A True Story

Bhejar ichhe amar khanik chhilo
khuki-i take ushke onek dilo
alto heshe amar pashe eshe
joler dhara nijer gaye nilo.


Akash tokhon kaal korechhe mukh-i
khuki tobu take dekhei sukhi
bajer alor taal milie heshe
brishti mathay beray chhute khuki.


Tepantorer shei gohine thaay
bhijei kaate amar bikel haay
bataash ka[n]pe megher dhomok shune ...
khukir hashir domok bere jaay.


Meghdebotar mood bhalo nei bujhi
shiler pahar chhilo ki taar pu[n]ji
bhishon bege porte thake tara
shei tufane khukike koi khu[n]ji?


Haat barie dhorte take gele
chomke uthe dey she amay thele
amra dujon chhutte thaki dure
pipul gachh ek jethay bahu mele.


Gachher niche khunno mone boshe
khukir chokhe osru pore khoshe
besh to chhilo joler sathe khela
bigre gelo sob-i jhorer doshe.


Thamlo sheshe jhorer matamati
hawar sathe gachher hatahati
tepantore shiler jhikimiki
khuki amar she udbhasher sathi.


Ami kintu nipaat sorol mone
shudhiechhilam, "Shil kurate jabe?"
khuki bhablo ki ta ke ba jane
mukh pheralo bhishon osodbhabe.

...

Shilgulo shob jol hoyechhe gole
khukio gechhe nijer pothe chole
ami-i shudhu ekla bheja mone
osru shishir meshai megher jole.

Lula Himu goes to Tajindong

We know we might get shot (like the last time when we were coming back from Rooma). We know one or all of us might break a leg (like the last time Putul Apa got her ankle fractured). We know we might get terrible attacks of Malaria (like the last time I had :( ...). We know we might have to trudge through the gorges at the dead of the night (like the last time all of us did, from dawn to dawn).

Still we freaks are going back to the hills, our "Nona Meyemanush" ...

Let me check my rücksack.

1. Camera, Lens, Battery, Filter, Films
2. Candles
3. Chalk
4. Jungle-boot
5. Knife
6. Matches
7. Medical Kit [Anticeptic, cotton gauge, bandaid, paracetamol, flagyl, MOOV, ORS]
8. Mosquito Net and repelants
9. Paper & pencil
10. Climbing chords
11. Shawls
12. Sweater
13. Spectacles (spair)
14. Toilet Paper
15. Soap, Toothbrush, toothpaste, towel, antiburn, deo
16. Torch, battery, bulb
17. Water bottle
18. Purifiers
19. Whistle
20. Dry Food
21. Slacks and Sleeved Shirts

What have I left out?

Paradise Lost

Electricians are usually tacit. They work like a dumb devil, saying nothing, uttering almost nothing (only if your ears are strong enough to catch the swears under their breath), and doing their job quickly. I forgot his name, the only exception to this observation.

That guy always swore, like a drunken sailor, and he would always apologize. "This fucking whory cables just won't work ... oh, pardon me Chhoto Bhai ... I'm just an illiterate asshole ... manners I do miss ... and what the hell full of pubic hair is this bloody fuse doing here, getting all burnt? You're fucking with the electricity, Mr. Fuse? ... Oh, a thousand apology Chhoto Bhai ... why don't you go and play along ... rather than listening to my bad language and giggle?" He went on and on. Always talking, and swearing, and lingering.

My mother had visible repulsion regarding him, she would rather fix our electric connections herself if she could manage, and obviously it was that guy who would eventually show up if anything went wrong. And some language he fostered.

Anyway, all I want to say, one day I saw him, walking fast past me, with some awefully red hibiscus in his firm grip, looking very absent-minded ... and he almost screeched to a halt when he saw me stairing at him. I gave him an inquisitive glare, and he nervously brought his hands back from his behind. No need to be ashamed, every guy has the damned right to carry flowers.

I, being a kid back then, decided to embarass him a bit more, and asked, "Who are those reddies for?"

That electrician, producing one of the best loving smile I've seen so far, said, "For the lady in the house."

He didn't wait for my second question, and cantered along, flowers in hand, and obviously, with great love hidden in his chest. Hibiscus was not very easy to collect.

And I admit, I never could express my passion with that much intensity. I lost it somewhere on my way.

Could we, at least, try?

Hey guys n gals ... this idea just popped up in my mind, and I couldn't find another spot to share this with you.

Almost all of us now have a digital camera ... and no wonder we shoot a lot. Could we shoot regularly on a common theme, "My Dhaka"? Dhaka has been evolving for the past few years quite exponentially, and I believe this huge series (it would be huge if some of us could stick to shooting for a long time) would turn out to be an extremely remarkable one ... Evolution 0f a City, I mean!

Please let me know if you're interested. You know my mail address.

Books I've been reading these days

Well, couldn't read much these days ... I have been busier than the devil, I guess ... usually I ALWAYS read something before falling asleep ... that's a habit I've developped over twenty years, with rare exceptions when I go on some excursion.

PREY by Michael Crichton and DA VINCI CODE by Dan Brown are the two that consumed me in september. I had literally crawled through the books, inching along every night ... but I must say, it felt good reading thrillers after a long time.

Da Vinci Code was more engulfing, since I have immense interest in theology, and the early days of christianity has become the focus of my attention ... I read some about the early days of Islam (and frankly speaking, they are mindblowing), and I have a good mind to spend some "busy nights" coming ahead. I remember Mursalin being very much carried away by the thriller ... no wonder why. While reading DVC, the coded poems of "Royal Bengal Rahasya" popped up in my mind, Satyajit Roy would never lose his charm to me.

Anyone have a good marvel up the sleeves to suggest? Let me know.

Kakistocracy

That's the word I was looking for.

Politics leading to Mass Murder

I am an avid reader, and one day I stumbled upon a great book written by one of the greatest scholars living in our time, Richard Dawkins ... THE ANCESTOR'S TALE. The structure of the book imitates, purpose- and skillfully, THE CANTERBURY TALES by chaucer, where people of every trade joins a pilgrimmage to canerbury. And dawkins replaced trades by species. The book starts with the journey of man, to be more precise, Homo Sapiens Sapiens towards the very point where LIFE began to evolve ... some billions of years ago ... and chapter after chapter will introduce you with an immediate ancestor, astride a point of bifurcation, along the journey to past. The book is huge, and I'm proud to finish it within a week. I read it like a zombie, I can remember ... and Dawkins is one of my most favourite authors now.

However, I would make a late start with something I came to know from Dawkins about fungi. One of the difference between me and the fungi is, I move along, and they don't. But I have to gather nutrition to survive, sustain and multiplicate, and so do the fungi. My way is to move along and stuff things up to my digestive system, and the fungi just sit there, and let their digestive system grow and spread and spread over a great area ... if I'm not mistaken.

The so called religious turmoil in Bangladesh is indeed a fungus system. Apparently it simply grows on some remote pockets of the country, but with a good look at it, we can see its roots spreading very far and deep around Bangladesh. The thing is, nurturing this poison ivy has let it take such a shape that everything becomes granted if you do it in the name of religion. Murdering people, looting and plundering, rape and riot ... almost everything.

It's easy to blame it on the Madrasseh pupils ... eventually they're the ones who are caught with their pants down (though actually they wear there pants a bit higher, so the ankles are visible) ... but everyday I see numbers of complascent faces, who approves of those acts and feel victorious in the holy war against nothing. Committing a crime is bad, supporting its continuation is aggravatingly worse.

I listen to these people saying that it has become an old story whenever it comes to our liberation war back in 1971. Accepting the fact that a defeat precedes their march towards victory is disturbing for these fellows. But was it altogether a defeat for them? Haven't we raised them up from ashes, just to stab us again? We have cultured this fungi deep into us, way around us, and many of us are now following the old but effective doctrine, if you can't beat them, join them.

Islam was never in danger in this delta before 1971. It's the year when the largest muslimocide has taken place in the face of the earth, obviously by other so called muslims, tha pakistani army and their civilian sycophants, and very vocally in the name of Islam. It's not new in the history of Islam that fratricide would eventually be popular among the muslims, the Hashimis fought against the Umayyas, the sunnis fought against the Shiites; and muslims fought against theneighbouring infidels but not in a single war could Muslims be killed in millions, and the rapist pakistani army succeeded in achieving that summit in the manslaughtering championship ... and planted their seeds before they quit. And as a nation it is a disgrace to us that not only we failed in uprooting these fungi, but also condescended to join the funguskind, and eventually let them step into the government. We have cheered for a freedom fighter and voted for war-criminals.

Now the preparation of the fungi has almost culminated. The snake coils up before biting, and I believe the eye-washing bombings and shootings will cease before the final attack, allowing a fake assurance of peace and harmony for a couple of months. Our intellectuals had been tortured to death once in 1971, and perhaps will again be in near future ... Humayun Azad is perhaps one of them test kills. As history rhymes itself (I love Mark Twain for that), I can see blood everywhere, blood-pools, blood-dripdrops, and bloodstains. That's the way the usurpers rush in.

Though I'm not much of a fan of Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, but one of his famous directives was to build castles in every home against the enemies. It's too late now to do that, but the very optimism that forms the very core of Bangaliana, the spirit to be a Bengali, still makes me dream of a better Bangladesh. Joy Bangla.

Block

It's nothing unusual that people suddenly find it difficult to write ... and for me I believe this "block" to be connected with season. Early Autumn is indeed something that impedes my plume.

Usually I write a lot ... perhaps the least on this blogging site. But this intense heat and humidity has drained my energy and enthusiasm off ... I have yet to finish some scripts I was working on ... and I also stepped off from attending CEFP II this term ... I am pretty tired I guess.

But the rain that started last night and still going strong has livened me up ... I just feel like inventing some Goddess of Rain and worshipping her (I have a strong affinity to women :D ... why bother a God?) ... and I do have plans to go out this afternoon ...

Anyway, will be busy like a carrier pigeon from Thursday ... I'll enjoy these two long awaited consecutive holidays ...

A peep through the gate

I actually forgot everything I studied in my uni ... but can recall something called a gate function ... a pulse of duration T, starting from t to t + T ... and you can actually read another function if multiplied by this gate ... and I was imagining to see myself through a sudden gate this afternoon.

Frankly speaking, I didn't expect to see anything great ... and all I could see was a tired young man. Tired, and gloomy, and aware of the fact that he was tired.

If I only could, Himu, if I only could. Sorry man.

Looney Limerick 0005

Whoa there, hold your horses, my story ain't that long
I spent my jaan, got burn in sun to get to Chittagong.

but for a Dutch motha'fucka' ...
I got back again to Dhaka

and now I feel like I had been a ball in bloody pingpong.


P.S. Screw you, Spruit, you arschloch!

Looney Limerick 0004

Hello hello everybody, ah it's such a fun ...
every prick got two days leave but this week I had none.


The friday passed through work
and I felt like a dork


and what a luck, after all these, the task is left undone ... :(((



P.S. I hate you 5-days-at-work guys n' gals ... may you hang in the electric chair!

Phire phire ashe

I was on the Dhaka-Mymensingh road, and was listening to Bangladesh Betaar ... and after soooo many years, 18 I guess ... heard this song by Rafiqul Islam,

tomaare jeno bhule naa jaai,

she ashish daao more ...

there was something so intense about this song, not only the lyrics, not only the tune, not only the smooth voice, but bits and pieces of my childhood blended with them ... and I watched the sunny greens in bhaluka to melt away into my sunny glass panes back in sylhet, my beautiful verandah where the sky peered into my eyes, the rainbows with the lost seven colors ... and I could feel my cheeks getting wet ... and not always one can cry to his content, can he?

Childhood is a gift to go lost, and perhaps all of us never cease keeping looking for it. Perhaps only in dreams we get closest to this wonderful gift.

It's very unlikely that anyone would have the song in mp3 format, but I would be grateful if you could send it to me.

Unforgiven

That would be you.

... though I didn't say anything, but that didn't mean I forgave you. It's not that easy. And I tried to shake the whole business off my mind, tried to keep myself busy in other matters (and if you only could know what I did), overslept, overdrank, overlaughed, but nope dear, I couldn't and I shan't FORGIVE you.

And I will watch you suffer, just the way you did. I will, and I will devote my whole freaking life to do that, if it ever becomes necessary. Himu never quits.

No title

Just a simple statement, the gypsy kids who went to school in a gipsy colony in Dhaka, wants to become teachers when they grow up. It made me cry.

I've seen thousand and thousands of poor kids around Bangladesh. I simply adore these children, though I don't express it very often, I love their curious eyes, their pure drooling smiles, their worm-infested bellies ... and what have I done for these angels? Truth to be said, nothing. Perhaps I buy candies from some of them when I get stuck in a jam, and whoa there, nothing more.

And now these kids want to become teacher when they grow up ... for the love of God, when did I ever want to become a teacher? Never! And these kids do, because they received something from their teachers they want to convey to the rest of their communities? And what the bloody heck have I ever wanted to convey to my community?

And I am not ashamed to admit that these little kids make me feel so worthless. I kneel on the ground before them and apologize.

Meine neue Flamme ...

... und der Titel sagt alles.

Looney Limericks 0003

I poured some vodka, squeezed some juicy lemons
and drank like as if retinued by the demons

the morning saw me naked
and my stomach really ached

I just don't know now where to put blame-ons.


P.S. well, true spirit of a birthday was celebrated, at least!

What's in a Birthday?

Just a day ... you've been born years ago. Why bother?

Does it make any difference? Years after years, tuesdays after thursdays, rainy days after sunny days and the other way round ... a birthday is just another day Himu, just another day. You'll meet the same people, under the same sky, on the same way around you ... it's just another day.

*uck the phone calls, shove the phoney smiles up their asses ... and go on boozing. Happy birthday Himu, live happy!

Je manque mes cheveux :(

Yeah, just that :(((.

Me and Marquez 0001

Sometimes I find myself just like that dictator in The Autumn of the Patriarch ... none could recognize him when he lay down facing the earth, not only because the vultures nibbled his face away, but none actually ever came to know him.

My baby shot me down :(

I easily get carried away, but unfortunatly (or is it fortunate?) not very far. For past few days, this awesome piece by Nancy Sinatra is ringing in my brain.


I was five and he was six
we rode on horses made of sticks
he wore black and i wore white
he would always win the fight
bang, bang
he shot me down bang, bang
i hit the ground ... bang, bang
that awful sound,
bang bang,
my baby shot me down.

seasons came and changed the time,
when i grew up i called him mine
he would always laugh and say
remember when we used to play ... bang bang
i shot you down bang bang
you hit the ground bang bang
that awful sound ... bang bang ...
i used to shoot you down

music played and people sang
just for me the church bells rang ... ...

now he's gone i don't know why
and to this day sometimes i cry
he didn't even say goodbye
he didn't take the time ... to lie!
bang, bang
he shot me down, bang bang
i hit the ground bang, bang ...
that awful sound, bang bang ...
my baby shot me down.


It speaks out my mind, if I replace "he" with she ... my baby shot me down, BANG BANG ...

Well, I should get up from the ground.