me to look through from time to time. Life had followed its own path thereafter.  

I survived. 

The nation had won the war and I had lost my battle. 

                                                    ❉

I have spent a good part of my life being a dissenter; and the better part of my life in love with a ghost from my past and in all honesty I cannot say I could have led it any differently! It has been forty-two years since and it was all water under the bridge, until now. The recent movement in Shahbagh has opened up a Pandora’s box for many and I am one of them who have been propelled, as a result, into opening my own dusty chest of memories and muse. I did not want to dig up old wounds anymore that would only cause more pain. I wanted to bury the past. While you can bury the past, I have come to realise, you cannot really bury the wounds. Wounds need to be healed in order to move on in life. The events that unfolded after 1971, in the later part of my life and in the life-span of this nation, is a part of history I shall have to disclose on another occasion; some facts are well-known and others that will never come to be known. And with that I must take your leave and hope you have had an enjoyable journey thus far, through the diminishing sight of my shrunken old eyes!

INFIDELITY

DISCLAIMER! DISCLAIMER! DISCLAIMER!

Please bear in mind it is very difficult to even approach a subject such as the title above; particularly because it is the ugliest of home truths that quite a few of us have to live with or have seen from close proximities. This one issue has broken our own hearts or of those near and dear to us. I myself have personally witnessed a few cases in recent times and feel obliged to weigh it in before stamping a permanent seal of ‘obscenity’ and tucking it away somewhere in my mind. Infidelity raises a lot of questions on moral grounds and the most nagging part is in its frequent occurrence. If it is happening to this many people, it certainly cannot be withdrawn behind closed doors and turned a blind eye to, can it? Thus, this is my confrontation with the issue in the form of a story derived from several different sources. The characters bear no resemblance to any people living or dead but the story itself is neither truth nor fiction.

RAJIV

The room smelt of sex. The sweet aroma of human skin rubbed together in symphony and resulting in a musky, filthy yet beautiful fragrance of indulgence. Was the word indulgence synonymous with satisfaction? Perhaps in a broader context but strictly did not apply to my case. I was seated on the floor at the foot of a bed in a cramped dark room. I had no recollection of how long I have sat in the same position but the pain in my left ankle suggested both the slow disappearance of substance abuse and the painful awakening and also a completely disconcerted notion of my bearings. However, the sight in front of me, sprawled across the king size bed could still take my breath away! She was the single most beautiful and enigmatic creature I had ever come across and up until a few hours ago the only objective of my entire being was to be inside her, to ravage her and own her. In thirty long years of longing, this was as close to giving it all up I ever came. The stirring in my loins resurrected as I continued to stare at her. With the residual energy I could muster, I slowly extricated myself from the still position and dragged my body out as you would drag a lifeless corpse.

Stepping out of the apartment building, I tried not to look back or check whether the shift of the guards had changed or if anyone else recognised me. I held my head high and kept a steady pace. I pretended to belong to the drunken crowd that step out of clubs on Sunday mornings deeming the glare of the sun impossible and in full denial. But this was no Sunday and what I had left behind, no club. In my daze I almost ran into a bunch of high-school girls crossing the road. They burst into a giggle as I focused my eyes on them. I blinked several times to clear my vision and I could swear one of them looked exactly like Meera. In fact if Meera ever puts on a school uniform she could still pass for the old Meera I had met almost twelve years ago. The moment that innocent memory of her face swayed in front of my eyes, I felt a sudden shot of pain in my chest and jolted. I could feel the bile rising in my throat and tried to drape my arms around myself, tightening them, my insides screaming, making my skin crawl and felt like the filthiest person on earth.

It was five minutes past one when I looked around the near-empty cafe and realised it must have been a good three years since I have last been there. Why it suddenly occurred to my mad friend to meet here was a mystery. But then he was acting a bit odd ever since the big commission pay out. He was probably revisiting the memory lane marking all his financially worrisome eras or something to that matter. My jaws clenched at the thought of my two friends. Damn those two, I probably would not be at this confused state of mind had it not been them constantly telling me to let loose and live it up a little! Well if being totally ashamed of myself, pitying my life could be termed as 'living it up' then was I glad that I had been living it 'down' up until then! Damn the rich bastard and equally damn the baldie!

GUSH

The incessant ringing of the phone broke my reverie and I finally switched the ringer off. I waited a few minutes for any voicemail and when there was none, breathed a sigh of relief. I looked behind my shoulders to see the most immaculate face hidden under layers of white, sleeping peacefully. To someone someday, she would be worth every penny spent! I debated for a minute and disappeared under the blanket myself to join her. The rustle of the sheets woke her up and she was ready for me, instantly, just like that! I was as lucky as I felt and you just could not put a price on something like that.

The phone started ringing again within half an hour and I cursed myself under the breath for not switching the ringer off properly. These stupid smart phones seemed to have a life of their own. I unwillingly looked at the number, waited for the ringing to stop and then quickly switched the phone off. When I turned back I simply picked up from where I had left off. Years of practice had only taught me one thing - not to take any short moments of pleasure for granted and rather to enjoy every moment of it like savouring and relishing every morsel of my favourite dish! After another long but fruitful hour, I was ready to leave.

The drive home was quick enough as this was a known route. As I walked through the door, I noticed the house was shrouded in complete darkness and felt my way across the wall looking for the switch but to no avail and soon stumbled against something and almost fell. That is when the lights came on and shone against the pouting face of my three year old; and right behind him was my usually calm and composed wife, now looking a tad bit annoyed. I picked my son up with both hands as I walked towards my wife and pulled her into a bone-crushing bear hug! Immediately the frown disappeared from her face and was replaced by a short but meaningful smile. Together we put our son to bed and started stripping each other's clothes off halfway through to the bedroom. We were completely naked when we reached the bed and hungrily took up on each other's bodies. There were no skills involved, no foreplay and the entire affair lasted for about five minutes. I remained in bed for quite sometime, unable to move out of exhaustion, not so much from the past five minutes but rather the entire day. When I finally left the bed to wash my face, I suddenly ran back two steps at a time and stooped down to kiss my wife's forehead. I watched her smile in her sleep and felt the deepest sense of satisfaction. I made my way back to the bathroom and smiled at my reflection and said 'now you my friend are a genius Mr. Poupulos!"

Only sheer ingenuity could orchestrate a life that was as well balanced as mine and with very few regrets. I loved my wife, my son and I would never even dream about committing anything as offensive as taking them to the same restaurant as one of my mistresses; or say spend the equal amount of money that I spent on my whores. No sir, the other women knew their rightful position just like I recognised the value of my family. One was sex and the other, well my life.

I was nearly inhaling breakfast items way after midday and cursed myself for sleeping in late on my only day off and doubly cursed my friend for arranging this meeting on a Monday! The rich bastard was starting to get on my nerves and I did not even want to get started on the virgin! How the three of us ended up together in university was a wonder in itself but how we managed to stick it out for seven years was an enigma. And how drastically our lives have changed since then, owing mostly to our personalities of course. I always knew I would have to take over dad's business and had no qualms about where my life was headed but the Indian turned out to be a genius by the end of the last semester and most of all Chris was undoubtedly the clear champion! I could not help but feel a little envious of his obvious charm, good looks and now his money and brand new Beemer. To top it all off, his sexual endeavours were exceeding mine now and the infuriating man even made a joke last week about how my women were toilet rolls - disposable - and his were antique collection items! The nerve of the bastard I tell you! Collecting myself from my train of thoughts, I hurriedly started to dress to leave.

CHRIS

The sun was too harsh today, an impolite orb, glaring. I searched for my sunglasses knowing for certain they were not there and it was only last week I had purchased those new ray bans  - an important part of my disarming charm! I hoped to find it somewhere in the car and not back in the building that I just left. I pressed the key and heard the responding murmur from my modified BMW 3 series. The last quarter's commission was like a lucky hand at poker, I liked to think and will create a steady stream of income for the next three years at least, making the monthly payments for the car comfortably with my social life unhurt. It was amazing how things were falling into place. I decided not to compare it with poker after all, let me just say 'luck' was my middle name.

And it was luck indeed that refrained me from being caught by Debbie (my steady-going girl friend of two years) in my many sexual escapades. And I hope it stayed that way because I had no intention of loosing her. In fact she had nothing to do with these bouts of momentary affection I bestowed upon these pretty collectible items. The fact that they were pretty was nobody's business and the fact that they were attracted to me was not my fault.

Interestingly, the long lasting periods of happiness with Debbie that I could recall were those when I cheated most. Cheating gave me a natural buzz that initially incapacitated me, possessed me and then slowly incorporated itself as a part of me. I was happy all the time, engaged in everything that I did in life, enjoyed work and loved the world! I think I even gave to charity that year! Now these resulting factors could not be discounted or ignored and I was just going to be smart about it. Even my over-achieving father was happy with me for once ever since I left home and gave up a career in medicine. All those years spent slogging in the university was something I could never refund but switching to sales and rapidly earning those hefty commissions eased the pain a little at least. Now I was just a man who triumphed all conquests in life.

I smiled at that last thought and felt something poking my backside as I placed myself behind the wheels. Ah! So that is where the glasses were hiding! These days nothing was too far from my reach even if I did not try too hard to look for it. This was my moment and I was basking in its glory. I could not wait to meet those two bastards and spill the beans on the latest conquest. I bet the baldie was fuming since his scorecard had been failing miserably for the past two weeks. I drove off leaving the soft echo of my laughter behind. 

COMING TOGETHER

Rajiv, Gush and Chris: the trio was seated comfortably at the same table where they had spent innumerable number of hours back in their university days. The idea of course came from Chris' brilliant mind, which was fondling with memories, eager to reunite with old friends and revisit nostalgic shrines just like a person newly in love. In a sense he had fallen in love, with himself and his life. These days he fell in love almost every week, if not every day and the moment that I-could-own-this-universe headiness even threatened to fade away, he fell in love once more and resumed the good feeling - from the top! Such was the sweet music his life was producing as of late. The truth to the matter was that every single person in this world craved that feeling of first love, the glory of it all and however sad it may be, that feeling did have a tendency to ultimately fade away and completely disappear and be replaced by a cool nonchalance, both in bed and life. His relationship with Debbie was not fading by any means and he would not complain (even under the influence) that it lacked substance or future prospect. In fact it was perfect - they were both compatible, fitted into each other's lives harmoniously, had similar sense of humour, all in all a perfect match. But that taunting and haunting chemistry that existed in the first few weeks, the uncontrollable desire to consume each other, not being able to keep their hands off each other, that hunger had transformed into a more solid structure. The relationship became dependable and life predictable. Suddenly those twinkle in the eyes and the hushed whispers, eye contact, burning touches, sudden blushes gradually slowed and suddenly did not exist anymore. They did not dress to impress each other and the general feel-good sense vanished and was replaced by an aura of lethargy. Time just dragged on. And he realised then and there that he needed to rescue himself, to give back the energy and motivation that was required to succeed in life.

Thus in all essence he did not blame himself for taking up on this beautiful sport involving beautiful women. They were a challenge for him, kept his brain working furiously compared to gambling or drugs. Drugs, he reckoned were for the weak that preferred oblivion but Chris on the other hand, wanted to live every moment. The art of wooing and lovemaking was a full time job. And he read it somewhere that frequent happy releases even aided minor illnesses.

His heart went out to the virgin though - it was probably a good thing he did not realise what he was missing out on - less complication that way. However, before he realised his mistake, it would be too late and timing was everything in life Chris had realised. If he had wasted another single year running after the passionless all-practical dream of pursuing a career in medicine, he would have perhaps ended up in the middle of a surgery, thirty years from now, holding somebody else's life in his hands not knowing what he had done with his. No offence to Rajiv's culture and values but he seriously needed to wake up and come out of a world that did not exist. What was the logic behind practising self-restraint for thirty odd years, that too with his steady-going girl friend? Chris assumed that by now Rajiv would have surely stopped breathing and feeling naturally altogether considering the number of years he had curbed his appetite from things his conscience considered unorthodox. And how on earth was he expected to appreciate what he had if he would not shop around a little? Most importantly what was the purpose of it all - in the name of love, religion, culture or morality?

Rajiv was furious and somehow Chris's happy demeanour was not helping. The smug bastard kept looking his way and God knew what he was thinking. Not constructing yet another new scheme to improve his life, Rajiv hoped. Rajiv was sick of both their cynical attitudes towards his life and belief system. Yes it was true his life was not normal according to all men who lost their virginity at the first given opportunity, paid tributes to social norms and structure on the surface but loathed them behind closed doors, paid no heed to cultural wellbeing or religion. Yes, his life was extremely abnormal in that respect and probably an alien concept for most to perceive but Rajiv's question to the world was what did they have in their lives so precious by being totally obnoxious and disrespectful towards all social manacles that he himself did not have? Did they have a better standard of living, most importantly were they happy? He did not think so. Rajiv had long since decided not to meddle with things he could never aspire to understand. Things like lifestyle, right and wrong should be left in the trusted hands of people who had lived longer than you have and seen and experienced a lot more than you. He was not religious in the strictest sense of the word but he preferred relying on a book that had materialised in this world long before you were around and had been adopted by the mass population. Why did we have to interfere with such things, where was the need to question such beliefs when there is no way of ever finding out who is in fact right? Rajiv felt it was just so convenient to embrace the guidelines set to you by the holy book and cultures embedded into you by your parents and try and adhere to it as much as possible. He never understood where the need was to waste time analysing these set of beliefs when he could be investing that energy to solve other more pressing issues in life such as paying bills, maintaining relationships and keeping everyone happy. He had long ago decided he was not the kind to complicate things further. And yet here he was, trapped with his two best friends who could not be anymore different than he was and had successfully managed to ruffle his entire belief system and almost made him experiment with something he still could not believe he had attempted. He cursed the day he had joined the other two in the library to study the one common course they had. He cursed Marketing which he did not even like. He cursed the day he was dared and tricked by Chris into asking out the random girl at the pub just to prove a point. The amount of lust and all-consuming energy on his part that followed still shocked him to the core. He had never known how desperately he just wanted to hold a woman's nubile skin between these fingers and just how badly he wanted to enter a girl, any girl. And most importantly how it did not matter who she was! Rajiv shivered as the feeling of foreboding washed all over him once more. It was like his mum had always said - the demon lurked behind your shoulders in moments like these.

Rajiv tried to focus his mind back to the conversation, taking place at the table. Gush was regaling his tale from the night before and how he had successfully satisfied both the wife and the mistress before dawn. It was revolting how Gush seemed to think his life was perfect. In fact his entire view of this world was so demented. Especially the way he had always tut-tutted at Rajiv’s lack of adventure in life was unbelievable. It was funny how once you became too close to anyone, the exact things about you that had seemed interesting initially suddenly became 'problems' that needed to be molded and they would not relent unless they make you one of them. The fact that he was different did not make Gush any better than him, Rajiv thought. The biggest imposters were the ones who put their hands up in criticism, sometimes knowing they themselves have or would do the exact same thing in a similar situation, but gulps down the truth to seem heroic in public. These people are proud regardless of the occasional bouts of doubt they experience concerning themselves and are at peace. Rajiv considered his friend Gush to be one of those truly happy people in the world because his conscience never seemed to bother him. The feeling of never having to question yourself must be amazing.

Gush from across the table was observing Rajiv's disheveled appearance and troubled countenance. He wanted to tut-tut out loud but bit back his tongue. For the first time ever, his friend resembled a man, if ever so dimly. He was tired of having a sissy of a girl sit at this table with them for ages. He would never understand people like Rajiv who forgot the most important reason for coming into this world - to live. And if you are trying to accomplish everything else and not realising the difference between ages fourteen and forty, Gush would surely want a rematch of that life and that is what he truly believed his friend needed. He needed a rematch, a chance to come back into this world and live a little without a million restrictions. Morality was such a vague term. It was just like every other established belief system - nobody knew where it originated from and who decided it was so important to adhere to. And yet we spend all our lives trying to live up to this phantom’s expectations. So very vague. Are we honestly naïve enough to believe there is a person holding a trophy waiting for us at the finish line who would reward us for paying our bills on time, having a steady monthly saving, being faithful to our wives and being an exemplary citizen of this world? So much time is wasted in implementing discipline to a system that is destined to fail, to crumble and be lured away into ultimate chaos. We were created out of chaos, chaos of sperms and reacting ovaries, and the finish line should be no different. Sometimes you want to cut your cake and eat it too. Gush never believed any one person could satisfy all his needs but sometimes you want to have both - the socially stable life and the adventure. He was emotionally attached to his wife and kid and could not imagine letting go of that picture perfect life but there was also another part of him that craved that little bit extra. Certain people cannot be completely adventurous or completely stable and he was one of them. And the best part, Gush thought, was that he could not be more proud of his life and had no regrets. The subtle vibration from his phone distracted him for a moment and he checked to see a message from his mistress. He read it and slowly pushed the erase button, but it erased nothing important. The truth was still the truth.

Chris was utterly bored. He was so excited about this meeting all day but here he was stuck with a grumpy and another totally pre-occupied friend. He was flying high at this point in his life and did not need these two to drag him down. He looked at Rajiv to see if he had cheered up a little but there was no sign of that happening today. The bastard would never forgive him for trying to bring a little sunshine into his life. Chris honestly sometimes believed Rajiv was sadistic or worse, masochistic. He reveled in pain. For the life of him, Chris could not understand why Rajiv looked that guilty! The cheating feeling in general will always exist in men as long as we live because human nature gets a kick out of keeping things under the rug - we like secrets - secret pleasure and no matter how straightforward we claim to be, everyone has skeletons in their cupboard that will spare no embarrassment if let out in the open! Take masturbation for example - who wants to discuss it in open public forums but then who does not fancy practising it in the seclusion of their privacy? If the idiot had taken a break from reading Ramayana and stopped to think about the beginning of the human race, he would not be half as confused. Where did the concept of forbidden fruits come from? That story itself is one of the biggest open secrets of our race - the fact that we would always chase after that apple to find out how it tastes.

With one swift gesture Chris called the waiter and settled the bill. The trio slowly vacated their seats and headed towards the exit together, each lost in his own silent thoughts.

Rajiv: I would put this one dark night behind me and take a fresh look at my life, strive to better uphold my established beliefs and look forward to a sunny future with Meera.

Gush: This world and its worldly values could take a backseat while I drive to my perfectly balanced life.

Chris: I would enjoy this high as long as it lasts and oh - try not to get caught!

D.H.A.K.A

Now this is a real abbreviation; none of those wishy-washy titles that have been in existence since “F.R.I.E.N.D.S” came on air.  However, I am not too sure whether there is any kind of sequence or interrelation between what each letter represents.  D for dark? H for hallucinatory? A for abstract? K for kindred? A for alien? This is a city of dark, hallucinatory and abstract kindred aliens to be more precise and poses a lot more question marks than I can handle.

I have recently realised how almost all my writings commence with some sort of a disclaimer, if not disclaimers. I mean why should this be an exception! Now getting to the disclaimer bit, I do realise the risk of attempting to talk about the qualities of a city, that too about one that has innumerable facets, most of which is still undiscovered by myself after spending a significant chunk of my life there. However, I still believe the risk is worth taking. You would hardly find any two individuals giving you the same account on a city no matter how similar their stories might happen to be and although my storytelling would not be exempt from any of the clichés that are incessantly associated with this city of ours, it would nevertheless be different.

I can still vividly hear each set of drum rolls that came about in rapid succession that night. With each drumbeat, my heart skipped several. There are certain moments in your life when you blindly wish for something in exchange for almost anything and this certainly was one of mine. Yes, this was that historical night that changed everything for the people of Bangladesh. That dark, dreary night in March when we challenged our fates against the gruelling upper hand of Pakistan; gnawed our way up, stood our ground and declared in a unified clear voice that we would not go quietly into the night, we would not vanish without a fight. Yes, this was the Asia Cup final cricket match against Bangladesh and Pakistan.

Okay, so enough with my melodrama and million apologies for the intended pun but to be quite frank, never before had I felt the entire nation standing united for a single cause the way I had witnessed it that night at the stadium! I was born in December 1985 and quite unfortunate, I believe, that I missed out on that single opportunity of feeling the ferocious passion that brought about this country’s independence 14 years prior. The only glimpses of it’s evidence, a pale shadow of the past can now only be viewed on these rare occasions of a significant cricket tournament.

Bangladesh as a whole really is quite an interesting country to say the least. There are people ruthlessly conning you for minimal gain, taking advantage of you the second you undergo a weak or vulnerable moment, using emotion as a weapon at every given opportunity, at one hand. On the other, people can take you by surprise by doing something totally selfless when least expected! It is a rollercoaster emotional tornado that is unpredictable and without any specific pattern. I have been thrown into this chaos at birth and left at it’s mercy for the first seventeen years of my life and at the end of this span I exited as clueless as the day I had entered. Thus, when I had an opportunity to take a two-month’s sabbatical (both professional and personal) from my usual structured Sydney life, I was face-to-face with an unusual opportunity to explore the city I had left behind.

What I discovered in these couple of months perhaps raised a lot of new questions but certainly restored my faith on the three aspects, or pillars as I like to refer to them as, that had withstood time and tide. The three pillars: food, religion and cricket. To begin with the first pillar, I do realise that it should come as no surprise that it is important to the characteristics of any given city, however, with Dhaka it is a lifeline that people tends to hold onto with dear life. Restaurants, cafes and lounges are probably important anywhere but in a city where there is very little or no nightlife for the majority otherwise, they are snares waiting to entangle the lives of people here on a daily basis and takes it to another level of enjoyment that I have personally hardly seen anywhere else. In a city where we all have to return to our families and a hearty home-cooked meal end of the day, it is the opportunity to socialise over a meal that becomes the main objective. Thus the not-yet-married couples throng the cafes, the already married couples have some quality time before returning to parents or parents-in-laws, the exhausted office-goer shares a light moment before facing the reality of responsibilities that awaits home and the school, college and university bound crowd enjoys a moment in peace before the burden of deadlines and assignments set in. Thus, these eat-out joints provide them with not food that is perhaps readily available elsewhere but with a haven, a place in-between, far from reality. 

I remember once I was crossing the street in Sydney with a dear friend, engaged in an intense conversation over the presence and influence of religion in that city, and I made an impromptu remark that had more truth to it than I had realised then. Quoting myself: if you want to find God, you will not find him in these streets of Sydney. He will evade you. If you want to find him, you will have to travel back to Dhaka with me to witness His presence and existence incorporated into our very lives. That is where He dwells.

Though it was a casual remark but a few months later when I made my way back to this city, I felt the depth of it once again. God really dwells here. From the moment the dawn breaks and the sweet music of “Azaan” start to send signals to your brainwaves, at first softly, like a hum and then building in tempo to a cry of faith and devotion that calls out urgently to every individual to the peaceful moan in the background during “Esha” that calls it a day in a serene dismissal. Regardless of the level of faith you harness towards this particular religion, it never fails to dissect your day into five parts.  There is a beautiful song by a Bangladeshi folk band that talks about this dissection better than I can ever explain and although hardly any Dhakaitie can relate to the activities mentioned in the song, we can all empathise in true essence. Very roughly translated, the lyrics are as follows:-

In the wake of Fajr, I was busy fighting sleep

Johr was spent in the comings and goings of life

My Asr was at the mercy of my livelihood

Alas, I had no time for prayers

Maghrb was spent in the shed with the animals

With them untied, my life was a mess

Alas, I had no time for prayers

During Esha, my wife cries out we have no rice

And with that cries my child and so does my life

Alas, I had no time for prayers!

Okay, did I not mention it was a rough translation? The words are mostly my own loosely based on the song and mostly inspired by it, but hopefully I managed to make my point.

Because I started this piece with cricket, somehow it seems befitting that it should end with cricket and also perhaps more so because cricket is all I can feel in my veins right now. Reliving that unfortunate match right now, feeling the pain of loosing to Pakistan had perhaps driven me a little mad and I am perhaps loosing sight of what I had originally set to achieve through this writing but in case you find yourself as muddled and in wonderment after reading this as I currently am feeling, then I would not consider this as an entirely wasted effort after all! This is exactly the pot of boiling and confusing emotions that I enter this city with every time and exit almost exactly in a similar fashion – with just perhaps a million more questions and amazement to add to the basket!

"Midlifescope"

In recent times a lot of people around me have transcended to the next level  - or shall I say conformed? They have given in to the social norm, exited from the luxury/misery of being a singleton and ushered themselves into adulthood and parenthood.  When I was younger and quite single myself, I would hear a lot of married couple say that you never know what life and responsibility is really about before you get married or settle down. Now quite married and settled myself, I would yet again hear a different group of people with a parenthood status making similar, well-informed claims. I picked up a quote long time ago that said “Having a baby is like getting a tattoo on your face. You really need to be certain it's what you want before you commit” and I could not agree more. It is indeed an avenue that I am completely clueless about at this point but wish to venture into with my imagination. Needless to say it would be quite interesting to revisit this piece in a few years time.

A bloody cigarette was all I craved for in that claustrophobic, cramped and absolutely New Age kitchen that my wife and I had so fondly built three years ago. My wife was a firm believer in this concept and would rather be caught dead than miss her “spiritual enhancement” class or what a common layman like myself would refer to as bloody yoga! Okay, I have casually thrown around the word ‘bloody” twice in a row now, not something my wife was likely to approve, especially around children and I could imagine her pursed lips ready to admonish any minute and the preachy tone taking over when she would say “Children do as you do and not as you say”. Sigh! I hung my head as I walked out of the kitchen grabbing my two year old under the armpits and swinging her out of the chair and far away from the mess she had created on the dining table. We needed to rid the table of all evidence before mummy got back home. This was going to be a really long day!

Three years ago, before the birth of our first child, this very same house looked astonishingly different. It was so different that it is quite hard to accept now that it is but the very same dwelling place. I believe the last three years had made a mockery out of the word “dwelling”, but that was a different place, in a different time when our lives used to be an endless string of cocktail parties and lavish dinners. I do not know whether I can ever go back to being that same person again and I think it has a lot to do with my current energy levels. As I started to delve more into this analysis and comparison of my life then and now, I could feel the craving for the cancer stick reach its peak.

With the two year old tucked in bed for the afternoon nap and the three year old watching ‘Toy Story 2” for the umpteenth time, I finally planned my escape. Cigarettes were banned in this house just like a lot of other things like getting drunk and rowdy, staying up after a certain hour of the night, swearing, rude jokes and sometimes depending on the mood of the day, even laughter. Everything was required to be crisp and clean and children-friendly. I had given up smoking for a year in that honeymoon period after we got married but you know what they say about things forbidden – they creep up and become your most prized possession when prohibited. Well at least I was truthful and did not blame the habit on stress or any other imaginary concept.

Life on the wrong side of 30 can be quite interesting I have realised. At 29 or like in my case even at 33, I was rocking the dance floors and still indulging in all nighters but as you keep crawling towards 35(and bear in mind I said ‘crawl’ and not ‘trot’ or even ‘ scamper’. Those are words strictly associated with the 20s) the days seem to get longer and nights shorter. Somehow the pace in life takes a holiday and comes to a standstill close to 40.  The irony of it all is that even though life tends to slow down itself your heart grows as restless as ever. It constantly looks behind at the years gone in an energetic flash and forward to the upcoming years beckoning with endless uncertainties and outcomes all depending on the direction you choose at present. Somehow both directions seem a lot simpler and happier than your present crisis since in the younger trough of the 30s you make all the terrible errors, cater to all your whims and from the older trough you beam back at yourself at having made all the right decisions and comfortably ageing. It is this irksome crest in between that is so critical.

Coming out of the theoretical world and back to reality, my wife and I had lived our lives to the fullest before committing to the next phase, or so we thought. We had dated for almost 4 years before being engaged and had spent another year before finally tying the knot. The honeymoon lasted for a whole one year and we did not even let our married status interfere with the time spent with our individual family and friends either. We had felt that we made all the right decisions and were fully equipped. And yet, when you are actually faced with months of sleeplessness and two mortgages and a constant necessity to be right not just for yourself – that would be laughably simple – but for three other people in addition, you realise that nothing in the world can actually prepare you to take on this role.  And I swear somehow the word ‘sleep’ keeps cropping up in my mind and takes priority in my mental list of complaints.

As I scrubbed my hands thoroughly first with an antibacterial hand wash and later with a sanitiser, I kept thinking how easily this routine comes to me compared to the first year of parenthood. It was the single most horrible period of my life that I can distinguish and also my most treasured year that I would protect with my life if I have to. I am not too sure how feelings can co-exist in such crude contrast but like all other extremely complicated issues I attempted at addressing previously, this crest is a very rickety spot indeed. Anyway, going back to that first year, I remember my days were as long as 14-15 hours work wise, meaning work that paid you, and another 10 hours voluntary unpaid work wise. I know, it does not add up does it but that is exactly how my days rolled into another and I constantly felt like I was running an hour, if not more, behind in my life till it became a routine and a lifestyle. That drive and passion that I felt in the first year of my newfound role as a father, was unparallel to any other drive I have ever felt so far. I still think it was the residual after-effect of holding and feeling your first born in your arms and that powerful effect can make you do wonders and basically turn you into superman!

The front door of my humble abode crashed open just then and crashed right into my reverie as my gorgeous wife with a glowing tan and perfectly trimmed hair walked in and ran straight into my arms. Her first instinct – was of course to sniff around my clothes and I was guilty as charged! But please do not let the brooding drone of a middle-aged man ruin your beautiful afternoon because even after the six whole paragraphs of concessant whining, my life is still every bit worth living for! 

Actions speak louder than Prayers

Before I even begin to make my point, I just want to clarify that this issue is extremely debatable and personal and is supposed to serve as an eye opener as opposed to being offensive and I have no intention to attack any particular race, culture or religion; rather my focus is on the bigger picture.

This is such a taboo topic that I must say it made me wince at the audacity of my own thoughts and logic. Why is it that everyone around us would give anything to glimpse past reality? They find the newspaper insanely mundane because it depicts death, rape, murder- “reality” in other words that is constantly taking place around us. We do not wish to take part in the prevention of any of it and God forbid, be a part of it, so we do not even wish to think about it. What we do seem to enjoy however (which I find quite depressing) is to seek solace and loose ourselves in the realms of unknown and to a certain degree are prepared to do anything for a world full of promises that we, in all honesty, do not even understand.

My attempt is to provide a satirical account of what happens around us in the name of religion rather than ridicule the religion itself. No, religion I have no grudge against, in fact if I am not entirely mistaken, religions spawned all over the world due to a crisis in human nature and in times when all signs of humanity was disappearing from this world. It was a lack of accountability that needed to be addressed and in a nutshell different religions subsequently must have followed depending on the structure of the society, culture, climate and belief with the help of an extremely powerful person being the harbinger of the world unknown. If you come to think of it, it was an ingenuous concept to mould people into acting more responsibly (since all humanly constrictions failed) but the most notable achievement was perhaps the fear that every religion successfully managed to infiltrate into people’s mind. This fear is what we carry in our hearts till to this date.

I personally believe that in this day and age when all major discoveries and inventions have already been conducted there is almost nothing unattainable left for the human brain to perform. Thus, it must only be a guilty conscience that would make people desperate enough to resort to the consolation of a religion! If you know in your heart that you have done nothing wrong, if you have a clear conscience, there would be no need to delve into an unknown future and even if the thought of an afterlife does occur to you, why would you change your current lifestyle in fear of what your actions might result to in the future far away when most of us do not even think about karma in this current life? So the common rationale has become that if I commit a murder today, I go sit in a church/temple/mosque for the rest of the week in hope of being forgiven whereas I would have thought the most common reaction to remorse would be to try and help the dear ones of the person I have killed or if that is too far-fetched, to ensure that no other person does what I did.

There are so many issues that are palpable; we see it happening around us all the time. If good deed is our only objective, we could help improve the standard of living around us, help build a conscience in people to be more accountable, help people in need or maybe just smile at a person to make them feel better! I do not know if it occurs to anyone that it is really selfish that while people are dying around us and needs all the help we can give, all we are concerned about is what would help us go to heaven! My point is, why waste time obsessing over something we know nothing about when there are so many issues around us that could really use a bit of our attention and interest?

Is not the most humane part of being human the fact that we can love? It is such an irrational quality and yet our first and foremost identity that separate us from all other beings. Religions are there to make us accountable but what about our own mind and essentially our feelings – should not that be enough to let us justify our action as adults? If we do something out of fear of ending up in hell, is the intention really right? You cannot stretch a day longer than 24 hours and if out of the 24 hours we spend most of our time preparing for the life after, what is our purpose of being in “this” world? What about “now”?

If our conscience is clear, if we actually believe in ourselves and know in our heart we do not intend to do anything that would harm others, I do not believe there should be any need to conform or succumb to act in the name of religion. There is a fine line between reverence and fear and most of us are on the wrong side of that line. If there is love and not fear in our heart, being religious ought to mean we radiate love all around us, wherever we go we only spread happiness and not brood over our own fate.

Labour Crisis in the household: truth or myth?

Honufa was only nine and a half when she took her first steps into our new home. She was a tiny little figure with more bones in her body than flesh. Within a month or so, she flourished into a full-bodied beautiful young girl, who could capture anyone’s affection by just pouting her lips in a disarming smile. There was such longing in her melancholy eyes that it still haunts me and reminds me of the carefree soul of a child trapped in a mindless labyrinth unable to find her way out. 

Our camaraderie was circumstantial and inevitable being of the same age and in the same house for most part of our lives but it was not always right for me to express my feelings for her. Individual seating arrangement in the house had early on defined our differences: while I sat on the couch, she would be on the floor by my side and while I slept in my own bedroom, she would make a bed on the kitchen floor! Such was the magnitude of the invisible difference, that it held me back from reaching out to her out of a need to conform to our social norms and customs. 

Honufa was a hired help in our house: one of the millions working in a family home for a living in Bangladesh, a large number of who have become a part of our culture over the years. They are all around us leading their meaningless, non-existent lives and represent the non-entities of the society. The educated section of the society, on the other hand, who can afford them turn a blind eye to any responsibility they might have towards their condition apart from providing a salary, food and shelter. Most young people working for these families are aged between 7 to 16 years and every second family in the vicinity of Dhaka city are subconsciously supporting child labour without ever admitting the concept to themselves.

On my last trip to Bangladesh, I remember asking my mother how she justified the need of having two extra helping hands in the house besides being a housewife herself. Her defence included some atrocious remarks about people living abroad failing to understand how things are run in Bangladesh and another new angle that woke me up. This new angle shed light to a perspective that all families who have hired help seemed to share. They have this self-satisfying perception that they positively contribute towards the society by employing the impoverished and their salaries give them a better quality life. They also tend to believe that without this financial help they would either perish or be forced to beg on the streets. That all sounds very encouraging but my point is being trapped in a house with no security, doing ungodly hours with no idea about fair pay, no education- is all this really improving the quality of their lives? Is it not crippling another whole generation of people to suffer from illiteracy and lack of self respect? If some people are really that fond of charitable activity, they should donate those hefty amounts to charitable organisations and NGO-who have professional methods to undertake such responsibilities-and not take matters into their own hands. It is a poor excuse used by us for so long that we have actually started to believe in it but it is nothing but a camouflage over the fact that we choose comfort of our bodies over what is right or wrong. Especially the underprivileged children, growing up side by side with the more fortunate ones, will essentially have the same magnitude of differences in the future that Honufa and I had to grow up with and the legacy of this invisible chasm between the two classes will continue forever. 

We, as Bangladeshis, have a general habit of blaming everything on the incompetence of the government without stopping to ponder if there is anything each of us can contribute in our daily lives to make life better. In a recent discussion over this issue, a friend commented saying there is no basic framework to control anything in Bangladesh let alone deciding fairness of pay and working conditions of hired help, which is why you just have to work around it or live with it. She pointed out the traffic conditions which is probably at its worst and asked me the simple question whether I would stop driving in Bangladesh and sit at home just because the traffic cannot be regulated by the government efficiently. In my opinion, traffic and the human beings concerned in this issue are very different subjects. If traffic conditions are bad on the streets, I agree there is little we can personally do about it but to let a tradition of locking young people up in our houses and expect children not to act like children continue, is inexcusable. If the government cannot maintain a framework to monitor this condition, it does not mean we can persist with this inhuman behaviour and make poor excuses for it. If the undergraduate, postgraduate and doctorate degrees combined cannot teach us the simple lesson of how to treat people with respect, then I have to admit we spend all that money after education in vain! 

The main question to ask ourselves, I believe, is whether we can really justify the need for this sort of labour; the same question I asked my mother on my last visit. Is it really that difficult to wash your dishes after you eat or mop the floor that “you” dirty yourself? Everyone seems to be constantly whining about how impossible it has become to get a “good” maid in the house. Is it really necessary to have three different people do the household chores in the house which you can probably manage yourself and all because of cheap labour? I wonder if we ever stop to think about how we take advantage of people, who are in need and not in a position to decide what is right for themselves, forgetting the fact that they cannot think right but “we” can-we are capable of thinking for ourselves and also for them! 

Honufa and millions of other children like her are incapable of making a decision on their own. If a family decides to invite a person to come into their home and work for them, they need to realize what an extremely serious responsibility it is. This decision needs to be looked upon as exactly the same as adopting that child and ensure that the minimum basic need of that person is looked into, of which the primary three would be food, living condition and education.  

There is a serious need for a wake up call to raise social concerns in our surroundings and to discard old norms and customs that only make people suffer. We need to raise the minimum amount of awareness so we can at least meet our own eyes in the reflection. We need to wake up to the simple truth that only because there is nobody to watch over what we do in privacy, how we treat the ones who only stay in our kitchen, it does not give us the right to mistreat another human being. We have to learn to be accountable to ourselves since there is no system looking over us. If we make a mess, is it not easier to clean it ourselves rather than adopting a system with no regulations whatsoever? If we still decide to take up this practice with humanitarian reason and the like, we need to realize the seriousness of the responsibility, we cannot leave any stones unturned because the children should not have to bear the brunt under any circumstances. We need to take it upon ourselves to return the youth to the likes of Honufa and join the cause in our daily lives to free their souls.