Delirium

Sokaler rod ar bikeler chhaya dhore dhore

Ami choli; ami choli ... ami choli sopner ghore

Oneker chena mukh ochena bhirer moto laage

bujhi na bibhed ami parod ar phuler poraage.

Ei ghum ghum ghum chena ba ochena prithibite

ami-i ki eka shudhu pari na somoy khu[n]je nite ...

amar jonno shudhu, nijer jonno da[n]rabar?

Ami choli, ami choli, ami choli nithor, oshar.

Koto bhabi, bohudur chola holo, etotuku thami

sob kichhu theme jaay, poth dhore eka choli ami.

That's how a day should end

I had such fun today.

First of all, have you ever been marooned on Ashulia Road? Nope? Tadaa! Today I had the good fortune of being buswrecked right on the groove. What a stroke of luck that was. Winds through my hair [I felt like crying, thinking about my locks I once had :( ... I really enjoyed my being with long hair], water parading near my heels, and there I am, sitting on my ass, and total ashulia around me under water. And have a look at that surreptitious sun, tiptoeing behind the clouds, but just can't help exposing her shiny bosom [you bet I felt horny then and now, or else what crazy idiot would think of sun as a female?] ... and your horizon is beautifully caparisoned in shades of blue ... and gray ... and blue ... and gray ... and oh, what ruthless isolation! I felt terribly lonely.

Perhaps that's why friends are there. I finished my project works and rushed back home ... and packed up to AF. One of my closest friends called very suspiciously when I dipped into french grammar [and glamor also, I just can't help ogling that lady in the other room :)], and commanded to get my ass off to Xinxian ASAP. And that's when the fun began. Pretty soon it was five of us, running our chatterboxes on full throttle; fixated on our lovely, sexy, sensuous codinateuses [just a word I devised, those ladies who came to dine there], gobbling our foods, screaming and howling like packed wolves, and of course, having a great time.

Dinner had to finish, and we rolled down on the street and decided to get boozed up to our noses. But some way or other, we had to quit that great plan, and quickly switched to get drunk with music. So there we were again, singing like anything [songs being instantly written and composed], cruising along the road, kicking up the row around Mohammadpur. We also decided to get on top of another friend's dach and settle down to chat. But we had to quit ultimately, it was impossible to stay awake on that wonderfully beautiful roof without being drunk.

There we were again, now four of us, crusing down to another friend's house, singing again, hey nonny no ... and soon we got back home, each posted to the right box, but still crunching the echoes of the fun we had (We were a bt apprehensive of getting caught by RAB and crossfired to death, but what the heck, singing at Midnight isn't a crime that grave, and even it is, it's worth being ventured).

Life's not bad at all ... all I need is days like this one.

Bingo!

I devined a great new idea!

Well, I was actually rushing close to it all the time, but last night when I was chatting, the idea offered a promise of being effectuated.

The thing is ... I've been writing the paroles and composing the music of songs since ... quite a while. And I want to turn them into presents. That's it, I'll present my songs in mp3 format from now on. Whenever you come up with your silly events and treat me with sillier fast foods, I'll gently produce a CD to you, with one or two songs in it, written, composed and sung by the great Barritone Monsieur Azad, chanteur charmant :p.

Isn't that wonderful? A song, written for you only, lacking no earthly emotions?

Let me know what you think of it.

My Darkness

The last time I spent a night under wide open sky, last November, I was in Sunamgunj, near Tanguar Haor, lying on my sleeping bag, not in it, dreamily watching the sky so amazingly full of stars, and rocking with the gentle waves of Haor. I think one should spend at least one night under the sky every month, if not more frequency be possible. You can actually relate your humble being with the rest of the world if you stare at the sky. I often forget how little a being I am; whenever I look down to earth I see my big, long shadow and I start loosing respect to the rest of my ambience. One long look at that enormous nothingness, you get back to earth, to be precise.

This evening I climbed up again to my rooftop reservoir, just to have some good pictures of the darkness, since almost everything was blacked out. Power failure has lost its mysterious spells over us, ever since Diesel generators became popular in the city. When I was a kid, back in Sylhet, load shedding was an event of its own class. If there was no moon, all you could see were some feeble flames of candles or oil lamps around, or the flickers from burning cigarettes. We used to get together in the Verandah and sang whatever songs we felt like singing at that moment ... me, my siblings ... with the gigantic trees leaning to us to our right, wide open sky barricaded by a sudden bamboo bush, a big moon trying to grin out its palor ... it was really something to ruminate on ... I had a marvelous childhood in sylhet.

Anyway, let's not get derouted, where was I? ... Oh, on my rooftop reservoir, with my tripod and camera. These are the moments that make me resent, for not having bought a digital camera. I use a CANON EOS 1000 FN, totally professional stuff, but with a casual 28-70 sigma lens. The tripod I got purchased recently from Singapore, and it hasn't been field tested yet [Field test denotes here an excursion up in the mountains, where we usually trek around. I have a good plan to run the first test in Chandranath next friday], but I'm satisfied with it. I had some photoes shot ... pictures of Darkness, with weak lights at great distance ... "Poxed darkness" is a title that buzzed in my head for a while.

I lied down on the tank for some minutes. Actually the reservoir is huge, I and my nephew Linca in fact spent a night there when my brother got married ... there was so many guests to stay overnight, we had no other choice to pack up with my guitar and blankets, and spent the whole night under the sky, firing up new satanic ideas and discussing the physiques of all those women we met anew. We nearly pissed all the neighbours [well, the arabesque way of defining neighbours states that anyone within the fortieth house is your neighbour] off.

Just can't get to the point tonight ... I saw something I haven't seen for a long time. White chunks of clouds drifting gently like viennese geese in pitch black background, with glistening of a star here, and a star there ... it was really awesome. Who needs a moon when stars are there? The sky is in fact more charming with new moon ... just get 150 kilometers out of Dhaka [because the air is not clear here at all] and you can see the unabridged sky with all her jewelery, scattered for you.

Darkness isn't always scary, isn't always obscure, it's just something waiting for your light.

Ornithology

Well, I don't know its name ... perhaps a cardinal, or a magpie, or a white-breasted orange-bill or something, but I know him [now now, don't say it's a female] for a long time. Vis-à-vis, not more than 15 seconds, but still, I know his posture, the way he stares at nothing, and the way he sits there, alone, his world fading into invisibility, blurred horizons guarding the limits of his life, and the green that surrounds him, only to fake the pleasantries life usually put forward, and the greens followed by other greens, only floating, and fading, and flirting with him. I say, I know him. I've seen him in my dreams, in my memories, in my mirrors.

Photo © Barun K Bakshi

Block

It's been quite a while since I wrote something [blogs be exempted]. The last piece that I wrote and finished with visible satisfaction was an article on our trekking through the dense forested mountains of lower hill tracts, in Bandarban and Rangamati. I was so exhilarated after finishing the whole thing, it exceeded 20,000 bangla words, but thousands more could be written on that wonderful, extraordinary, memorable adventure. I mailed it to almost everyone, people I know, people I hardly know, and even to people I never expect to know. However, the sheer size of the article was repulsive enough not to be read, let alone enjoyed. Only some of them bookworms went all the way through ... and man, I'm honored with their reactions. Their is no greater joy when your lecteur appreciates you. I could feel the pleasure my parents experienced when people used to praise one of their children.

However, I couldn't write since October 2004. The pause seems long enough to get bored to me ... but I don't know why I don't write any more. I have enough time, have the strength to do more hectic things, but whenever I sit in front of my pc and open MS Word to write something, I feel drained ... drained off my energy. Is that what people call writers' block?

But I want to write something ... perhaps a letter to my sis. When I was a kid, I used to write lumps of letter to her, pages after pages, big heaps of complaints and reports and demands, but never posted them. She would visit us whenever the faintest leave she got from DMC, and I showed her all the letters I wrote, and usually was quite imperative to have all of them read by her. In fact she's the only person I ever wrote letters to. And she read them, each and every one of them, one by one, words after words, never missed the nuance ... she was the best reader I could have at that moment.

After the advent of emails, perhaps I performed the greatest of sighs of relief. I simply couldn't write a letter. Now I have got email and I can exchange messages without the heavy responsibility to shoulder ... to write a good letter that would be pleasant enough to be read. And that's what I do, I write small, concise mails, and never can express anything soft, delicate feeling. And the hell with it, I am relieved not to do so.

Anyway, it's not like that, that I don't get letters from others. I usually do, and simply love to read them. There's something so sensual about opening an envelope, before that checking out the stamps glued to it, unfolding the letter, starting to read, smelling it twice or thrice ... an email is no match for a letter. The last time had such a nice one, it was from México, from one of my nicest friends.

Anyway, I'll write a letter soon to my elder sis ... I have become Mamoo again, and I want to congratulate her with a nice letter, that I'll be writing to her after sixteen years.

Mehdi Hassan

Mehdi Hassan is my drinking partner, you can say.

Literally, it's not much probable. But I developped a peculiar habit of drinking alone, almost hiding in my bunker-like room, and listening to his awesome pieces.

I actually started learning Urdu to understand his ghazals. I was sure, there must be something in the lyrics that a man would chant with such grace. Note to people, I know your parents might have listened to so many of his soundtracks from popular Urdu movies, but I'm talking about his ghazals. The ones he sings are always full of pangs of a disheartened lover, who lost his dame, lost in drinks, or have been refused the opportunity to be her lover at all. Simple fact, but I never cease to be amazed, how Hassan's voice makes the Urdu words surmount the hurdles of incomprehensibility of the language. If it's sorrow, you would immediately understand the way his voice bleeds around the word "Gham", and you can visualize yourself perhaps, being tormented ... or you can see your intoxicated eyes when you listen to his awesome piece, Main Nazar se pee raahaan hoon, I'm drinking with my eyes. And he sings the hardest parts of song with such ease, any student of classical music would understand the difficulty one would have to undergo to sing like that.

Perhaps it's a pavlovian response, but my reactions to his Ghazals are the same as to strong alcoholic beverage (Vodka and Rum I drink only). I feel elated, light and lofty, everything becomes so soft and smooth and agreeable, my heart becomes a floating feather.

Mehdi Hassan has been suffering from stark illness, he ceased singing, and I know his days are numbered. But I would lose one of my best companions if he dies. Salute to Hassan.

A Movie that moved me ...

Drooping eyelids are the first two things you'd have noticed about me this morning.

My eyes are naturally droopy, either I'm tired, or I'm doing something with immense attention, or I've concocted another of my champion cocktails, or so ... but last night I watched The Gods Must Be Crazy and went to bed pretty late.

You might wonder why I am so late to see this hell of a good movie ... and the answer is, I don't know. I ceased watching movies back in 2002 and switched to alcohol to enjoy my moments, and last week I bought a DVD-ROM drive after accidentally watching The Ring ... man, I was almost scared to wet pants! I don't believe in ghosts ... but I prefer to be afraid of them, especially after watching such a movie. I slept with my lights on that night. I've got a Monroe portrait in my room, with the usual smile and cleavage, and I turned it other way round so that I don't see her and get scared.

Anyway, the DVD-ROM drive, absence of which almost turned me into an alcoholic, was inaugurated by two awesome movies: The Gods Must Be Crazy, part I and II. And I was entertained up to my capacity.

It was the simplicity of the movie that touched me ... I like simple things and simple people. The whole course of the movie was an intricate design of simplicity. An exasparated Bushman, a nervous game scientist, a city-quitting Dame, a trigger-happy dissenter ... yet the whole thing is so neatly woven! That's the kind of movie I want to make.

And man, if could only have fathered a child like that little bushkid in part II! He was so sweet and so naïve, resembling my nephew a bit. I can still see his terrorized face, holding that piece of wood above his head to scare the Hyena off ... and the way he hides under the blanket, into the tire when his brother falls off the truck.

I would be watching this movie again, but not alone, with someone hugging close. I don't know why, this movie makes me feel awefully lonely again.

Have Not

As you would easily understand, it was a light day (not too light though) for me in office. But at the end of the day, literally, when I'm ruminating over a once-steaming cup of tea, I suddenly realized that I'm a perfect Have-Not.

Let me tell you something, I'm not of a complaining sort. Actually I never complain to anyone on anything. And I don't go nag about all the things I should have that I don't have. But suddenly realizing what I am is something worth to be told.

It's 1637 hours and I suddenly could recall that I have my french class this evening, and I HAVE NOT finished my french homework, which had been given as a practice towards CEFP 2. Naturally I'd leave my homeworks unfinished, home is supposed to be a place void of work ... but then I had a sudden glance at my shoes, almost torn, and I came to understand that I HAVE NOT brought the money to buy a new pair of shoes I thought I would today.

Darn! Just moments later I slammed the cup on my table and went for a pause de pipi. And as it always happens, after getting rid of my "liquidity", I stopped for half a moment before the mirror to check my ugly mug, and there it is, I HAVE NOT had a proper shave (and I suddenly realized that I awefully resemble Veerappan the notorious dacoit).

That was all I need, the rest rushed towards me like an avalanche. So many things I HAVE NOT :( ... yet I've been loitering proud, taking me for one of them SOMEBODIES ...

I would have got a heartache pondering over these things, but lucky me, I HAVE NOT got a heart.

Addicted to Dreams

I'm quite sure that it wouldn't have remained a contingency that I would leave this city behind and start my new life up on some mountain, only if I could get rid of this profound affinity to internet.

Sounds stupid? Perhaps I am one. But I simply can't put my mind off this dream of mine, to leave Dhaka, to leave Bangladesh if possible, and buzz off to some distant place; surrounded, guarded and accompanied by mountains. There I would be living in a tiny shack, or a log house if possible. There would obviously be no electricity. There I would domesticate mountain lambs and fowls and nurture apple trees in my tiny little orchard. Every morning I would wake up as the purest rays piercieng the unadulterated air would touch my closed eyelids, I would get up and stand there in front of my little hut, naked, embracing the morning. Then I would go collecting water from the fountains down below. My lambs would be milked, my eggs would be snatched from the chickens ... and I would have my breakfast sitting below a tree, right on the edge of my mountain.

The rest of the day I would spend shepherding my lambs down the valley. Oh, just thinking of the lush greenery makes me pack my rücksack!

But you know, sometimes this innocent dream gets a bit twisted. I guess I am a bad dreamer when I get horny, and I think of lifting my arms from under the shoulders of a sleeping lady when the shines peep through my log window, or standing naked together with a lady for joined-hugging the morning, or letting the lambs loose down the valley and shepherding the animal inside me ... and I start to feel sorry for that poor woman up there, spending her life with animals.

Some day or other I'll touch my dreams ... I'll swim in the crystal-clear waters of streams, I'll jump into the mountain river from apple trees, I'll slide down the valley all the way down, I'll sit in front of a fire under the glistening sky full of stars and sing aloud weird songs, written and composed by me ofcourse ... and will do whatnots!

I will, just see! Wait till I get my broadband connection unplugged!

Jamuna

Well, I first met her back in April this year. Yes, it was a shame, and misfortune for me that I couldn't meet her earlier.

Jamuna is a river of its own class. With her banks faded into mist, her seductive bends bejewelled with greeneries, her sky being a cloudy canvas ... I have never seen anything like that before. It's true, quite a few rivers have revealed their secret beauty to me. Rheinkhyang and Sangu in lower hill tracts enchanted me, Danyub in Regensburg and Vienna was also charming, Someswari in upper Netrakona almost brought tears to my eyes ... I've never seen such a slim river with all that beauty, Dahuki in Sylhet and Bula in Sunamgunj was also awesome, but I must say, Jamuna can cast a hypnotic spell upon me.

Today I met her again. I was cruising down back to Dhaka, and the rare shines had a bonus macquillage on her. Just imagine, all around you only clouds with a tint of red and a deeeeep blue patch can be seen, and your horizon is split by the red-white transmission poles, and you can't pierce the scenery beyond water, water everywhere ... I felt like I was floating on a raft like a shipwrecked soul.

I thank my stars that I was born in this extraordinarily beautiful country, and was gifted with this afternoon. One day I'll get special permission from the authority and will dive from the bridge into Jamuna to end this silly life.

Beghazaled

I look very pissed off, almost always, perhaps that's the way I was sculptured by Goddie. Ever seen a jungle-babbler? No? Well, no sweat ... come and meet me some time.

But today my mood matched my look, a sort of mood-look handshaking, you might say. Couldn't sleep sound, was late to office, drank a shitty cup of tea, and had to race to Narayangunj to one of my projects. And damn, the sun had some extra shines today, I almost got a sunstroke. With dry lips and sweaty shirts, I saw myself in a power house that reeks of welding iron.

Being pissed off is better than being pissed on, I admit, and being on the better side I finished my tiring session of instruction, and took the bus back. Under that bloody soléil du mijour everything looked scorched and torched, and what more, there was even a traffic jam now. Wasn't that a perfect weather to use that sweet four letters starting with F?

Swallowing all the irritation and literally, agony, I got back to my office. Well, I don't know why, but the afternoon always reminds me of Ghazals, if I'm fed and cool. After getting a bit cooler, and having lunch (just a tiny crunch-munch), the day seemed not so ugly as it used to be some hours before. I sat in front of my pc and started to hum the ghazal paroles.

This one is one of my favourites:

Now that we got parted ... perhaps, will meet again in our dreams
just like we come across the dried petals of flower ... in a book ...

You're not a god, and nor my love like angels
both of us being human, why do we meet monsters?

In the world full of sorrow, confide your pangs in some friend
as the Intoxication grows when a drunkard meets another.


Ah, times up. Bingo! I'll be packing up now, and be speeding home, and be humming some other freaking ghazals. It's the time you feel like Dorothy from Wizard of Oz, "There's no other place like Home!"

Virguesque

Horoscopes are intrinsically attractive to us. It divides us into groups, yet spins webbed connections among these pleasantly devised signs (stupid, though) showing great feats of imagination, and assigns virtues that we feel proud of, even if we fail to discover them in us. A sense of fellowship is gifted to us through horoscopic tunnels ... we peep backward and fish out great beings of the same sign, and grin, "Look, Einstein was also a Taurus* !"

*is he, really?

I belong to Virgo, the Maiden. I missed Leo just by the manes, and man, taunted I was before I grew up! Well, belonging to a Maiden would never be something to cause dissatisfaction :) to me.

I've been close to virgo-people. Perhaps it's a biased observation, but I found some common attributes among us.

Virgokind is expected to be ...

1. Seeking friendship, companion and support from others.

2. Not much reliable.

3. Humorous and Amorous.

4. Tacit about their dislikes and torments.

5. Inventive.

6. a bit more preoccupied with themselves, but helpful to others if asked.

7. Lonesome.

8. Vindictive.


Believe me, I even guessed people out to be a virgo, matching these points. Virgoes are easily traced, you think :)?

I'm falling, falling like raindrops

A rainy day has so many filthy things to harbor. An alley inundated, an unskinned manhole awaiting you, a jet of mud from a car happily speeding by, a sprained ankle from a slip ... but it can make your day very special, if you have a macintosh or umbrella with you. It can spare a whole street, empty, craving only your footsteps.

I had an opportunity yesterday, in Mymensingh. Not a soul around you, and you have that black pitched strip ahead ... with muddy stripes along. Only the sound from your boots, and the incessant hissing of rain, everything quiet, wet and numb ... and you feel that you could walk like that for the rest of your life, isn't that wonderful?

I wish I could walk in Dhaka like that, all alone, only raindrops giving me an ovation, with sprinkles rising from my feet, along the streets, docile and dormant, for me, and only me ...

Nuisance let loose

Frankly, I hate mobile phones. But I often do things I hate to do, carrying a mobile almost up my arse is one of them.

The Siemens A50 that I'm using I got from a electronic appliance market in Vienna. Why that silly set, you might ask ... because it was the cheapest. Didn't bother any fancy sets, cause I knew I won't be using them as my closest foreign body.

I bought my first SIM in January, 2005. Had no other choice, you have to put your personal phone number on your CV, home phone won't be doing any good since you're almost never there ... but hell, right after a month I got a job and they stuffed another one up. Now I use two mobile phones, and I hate them more than ever.

Think of all the troubles you face because of these mobiles. You can't move freely, you get phone calls when you're in the ugliest situation to receive them, people around you are getting calls and responding to them ALL the time, and most of all, you're being exposed to the whole world, 24/7. Turning them off? Does it help? No, it would turn the whole world against you, and you'll have to spend even more time explaining why you turned it off in the first place. Tax and Mugging I won't mention, though you might mistake one for another, but muggers you have to face in this uncivilized city, Taxes you can easily escape.

You need to connect yourself to others while you're out of home? Sure. If you'd be living in a healthy environment of a civilized city, you'd see Telephone Boothes 400 meters apart. You simply can't ruin other people's peace for your own emergency, compris?

I've spent more than 24 years without mobiles, yet learned to hate them. I like the old way, without mobiles, with uncertainty. No missed calls, no make-sure calls, simple and uncertain life. Waiting for my novía, watching the minute-hands of the clock shivering around its face, tension, I-can't-stand-this-waiting-any-longer groans, and voilá-here-she-comes sort of way of life. I don't need any camera shoved up the butthole of my phone, I don't need to send silliest sms-s that can't convey my voice, intonation, ripples of laughter and cry ... I don't need to connect myself through this damned piece of gadget. And yes, I still love telephonic conversation, but not to get robbed by those GRAMEEN-AKTEL-CITYCELL-BANGLALINK fuckers, billing my minutes to perdition.

Blind Sunday

The Xth grade was indeed a period full of surprise for me, never ceasing to offer endless shades of emotion [mushy stuff], never missing a chance to tune the throbbings of heart to things I would have never looke twice at, and never defecting from the unspoken promise that there are always nice things around us --- all we have to do is to pick them up and be charmed, just like that!

Enough it could be about my Xth grade, but what I wish to blog here happened while the FIFA USA'94 world cup was being broadcasted. Being poles apart, the shining and roaring and quivering fields we had to watch at the deadliest dead of the night. My father, being a great soccer enthusiast, would make tea for the two of us, and we had a tacit agreement that early rising has to be maintained after the whole-night-soccer-frenzy. However, there had to be a break, quite a long one, between two consecutive games. At that time we had no other channel than BTV. The between-boredom had to be buttered down by something equally appealing.

"Blind Sunday" was the choice of some fellow with a really good taste in movies, I presume. A twenty-minutes-or- so long cinema, that still makes me nostalgic, and reminds me, if not reassures me, of those shiny promises my Xth grade year caparisoned on me, nice things are there, always.

It started with a typical story of a guy who sees a gal, and falls in love, and so on ... but the thing is he soon found out that the beatiful lady was totally blind, and though she moved quite smoothly, elegantly though, she couldn't help using a white walking stick ... and he managed to kick his own butt into the gutter, as he unknowingly taunted the girl and pushed her down to a pool.

Now what to do? The gal is simply pissed off, she wouldn't bother listening to that fellow's whining apology ... how to get into her circle of trust [reminds you of Meet The Parents?]? The guy invents something goofy, but hey, effective. He blindfolds his own eyes, limps down to the girl's door, knocks the door and says, "I'm Blind Too."

And then? It was a nice date, both of them together, the girl blind and the guy blindfolded. The lady guides the fellow smoothly, both of them sharing the same darkness, one of them tanned bathing under the darkness and the other only probing it, they cruise along the parks, libraries, restaurant ... beside the lake, beneath the tree, beyond the horizon ... and the movie ends right after the girl walks the guy home.

Isn't that sweet? I remember, I was so appalled, and god knows why I felt so guilty, I suddenly realized, I could never love someone until I feel myself moving with such passion. Loving someone still means to me ... sharing the darkness. I tried it ... once, but not everyone can walk you home.

French Again

I've started learning French again. I had to show it a red signal back in 2003, was terribly busy with other stuff. However, it's really a pisser when you realize that you're slowly losing a skill. Had no choice, really, and now I'm back to square one again, staring at the gibberish texts, listening to uncanny dialogues, swallowing snores ... what the hell is wrong with me, am I getting old?

Yesterday I had my first class ... and surprisingly, it was the same room where I had my 101 classes. I managed to stiffle Nostalgia over past few years, but it was rather difficult yesterday. It was like a riot of memories, budging and nudging each other on narrow allies around the downtown of my mind. But what to do, I'll have to leave this country if I wish to evade Nostalgia.

However, j'ai oublié tous les mots, tous les verbes, j'ai perdu ma efficacité d'exprimer, et finalement, il n'y a pas assez de femmes dans ma classe! grrrr! Merde! Pourquoi est la male fortune seulement pour moi?

Stretching My Legs

Last friday we had a wonderful hike around the city.

"You?" you might ask. Hmm, it's us, the same old ECBites, spending their treasures for a dewdrop.

By the way, perhaps you don't know what a friday could mean to a guy who spends rest of the week working and travelling and designing and calculating and screaming over the phone, and it's the friday at the end of his cyclic tunnel. And I try to spend it with my trekker-hiker-mountaineer-funloving-addabaj-ECBite friends.

Well, our favourite leader and photographer, Barunda is leaving Bangladesh, and it was a memorable "Urban Trekkerz" event with him. We went to Botanic Garden, flashing our Umbrella and Macintoshes, and walked and ran and jumped and hey, shot a lot of photos. Then we hiked up to an island-kind-of place, had some tea, and grabbed a pickup to Ashulia. We hiked up to Uttara from Ashulia, had lunch at Dhansiri, chatted a lot, and got back home. Simple, but good friends can make such simple things pleasurable, memorable and precious. They can make dewdrops cost Fortunes.

Thank god the sky was there ...

Guess what, I'm depressed.

Don't let confusion creep into your mind, I'm not telling that I'm depressed NOW ... it's more like saying that I'm Bangali, I'm Straight, I am Sam ... I have been being depressed ever since, well, ever since that incident happened to me. And please let me introduce myself you, I'm Himu from Dhaka, Bangladesh and I'm depressed.

I had an illusion that I can be oblivious to some upsetting facts, and be merry, merrier than I even used to be, but hell, time has turned me into a realist from a shining optimist. I still go and give my friends a jolly time, but it's me I fear most to meet. Whenever I come back to my room, sitting there, in front of my pc, or with my guitar, or with nothing but darkness, you see, it's a monster I spend my precious few hours of the day. How to escape from yourself? I tried sleeping, drinking, chatting and even the German Language, but couldn't help meeting myself in my room, with no lights.

Have a suggestion to lend me? Go on.