Poetic Piety

Review of Eleven Minutes by Paulo Coelho

‘Once upon a time, there was a prostitute called Maria’, begins the famous author Paulo Coelho’s ‘Eleven Minutes’.

Coelho, whose simple yet inspirational fables had life-changing effects on people, is telling a story that will show you the possibility of sacred sex – sex in the context of love. ‘Eleven Minutes’ is a discussion of sex in a way that’s no less innocent than a fairy tale.

Maria, the protagonist of the novel is introduced as a young Brazilian girl who dreams of a Prince Charming like her friends. But her early experiments with romance convince her that love is a delusion. Her boyfriend ditches her because she knows nothing about kissing. She learns to feel that self-sex is best. Attaining her maturity, she becomes a shop-girl even though she has high ambitions. But a vacation in Rio helps her meet a Swiss tourist, Roger, looking for dancers for his club in Geneva. Maria accepts his proposal and steps into the world of dancers. She is taught ‘samba’ by a Moroccan man who knows nothing about it!  But soon she loses the job and joins Copacabana, Geneva’s expensive prostitution! She saves her earning so that one day she may return to her native village in style. But when she is absolutely lost in sex and desires, she meets a handsome artist, Ralf Hart who makes her see her inner light, and begins to regain the lost sight of ‘love’. What happens afterwards is for you to find out.

Coelho’s language is simple and his message is as transparent as water. His bewitching sentences made me read the book more than thrice already. He says, ‘When we meet someone and fall in love, we have a sense that the whole universe is on our side. I saw this happen today as the sun went down. And yet if something goes wrong, there is nothing left! No herons, no distant music, not even the taste of his lips. How is it possible for the beauty that was there only minutes before to vanish so quickly?’

Is there any better way than these simple yet insightful sentences to express the gloom of a heart-broken girl? The novel has diary entries of Maria which is sure to make you think. You may find yourself reading the same sentences again and again, pondering over it. One can call it a romance novel but very different from Nicholas Sparks or Harold Robins. Coelho has his magical style!  ‘Eleven Minutes’ sweeps you off your feet and takes you into Coelho’s world where you learn that life is a roller coaster and once you are on it, you cannot expect it to move gently; it will have its ups and downs. You realize that sex is the synonym of love. Coelho points out the thin border line that exists between love and sex in our lives and invites us to get rid of it.

Besides, the same message of ‘The Alchemist’ echoes here once again; ‘follow your dream’ just the way Santiago and Maria did. ‘Some books make us dream, others bring us face to face with reality, but what matters to the author is the honesty with which a book is written’; I can assure every reader that Coelho has been truly honest and has used his ability to combine dream and reality in ‘Eleven Minutes’. Coelho’s detailed storytelling is sure keep you enchanted, dreaming and his down-to-earth thoughts will allow you to look at the world from a new angle.

‘Eleven Minutes’ is a quest to discover your ‘inner light’. Are you ready for it?

The book is available in Bookworm.

Reviewed by Efadul Huq

efahuq@gmail.com

Istanbul: Memories Of A City

By Orhan Pamuk

“Conrad, Nabokov, Naipaul – these are writers known for having managed to migrate between languages, cultures, countries, continents, even civilizations. Their imaginations were fed by exile, a nourishment drawn not through roots but through rootlessness; mine, however, requires that I stay in the same city, on the same street, in the same house, gazing at the same view. Istanbul’s fate is my fate: I am attached to this city because it has made me who I am”. Captivated? Then this is the book you should grab right now!

I must say, the name of this book is deceptive! It suggests to some that it is the autobiography of Pamuk and to others it is a historical memoir of a city. But to the reader of this book, it poses a puzzle, because Pamuk has knitted this book with only two threads – one representing his multihued life and the other representing the fast changing vast chronicle of Istanbul and so well has he knitted it that it becomes impossible to distinguish the two threads, drowning any reader in its ambiguous nature.

Istanbul, as Pamuk portrays, is a city with a western skin but an eastern heart. He proceeds chronologically, though at times it sounds like flashes of memory. From his childhood to university days, Pamuk recounts all that had happened against the backdrop of Istanbul.

The chapters focus on specific events of Istanbul and Pamuk’s own life. But throughout he is very concerned about how the outsiders as well as the locals perceived Istanbul as and how the readers will perceive his writing.

We start with the author's first memories: the tall house entirely occupied by a fascinating extended family; his father and brother; his long suffering mother; and his grand mother, the true matriarchal anchor of the family. We end, in the 70's, with a row between Orhan and his mother and his final decision. And in between he narrates the story of his life, interspersed with chapters that talk about history and tradition. We learn about great Turkish thinkers, writers, poets and philosophers. We see Istanbul through the eyes of successive generations of western visitors, Flaubert and Ruskin amongst them. And we learn of a new nation trying to establish a new identity in the wake of the collapse of the Ottoman Empire. We witness Pamuk going through family disasters, through his teenage love of painting and through the trauma of his first love, a story which superbly illustrates the real limits of life that faced talented - or wealthy - Istanbullus in the post war years.

For Pamuk the most defining notion of Istanbul is, Hüzün, a kind of Turkish melancholia, but a melancholia that is distinctive to this place, a collective condition rather than the individualistic notion of, say, French tristesse. Hüzün dominates this book but not in a sad or overpowering way. It just makes Istanbul seem like a phoenix rising from its ashes. Pamuk takes you into the dark alleys, side lanes, gutters, dilapidated houses and the most ordinary places of Istanbul where beauty hides. There is no long description about Hagia Sophia instead Pamuk takes time to talk about the passers by on the roads!  

To cream it up, the book is richly illustrated – 206 black and white photographs! – and the pictures are often splendid: fabulous structures, scenes much like those he describes, and a fair number of family snapshots that nicely complement the text. No wonder Pamuk won the Literature Nobel Prize 2006 for this extraordinary painting of his country – a country that reigns over Pamuk’s soul!

Istanbul: Memories of a City is a McDonald’s treat for book lovers, indulge yourself!

The book is available at Bookworm and Friends Book Corner, Nilkhet.

Reviewed by Efadul Huq

efahuq@gmail.com

Alexander Trilogy

By

Valerio Massimo Manfredi

It is very easy to write the biographies of kings who now sleep quietly in their tombs, satisfied with the lavish lives they led and the glories heaped on them by their court scribes. But how should one describe a king who inspires awe even till today in the intellectual minds of the society? How is it possible to write a transparent biography of a king who is surrounded by the miasma of mythologies that the ages have spawned around him? Will it be possible for any author to peer through the veil of rumours, omens and exaggerated tales to reach the true story behind this king who in Egypt was revered as God?

Not as an answer but more like a question comes Valerio Massimi Manfredi’s Alexander Trilogy’s first book: Child Of A Dream. Born to the short-tempered Philip of Macedon and his sensuous queen Olympias, Alexander grows up to be a young man of enormous potential. Aristotle’s close care and with the friendship of Ptolemy and Hephaiston, he emerges as the most talented warrior of Greece, gathering the broken nations under one league to launch a war against their eternal enemy – the Persians. After the dramatic start of this novel which is sure to leave a lasting effect on the minds of readers until the very end of the trilogy, the story moves with a pace of a thriller and after 447 pages puts a full stop for the readers to breathe knowing in mind that the next adventure is by far the greatest in history – conquering Asia!

The second book: Sands Of Ammon starts of once again with a breathtaking pace and attention-gripping descriptions. The entrance of a seer in the scene to the bold decisions Alexander makes – compel any reader to conclude that this book is no less than the first, rather better at times. Alexander has decided to conquer the never-ending empire of the Persian king Darius who surely is more powerful in manpower, wealth and weapons. But it is the brave heart of Alexander that encourages his lesser group of soldiers and wins him battles. The legendary Halicarnassus, Tyre and Towers of Gaza – none withstands the wrath of the great king, he mashes them all to dust. Unhindered, the war hero moves on to Egypt and in the oracle of Ammon, the revelation of a truth adds brightness to his already dazzling stature. Alexander is much more convinced about his godly bloodline and whispers flutter in the air that ‘he is invincible’.

The Ends Of The Earth, the last book penetrates into the core of Asia and moves on towards the enigmatic unseen India. The invincible army under the leadership of Alexander marches on to further east ruining the beautiful Babylon and setting aflame the palace of Persepolis. Alexander’s ambition reaches a new height – to unite the people of his united Greece and the conquered lands under one banner. This raises questions back in his homeland but turns out to be a matter of pride for the conquered subjects. Like a catalyst, the exotic beauty of Queen Roxana nourishes Alexander to follow his dream and fulfill his destiny…

            A spectacular end awaits the readers!

            Manfredi, as I said before hasn’t answered any of the questions I asked in the beginning, instead posed some more. He surely was unable to be unaffected by the myths revolving around Alexander. But through his detailed descriptions, engrossing story-telling I realized, what would the biography of Alexander turn out to be without the myths? Would it be any different from a general history book? Would Alexander really be as famous as he is today?

            And since so much has been concocted about this man called Alexander, there must have been something about him that triggered the imagination of the people around. After all, in every ton of false there is at least half a pound of truth!

The first book is available at Boi Bichitra, Dhanmondi. And once you are hooked by the first one, I believe you’ll manage the other two from any corner of the world, just like me!

Reviewed by

Efadul Huq

efahuq@gmail.com

My Name Is Red by Orhan Pamuk

‘I am nothing but a corpse now, a body at the bottom of a well’, reads the first line of Noble Laureate Orhan Pamuk’s My Name Is Red, pulling you into a philosophical murder mystery.

The Sultan commissions an illustrated book to make obvious his power and to glorify his kingdom. Moreover this grand work of art will be illuminated in the European style. As figurative art is an affront to Islam, this indeed, is a risky mission to undertake. The project falls on the shoulder of Enishte, who coordinates miniaturists nicknamed Elegant, Stork, Olive, and Butterfly. But when Elegant suspects the orthodoxy of the final page and threatens to denounce the project to the followers of the preacher Nusret Hoja, he is murdered by one of his colleagues. Enishte's nephew Black, who newly returned to Istanbul after twelve years of disappearance, is asked to investigate. To complicate things, Black revives an old passion for Enishte's daughter Shekure, who is technically still married to a husband missing in battle, and who has other suitors.

My Name Is Red is a novel told by more than a dozen narrators including a dog, a horse, a tree and a coin. This particular aspect of the novel entertains the readers with the many perspectives it presents. Looking at a murder from the point of views of several characters is amusing indeed and the amusement compels any reader to hold on to the book. As it must be clear by now, all the chapters are first person narratives, lending a unique pace to the novel. You have no chance to feel bored as each individual opens their heart to you.

The novel begins dramatically, as the spirit of late Elegant Effendi talks about himself. And this sense of drama is present on each page, continuing till the end. Even the killer has his anonymous chapters!

       My Name is Red is very much a book about art, about what the purpose of art is – and about its dangers. There is a good deal of discussion about paintings, and about what makes real art. Pamuk offers some splendid details here, from what the miniaturists do to avoid going blind (face away from the sun when it rises, among other things) to the idea that only in blindness does pure art exist.
       Central to the novel is the contest between the old and new, tradition and change, East and West! From artists who are mere copyists to those who want to apply the new methods of the Western masters (including the use of perspective) there is incredible tension. Who victors the conflict is a question of interest by itself!

All these debates and the varieties of approaches to artistic production (from imitation to innovation) as well as the artist's life at a time and place like that are well-conveyed by Pamuk, and much is fascinating. His descriptions are evocative and Pamuk paid a great deal of attention to a variety of different complementary details and like a master he repeatedly used similar scenes and motifs to create different effects.

My Name Is Red is thought provoking and brings its reader face-to-face with Islamic art at its greatest height! Reading and re-reading this book is WORTH the effort.

The book is available at Friends’ Book Corner, Nilkhet.

Reviewed by

Efadul Huq

efahuq@gmail.com

Review of Grimus

By Salman Rushdie

Do you like solving puzzles? I just solved one. Yes, I am talking about Salman Rushdie’s first book, Grimus.

Reading Grimus is, like putting together a puzzle. The first segment showed me all the pieces face up and urged me to structure a mental plan. The second segment relied on my power of observation and analysis; to not only look at the pieces but, try putting them together. The third chapter left me with about 50 pieces left of a well-defined portrait and I raced to the finish line, putting everything in place. In the end, I realized it had kept me at a run to know the unknown.

The protagonist, Flapping Eagle (a.k.a. Born-From-Dead) in the first few pages is given the "gift" of eternal life. Staying the same age for hundreds of years, Flapping Eagle decides he no longer wants to live, but to finally die a mortal's death! Immortality becomes a curse for him! To regain his mortal life he has to go to Calf Island and ascend Calf Mountain to meet Grimus, an all-powerful entity. That's the challenge!

Along the way, Flapping Eagle befriends Virgil Jones and his lady, Dolores O'Toole. The disfigured couple is the first clue that something is dreadfully wrong on Calf Island. Jones the obese is with O'Toole the humpback! The two really are remarkable. Rushdie creates sympathy for them but never encourages pity.

On Calf Island, a host of characters and themes are introduced; mythology is blended with science fiction. As readers become acquainted to the disfigured reality of Rushdie’s imagination, Flapping Eagle embarks on a quest to find Grimus with Virgil Jones as his guide, echoing Danté.

At this point I lost control over the pages and things became really confusing. But my trust on Rushdie held me to the book. And it didn’t betray me. Mystified as I was, I knew I was being taken on a voyage by the master, who in his first novel was plainly establishing himself as a master.

Tales are told. Resolutions are made. Masks are removed. Details pile up. Reality is disoriented and then reoriented. The novel moves on keeping the reader in uncertainty.

Those who are impatient should think twice before picking up this book. And it is alone for this reason that many critique ended up giving very less attention to Grimus. In my words, Rushdie has his awesome style and in his first novel he is teaching his readers to read it his way.

The finale is grand!

The book is available at Friends’ Book Corner, Nilkhet.

Reviewed by Efadul Huq

efahuq@gmail.com

            The Book of Saladin by Tariq Ali

One handful of history and two handfuls of imagination – what would that give? A spiced up not-at-all-boring history book, a book which can entertain and teach at the same time. If you are suffering from history-phobia then I invite you to get hold of a few historical fictions. And one of the best historical fictions I would suggest is, Tariq Ali’s ‘The Book of Saladin’.

            It revolves around the life of the Kurdish leader Salah-al-din (Saladin in the west) at the end of 12^th century. Saladin hires a court scribe by the name Ibn Yakub to write his memoir and it’s through the scribe’s eyes that the readers read the book. A series of interconnected stories follow. Ibn Yakub chases the events of the time as Saladin leads the battle to regain Jerusalem from the ‘Franj’ (Crusaders, one of the many Arabic words used in the book and explained in the glossary). At the core of the novel is a touching love affair between the Sultan’s favourite wife, Jamila and the beautiful Halima.

            Our narrator, the down to earth scribe leads his own life under the shadow of Saladin, attending the superiors and the inferiors and hearing stories from the loyal retainers and members of the harem. All that and more combine to create a narrative journey that’s appealing to any reader; even the one who wouldn’t like to glance at a regular history book.

            Ali’s sense of humour plays an important part in the novel. He has a fondness for not-so-clean jokes, as his description of Richard I of England clearly demonstrates. The dialogue between a heretical crusader and Saladin is loudly laughable; it goes to the extent of using offensive comments in perfect Latin!

            Ali invites his reader to participate in the events of the time and to appreciate them from a different perspective. The central characters are very well drawn, the reasoning is plausible, the lifestyle of that time is clearly depicted… what more can be asked from a fictional memoir?

            Anybody who hasn’t read Tariq Ali can start from this book. And I am sure they’ll love it and track down the other books too.

            Happy reading!

            The book is available at Friends’ Book Corner, Nilkhet.

Tit-bits: Tolkien and his wife are buried in the same grave! Below his name on the tombstone is inscribed "Beren" and below Edith's name is inscribed "Lúthien", in honor of two characters from The Silmarillion.

Reviewed by

Efadul Huq 

Review of ‘The Fifth Mountain’ by Paulo Coelho

A man flees from his country after being announced a convict; escapes death by a few inches; goes to a hostile place; fed by a crow for some time; finds a widow who shelters him and falls in love with her; he is blamed for the death of this widow’s only son; brings back to life the dead son; wins the hearts of those who suspected him; eye-witnesses the destruction of the very city that sheltered him and then rebuilds the place with helps from no other than children and aged men and women! This man is Elijah, the protagonist of Coelho’s novel ‘The Fifth Mountain’.

‘The Fifth Mountain’ is Coelho’s fifth novel set in the 9^th century BC. In this novel Coelho once again talks about destiny, doubts and discoveries – his favourite topics in his unique style. Although this story is a retelling of a part of the Old Testament, Coelho makes it sound much more redolent and this believability of Coelho’s storytelling adds magic to the old story.

Small tit-bits of wisdom are strewn all over the pages of this novel like pearls on a sand-kissed beach. What can we learn from children? Three things: to be happy for no reason, to be always busy with something and to demand with all our might that which we desire.

As Coelho let’s the readers know the plights, thoughts, uncertainties, fears and dilemmas the prophet is going through, Elijah becomes more a living, breathing person rather than a word of six letters. Elijah struggles against God to do what he desires and finally achieves it. This not only shows the moral strength with which his heart is coined but also invites the readers to do the same because God gives those who fight for their desires. In the face of an avalanche of sorrow Elijah hopes for a better tomorrow. After the strong and young men-women abandon the war-torn city of Akbar Elijah gets down to rebuild it with helps from the old-folk who had been left behind. What a proof of faith!

Elijah is the believer and prophet of the ‘One God’. At a point the high priest of Akbar asks him if God is truly one then why people worship so many gods. Elijah points in the direction of the fifth mountain (the mountain where he meets God’s angel) and says, just the way that mountain looks different from different angles so is the ‘One God’ called in different names by different people. It can be a foolish answer for some but eventually these are the words of a greater mind.

Just like all other novels of Coelho ‘The Fifth Mountain’ is insightful, simple and satisfying. If someone knows how to write an engrossing novel with spirituality as the background, it’s Coelho.

Those who are in habit of reading Sidney Sheldon or Jeffery Archer may find this novel slow and short as there are only 245 pages to read. But while reading Coelho you can’t just read the lines, you also got to read between them!

  Reviewed by Efadul Huq

   efahuq@gmail.com

Review of Veronika Decides to Die by Efadul Huq

Veronika Decides to Die is another inspiring symphony of words from the world renowned author Paulo Coelho whose best-loved work The Alchemist has sold over 20 million books worldwide and has been translated into 42 languages.

            Veronika Decides to Die is the tale of a young and pretty lady, Veronika who has everything in life that she could wish for. She is attractive, has many handsome boyfriends, goes dancing with them, has a steady job which she likes, has a loving father and a caring mother. Yet amidst all the happiness she is not really happy and feels the lack of something in her life.

            On the morning of November 11^th 1997, she decides to die, not by shooting, jumping off a high building or hanging but by a far more romantic method adopted by Hollywood heroines – taking an overdose of sleeping pills.

            After the overdose she loses consciousness and wakes up not in heaven but in Villette, the famous and much-feared lunatic asylum, a home for the insane and sane alike. Alas! It is then that she is told, the sleeping pills damaged her heart and she will live only for a few more days.

            As she prepares to finish the task she had decided upon some events, new relationships and her doctor’s trick changes her view towards life.

            The story follows Veronika through these intense days when she wants to live but knows she has little time left. She finds herself drawn into the enclosed world of Villette. She learns to see her past relationships more clearly and understand why she felt her life had no meaning.

            In this heightened state, Veronika discovers things, which she never really allowed herself to feel before: hatred, fear, curiosity, love – even sexual awakening. Against all odds, she finds herself falling in love and wanting, if at all possible, to live again.

            Veronika’s experiences lead her gradually to realize that every second of existence is a choice that we make between living and dying.

            The novel is coloured by Coelho’s intimate knowledge of asylums and poetic use of alphabets to form magical words which in turn forms a potion that charms your senses. Insanity in this novel is a contrast to the monotony of a normal life where everything is scheduled. Coelho has been successful at provoking the feeling of self-discovery in the minds of his readers in this book and has challenged all limitations and traditions.

            In the world of Coelho’s words you learn that being different doesn’t mean being crazy and you understand that the ‘reality is something the majority deems it to be, not necessarily the best or the most logical one’. Along with Veronika, you feel that love and religious beliefs are the most important feelings one can have in one’s life. Moreover, Coelho’s vivid storytelling gives you the chance to look at the world from the eyes of a so-called lunatic.

            Veronika Decides to Die is rather a bridge than a novel between life and death. It helps you realize that every moment of life is a precious gift – a miracle! Read it once and when the last page is read, you may find the answers to some of your numerous questions about life because this novel is a hymn to life!

            The book is currently available in Bookworm.

Review of Sophie’s World by Jostein Gaarder

Have you ever wondered who you are? What if you were named something else? Would you be the same person then? Where does the world come from? Don’t you think at some point something must have come from nothing?

If these are the very thoughts that bother you sometimes, then Sophie’s World is a perfect read for you. Jostein Gaarder has prepared a feast of knowledge for his readers in this book.

Sophie Amundsen, a spunky 14-year old’s philosophic journey begins when a pair of timeless ontological posers – “Who are you?” and “Where does the world come from?” – appear mysteriously in her mailbox. A follow-up envelope containing typewritten pages titled “What is Philosophy?” orients her on a correspondence course in the history of philosophy. Sophie’s enthusiasm about the mysteries of life is misinterpreted by her mother as the influence of drugs!

Alberto Knox, Sophie’s philosophy tutor is an enigmatic person who remains behind the veil in the beginning and sends his letters through Hermes, his messenger. Throughout his teaching he maintains a sense of wonder but his disquisition is clean and sober indeed. What keeps the novel moving are the tricks Gaarder plays with the old R and I (as philosophers call it) – Reality and Illusion. Sophie begins receiving postcards addressed from a United Nations observer in Lebanon to his own 15-year old daughter, Hilde. Sophie gradually becomes aware of her existence within a book being written by Hilde’s father. This is when you feel whether Sophie is just a thought of Hilde’s father. In fact when I put myself in Sophie’s shoes, I wondered if I am just a thought in somebody’s mind. I questioned myself if I am real or unreal?

Gaarder had written the book for his young philosophy students so the history of philosophy has been discussed in the simplest way without details about world’s major philosophers, systems or contexts. Moreover all the technical terms have been defined and hundreds of titles which would clutter the book have been omitted. The author has dealt with western philosophy beautifully without digging too deep. It’s a pocket book of philosophy that gives you an overview of the philosophers in the last 3000 years.

Sophie’s World is entertaining in an Alice-in-Wonderland fashion. On the other hand anybody who reads the book becomes the willing receptacle of Alberto’s precious wisdom.

The 400 pages deserve your time and attention. And in the end you are left with a few questions lingering in your mind – “Is Sophie real? Am I unreal?”

This must-read book is available in Bookworm.

Efadul Huq

Life of Pi

"This book was born as I was hungry" says Yann Martel in his 'Booker Prize 2002' winner 'Life of Pi'. Hunger which is most despised all over the world has produced something that a filled tummy wouldn't. And this different perception of the reality prevails throughout 'Life ofPi'.

Piscine Patel self-christened as Pi (as in Pi=3.14), is an exceptional young man in Pondicherry, a tiny area in southern India. Pi is the son of the zookeeper. Growing up in the zoo, Pi learns a lot about animals and shares his knowledge with the readers in the first section of the novel. He knows the ways of animals, both penned and wild, and how to keep them content and controlled. The novel at this time becomes more like a tutorial for animal tamers. But even then a reader who is disinterested in animals can't afford to put it down because of Martel's gripping storytelling and comparisons of animals with human.

As Pi steps into his teen years, he goes in search of God. His parents weren't traditional pious people, but growing up in India, Pi was initially a Hindu. When he first encounters Christianity, he finds Jesus lacking in grandeur to the Hindu gods, who are majestic in stature and history. However he embraces Christianity's message of love. Then he discovers Islam, "a beautiful religion of brotherhood and devotion." Pi becomes a devout member of all three religions, content in his newfound sense of God. Once the priest, the pandit, and the imam discover his secret worship of all three Gods, they confront Pi and his parents and tell him that he can't belong to all three and must choose one. The fractious argument among the three religious leaders over which religion he should choose is really funny. Yann Martel makes them all look spiteful as they belittle each other's faith. Pi puts them all in their place with the declaration that he was just trying to ‘love God’. Moreover for him, "Hindus, in their capacity for love, are indeed hairless Christians, just as Muslims, in the way they see God in everything, are bearded Hindus, and Christians, in their devotion to God, are hat-wearing Muslims." His naivete can be silly, but ultimately it is open-mindedness, a way of turning things upside down to see them differently forgetting the differences. His older brother provides a different perspective on it, suggesting he might try to become a Jew too. "At the rate you're going, if you go to temple on Thursday, mosque on Friday, synagogue on Saturday and church on Sunday, you only need to convert to three more religions to be on holiday for the rest of your life."

The first section of the novel ends with Pi and his family leaving India for Canada. The zoo closes and the animals are sent to zoos all over the world. The family and many of the animals board a Japanese cargo ship for their passage to Canada (Is Martel talking about Noah's Ark?!). Pi embarks on the trip to a new life. Unfortunately, his new life turns out to be unexpected and uncomfortable as the ship sinks gulping the whole family except for him.

"Jesus, Mary, Muhammad and Vishnu, how good to see you, Richard Parker!" Pi Patel cries when he sees an old friend struggling aboard his lifeboat but this old friend isn't what you'll be expecting. It's a 450 pound Bengal Tiger! Pi shares the lifeboat with a zebra, a hyena, an orangutan, and a ferocious Richard Parker. The first week is a horrible one as the animals battle for survival in the cramped boat and Pi quakes with fear as he tries to avoid being on the food chain. Eventually, just the tiger and he are left in the boat. The rest of the book is Pi's tale of 227 days at sea. Pi spends most of him time in despair, not just emotional, but physical. Yet, at times, he is dazzled by the wonderfulness of God's creation. He refuses to give up and die and instead lives by his wits and determination. He feeds the tiger timely so that it doesn't turn on him. He abandons being a vegetarian to survive!

Yann Martel keeps the story of Pi's miserable voyage moving at an interesting pace. You know from the beginning that Pi will survive, but at times you wonder how he will overcome each challenge. There are certain places where Pi questions you and makes you ponder over it. He sounds like a spiritual leader lost at sea! As Pi's long days at sea take a toll on his health and mind, the story begins to strain credulity. In the end Martel challenges the readers to disbelieve it all. In the end, it becomes a matter of faith!

Either it will irritate you with its idiosyncratic questions and ideas or it’ll delight you with its strangeness.

The book is available at Bookworm.

Campus Buzz: Dan Brown of ‘Da Vinci Code’ fame is currently working on a new book called ‘The Solomon Key’.

Reviewed by Efadul Huq

Review of Eragon by Christopher Paolini

Can you imagine a 15-year old, home-schooled boy conquering the readers’ hearts worldwide with his first book?

            Yes, Christopher Paolini has done it with his debut Eragon, which has become The Sunday Times bestseller, The New York Times bestseller, The Wall Street Journal bestseller and The USA Today bestseller. In fact Eragon is rivaling the Harry Potter series.

            The story is set in a mythical continent. Eragon, the hero of the story, a poor farm boy finds a beautiful blue stone in the forest. He wonders if it could bring in some money. But it isn’t money that the stone brings – it is a dragon hatchling! Eragon stumbles into a different world, nothing like his humble farm-boy life. Brom, the village storyteller becomes his teacher and Eragon finds himself to be a young inexperienced dragon rider. It becomes his duty to take up the mantle and sword of the legendary dragon riders and fight Galbatorix, the evil king, for survival. Saphira, the she-dragon is his soul companion and major source of power. Together they embark on a journey – a magical journey that requires courage, friendship and tactics – to destroy Galbatorix.

            It is the first book of the Inheritance trilogy. As it happens with all epics, this too has many characters hopping in and out. There’s Angela the witch who predicts Eragon’s fortune using dragon bones, Arya the elf who Eragon rescues and becomes fascinated with, Raz’ac and Shade the creatures of darkness, the unpredictable Werecat, Murtagh the stranger who has a deep rooted mystery, the Vardens who are against Galbatorix and many more. I am not going to give away everything!

            Paolini has proved himself to be a first-class fantasy writer. His epic-tale hasn’t left anything behind – sorcerers, elves, dwarves, dragons and many new creations make it a glowing tribute to its genre. Although I found it Tolkienish, Paolini has original ideas and you can’t call it a copy. Dragon riders are knights who fight with might as well as magic. So at times when Eragon murmurs or yells spells in the ancient tongue, it seemed very Potterish to me. But I can assure you that the magic spells don’t sound like Latin or English which happens in case of Rowling.  

            The plot is compelling and action packed. From the moment Eragon finds the stone, the story turns out to be a galloping adventure ride. Paolini’s simple yet appreciable style of storytelling keeps the readers glued to 497 pages. And don’t forget the bonus at the end – a dictionary of dwarf, urgal and ancient language. I wonder where he gets it all from.

            If you are thinking of taking a break and sitting down to read something different, then this is it. And if you are not gripped by the first few pages of Eragon then you better get your pulse checked.

            Because Eragon is EXTRAORDINARY.

Reviewed by Efadul Huq

Eldest by Christopher Paolini

Welcome on stage a book with an amazing cover illustration, winner of the Book Sense award, bestseller of the New York Times, Publishers Weekly, USA Today and Wall Street Journal …! (Applauses) Who else can it be than Christopher Paolini creating a turmoil with his second-in-series ‘Eldest’!

Following the story line of his first book, Paolini is now digging deeper. ‘Eldest’ is the story of two heroes struggling to survive. Eragon who is no more only a dragon rider but also a shade slayer fights his way to Ellesméra – fabled land of the Elves. Here he undergoes further training in magic, swordsmanship and learns to take decisions in a dragon rider’s way. His fascination for Arya the elf becomes stronger and his lessons become more difficult.

Meanwhile, in his homeland, in the village of Carvahall, Eragon’s cousin Roran faces troubles of his own. The king’s men and the dark creature that commands them lay siege to the tiny peasant community in the hope of finding Roran. Why? Because they believe only Roran can lead them to Eragon. But surprisingly instead of leading them to Eragon, Roran turns out to be an excellent orator who leads these inexperienced peasants in a tactful war and an arduous journey – a war and a journey that needs cleverness not manpower – against Galbatorix’s army. Roran weaves ‘an epic of attacks, sieges, and betrayal, of leaving Carvahall, crossing the Spine, and razing the docks of Teirm, of sailing through a monstrous whirlpool’.

Paolini delights his readers as he makes an entire fantasy world come alive. From the incredible dwarven empire, to a forest full of intelligent elves … the details are incredible! Paolini is surely growing up and becoming a professional because he could maintain the flow of the novel beautifully with the interwebbing stories of Roran and Eragon. There are many new characters … and when I say ‘many’ I mean really a lot of them, but one is worth mentioning, Oromis, the master. He was a former dragon rider who possesses a glorious past and it is by him that our hero Eragon is taught a whole new set of spells, dragon-flying tactics, sword-moves and the history of dragon riders; these are sure to enrich your knowledge about Paolini’s marvelous world and its people.  New kings, queens and kingdoms colour the pages of ‘Eldest’ with their vivid pictures.

But the schooling section of the book sometimes becomes monotonous and you may find yourself pushing through. This I am afraid, can’t be helped; it is just the building up of the climax. But I can assure you that once you fight through all the tedious pages you will be pulled into a war no less than the War of Minas Tirith!

The hardcover collection of 668 pages is worth spending time on because it’s a story of courage, responsibility, heroism, betrayal, magic, wisdom, love and because Paolini has used tons of imagination to entertain his readers.

The bottom-line?

The cover will convince you to read it. The words will make you smile, make you angry, make you feel sad at times or sometimes make you absolutely worried about what’s going to happen next. The plot will grip you and the characters will entice you. But friends, the ending will leave you on the edge of your seat asking, “What’s after Eldest?” 

Eldest is available in Bookworm.

Reviewed by Efadul Huq

efahuq@gmail.com

Campus Buzz: The movie Eragon will be released on 15^th December, 2006.

A Day to…

A day to love

A day to die

It is a day to bid goodbye

To a world whom you hailed hi

Not long before.

The bird flies,

Too fast to catch a sight

Eyes in tears

Beak in smile

It flies…

Soaring out of view in luck

And swooping down unexpectedly

Yet it flies

Either low or high

Until everything around it vanishes to nothingness.

No witness to its death

For it doesn’t die.

Flies on and on

On a loved day longer is its flight

Higher is its aim.

And a day without love

It never lets go by.

A day to love

A day to die

It is a day to bid goodbye

To a world you hailed hi

Not long before.

Efadul Huq

            On a starry night of November, the shack in which Korim rickshawalla lived was shaken as a baby girl pooped on the hands of her Dai ma as she faced the new world with her shrilling screech. They named her Zerin and she grew up to be a prostitute.

            It may seem very impractical to give away the climax of the story in the first paragraph. But that’s what had happened with her, Korim planned her price the day she was born.

            Zerin had seven older brothers, she being the last of Korim’s child. Zulaykha Banu, her legitimate mother was jealous of some of the illegitimate sons in the horde. Although they were a nice source of income, she could never bear them. And at times when quarrels broke out, she would end up literally fighting with them. In fact once they had ganged up against her and she was terribly injured – she had lost one of her breasts.

            It happened when Zerin was twelve. Korim avoided Zulaykha after the incident, burdening her no more with his seed. He married a second time and moved on with life. The very shack where Zerin was born became the sick-house for her mother. After suffering from grave fever, one rainy day, Zulaykha left her earthly abode.

            That very humble shack was the place where Zerin at the age of fifteen was first robbed of her virginity. Without her mother to shield her from the rough world, she ended up in the arms of her savage neighbour.

            This was Jamal Mia, the regular customer of the brothels nearby. He always had his eyes open for the opportunity to taste Zerin. ‘Taste’, that’s what he said in his native tongue to encounters like these. He didn’t even care to ask Zerin’s father; breaking through the fragile door, embracing her and then forcing her to give up. Zerin knew she was being wronged but what could she have done?

            Very soon offers knocked at her door. She had the reference to work for any of the brothels around. Without delay, Korim seized the opportunity to get rid of an urchin that was bothering him for a very long time. He sold her for a price of a few thousands.

            Like an animal she was shoved into the bus with a stranger who took care of her in the most intimate way. This man was to travel with her to the city and deliver her to one of the best brothels in the country. Sitting by the window, Zerin bid her village goodbye. Her eyes watered as she thought of her mother. Although she never received any affection from her father, she still felt an inborn love for him. She knew she would miss her brothers who at that moment knew nothing about her. The next day they were told she had run away from house.

            The night swooped down with darkness on its wings; sending Zerin to a desperate sleep decorated with nightmares. As the night died away, she awoke to see a big jungle of glass and steel gleaming in the horizon. She had arrived in the capital of the country! She was at the gateway to heaven!

            The old lady, who received her at the front door of the huge mansion was no other than the mistress of the legendary brothel called ‘Hundred Stars’. Welcoming Zerin into the palace with a warm embrace, she handed the packet of money to the stranger.
            “Welcome to my sweet abode where dreams comes true and men drown in the pool of desire, lust and sensuality.” She said with suitable gestures, “Follow me darling.”

            Zerin followed without a second thought. She knew the place was evil and she also knew no farishta could help her out of this mess. In the next room she was undressed and scrutinized inch by inch. There were questions about her cleanliness. And there were praises for her ripe features.

            “Done with you, sweetheart!” the examining lady gave her a kiss and her clothes.

May be Zerin’s ashen face arose some sympathy in the mistress’ mind because she ordered, “No more for you today. Go and rest. Eat your food. Tuntun will have your clothes ready by then. In the evening you’ll be called for the beauty bath. Go babe.”

Zerine was accompanied to her new room by three of her co-workers. Each of them were dressed ostentatiously – thick lipsticks of dark colours, sarees adorned with pearls and glass, sandals embedded with colourful stones, hair tied at the back with butterfly hair-clips and a perfume that was powerful enough to set any man’s mind racing.

Cupping her breast they measured the size of it. They commented on it, being too small, though the silver lining was it increases with use. They tried to undress her once again; fondling her in the sensitive places. But this time Zerin resisted, she tried to push them off her. She wanted a way out of this labyrinth of hellish lust. But God knows why, she never found a way out. Being lean and short she couldn’t fight the three monsters. Two of them held her hands and the third removed the torn saree that she was wearing. And then they did what even animals would think twice before doing – they made use of her. Tired, broken, exhausted, wasted they left her, lying on the bed.

After an hour or so, a glass of water and three chapattis with some vegetable curry arrived. The middle-aged lady who brought it was unlike any of the people there. She was kind, just and reasonable. She helped Zerin out of the bed, helped her wear a new saree and fed Zerin herself like a mother to a daughter.

The following evening, Zerin went through the first grooming session of her life. They tidied her up; shaving her, giving her a rose-water bath, polishing her nails, sorting out the best hair-cut for her, bleaching her face and lending it a new look. When it all ended, the mistress was more than happy because she had found her baby doll.

From the next day onwards Zerine was classed on dancing, talking and performing. She learnt how to do the hip dance and the butt dance. She learnt how to talk to gentle customers and rough ones. She was taught the small things that customers enjoy during sex – like sucking a candy, drinking a little and so on. And finally they taught her the most important thing – the several ways in which she could please a man. She learnt how to give a man the maximum pleasure of an orgasm and how to make him feel like returning to her every night. And they taught her the safety tips – what should be done if any customer loses control of himself. There were health lesson also where she learnt the exercises she needed to execute before and after the intercourse so that she doesn’t lose the elasticity of her womanhood.

Zerin had accepted her life just the way it was. After bothering her for a few days the first three co-workers left her alone. The lady, who was the cook, loved her like a child and Zerin grew fond of her. Each day was a battle for her to be what she never was. But she was victorious at the end. Her first customer arrived a month later.

He was a business man. There was a mark of worry on his face. He never allowed Zerin to touch him. He had come to satisfy his hunger, but guilt didn’t allow him to. He felt he was betraying his wife. She passed the night sitting on a sofa opposite to him.

However, the next customer on the list was a driver and a good driver too. He drove her to the edge of yelling out in pain and gasp for breath. Her puny physique could take in no more. For this beastly driver, sex was like food, it didn’t matter how he ate it, what he ate or with whom he ate with. All he cared about was his hunger got to be satisfied. This left Zerin out of work for two days. She had to be given some medical care before she could get back into business again.

Every night she slept blanketed with dreams of happiness; the seemingly desolate moon watching over her torn self. Someday she would own a house, a bungalow, a baby car; her dreams tempted her. Sometimes she dreamt of her first love – the boy in her village named Arafat – tall, dark eyed and a sports-lover. The crystal ball of her dream showed her that she had husbanded Arafat and they had three children. But more often a particular nightmare disturbed her merry dreams. She never told anybody about it; it sounded crazy to her; of course dreams are always non-sensible.

Day in and day out, she lived the wretched life that she was put in. Her price grew with her experience. After six years of labour, she was on top of the price chain. Only rich men could visit her heavenly self. The mistress in order to interest the customers named her ‘the girl with soft feet’.

Zerin no more felt pain when they rode her. She no more missed her ancestral village or her prince charming Arafat. Her mothers face faded away from her mind and she learnt to deny the existence of her father. Only sometimes in sleep she would see her mother in the sick-bed dying without proper medicine and food.

At the peak of her success after twelve years, she met an author by the name Mahmud. Mahmud had gone to ‘Hundred Stars’ to relax. His family life was a torn one with many scratches, scars and stitches. He desperately needed a gateway to leave behind his family life at least for a while. And he thought a total uninterrupted sex after three years could make him feel relieved. He was looking forward to feel the void that one feels after an orgasm.

Zerin was chosen by him. Although the mistress warned him of her expense, Mahumud gave her half the money in advance. With no more warnings, she led him to Zerin’s room. Welcoming Mahmud in, Zerin offered him a drink. Then she sat on his lap, and they kissed. The intensity increased and the heat rose. After a while Zerin unbuttoned his shirt and massaged his body. Slowly moving down to his pant she unbuckled the belt and then removed it from his pants. Salaciously unveiling his manhood, she did what was her business. Without waiting much longer he grabbed her hair and tore her dress. Mahmud then entered her in a very delicate way unlike any of her other customers. For the first time in her life Zerin felt she wasn’t just giving, she was receiving too. This man was giving her pleasure – something that she never felt in her life. They slept in each others arms afterwards.

At some time in the middle of the night Zerin woke up with a screech of horror. Mahmud, incomprehensibly, looked at Zerin. “What is it?” He asked.

“It was a nightmare.” She answered gasping for breath.

He rubbed her back. Zerin rested her head on his shoulder. “Can I know what it showed?” He asked thinking she would not answer.

“I often see a nightmare. It haunts my sleep almost every night. It happened when I was young but it is as fresh as the day before.

When I was a young girl, growing up in my village, we had to go for bath in the pond. This particular pond that I am talking about had a deep side and a shallow side. Usually we swam in the shallow waters. But sometimes my older brothers would help me swim in the deep waters. One day one of my older brothers took me to the deeper waters and after a while when I could manage a little, he went to fetch a friend of mine. I was doing fine but suddenly I lost it. I couldn’t swim. I was drowning! My body was violently moving its hands and legs to come up to the surface. But nothing worked. I was simply losing my breath and my eyes were losing the green vision.

It was at such a moment that I felt my soul leaving my body like a light feather. It seemed to glide upwards and finally out of the water. I was the soul and the body! I could see my soul looking down on my body. And I could see my body fighting to survive. I shared two viewpoints, two perspectives!

I was choking underwater, water penetrating my nose and mouth, and I was smiling, hovering over the pond, free and independent.

Suddenly my brother caught me and pulled me out of the depth. I was conscious. I lived. But the experience never left me. It haunts me. In my nightmares I feel I am trapped underwater and my soul is smiling at me.”

Mahmud looked at her, amused. “After how long have you talked to somebody with an open heart?”

“I used to talk with my mother but after she left I found nobody to talk to. The lady who cooks here is a good friend though.”

The harmonious tune of Azan floated into the room. It was early dawn. And Mahmud left for his house. As the rickshawalla sped past the familiar destroyed neighbourhood, Mahmud thought of her.

The shops at his sides were broken down for being illegal. The houses were hammered for not having a land certificate. The people who lived there were now next to beggars. Where can they go after all? No other country will take them in. They have to stay here even if it’s on the road. More than six generations of these families lived in this place. Nobody cared to make a land certificate – who would deny their authority over the land? A time of more than six generation is not a small deal! But somehow there arose a group of people who questioned and drove them out of their own houses. Where would the old go? The young though had a better situation – they could make their livelihood out of robbery.

At the age of fifty-five Zerin made her first wish to her aged mistress. She wanted to go to Azmir. Realizing, she was not useful anymore, the mistress gave her the percentage of her lifetime earning and sent her to Azmir. In Azmir Zerin visited the Mazaar. She had gone there to beg for redemption of her sins. But before she could raise her hands for prayer, she fell. For a moment the young face of Arafat flashed in her mind and then she saw her mother dying. Just before the she lost her consciousness, she could see her soul hovering over her, smiling. The string binding her spirit to her body tore and she lay motionless.

Her soul fluttered away to its desti

            On a starry night of November, the shack in which Korim rickshawalla lived was shaken as a baby girl pooped on the hands of her Dai ma as she faced the new world with her shrilling screech. They named her Zerin and she grew up to be a prostitute.

            It may seem very impractical to give away the climax of the story in the first paragraph. But that’s what had happened with her, Korim planned her price the day she was born.

            Zerin had seven older brothers, she being the last of Korim’s child. Zulaykha Banu, her legitimate mother was jealous of some of the illegitimate sons in the horde. Although they were a nice source of income, she could never bear them. And at times when quarrels broke out, she would end up literally fighting with them. In fact once they had ganged up against her and she was terribly injured – she had lost one of her breasts.

            It happened when Zerin was twelve. Korim avoided Zulaykha after the incident, burdening her no more with his seed. He married a second time and moved on with life. The very shack where Zerin was born became the sick-house for her mother. After suffering from grave fever, one rainy day, Zulaykha left her earthly abode.

            That very humble shack was the place where Zerin at the age of fifteen was first robbed of her virginity. Without her mother to shield her from the rough world, she ended up in the arms of her savage neighbour.

            This was Jamal Mia, the regular customer of the brothels nearby. He always had his eyes open for the opportunity to taste Zerin. ‘Taste’, that’s what he said in his native tongue to encounters like these. He didn’t even care to ask Zerin’s father; breaking through the fragile door, embracing her and then forcing her to give up. Zerin knew she was being wronged but what could she have done?

            Very soon offers knocked at her door. She had the reference to work for any of the brothels around. Without delay, Korim seized the opportunity to get rid of an urchin that was bothering him for a very long time. He sold her for a price of a few thousands.

            Like an animal she was shoved into the bus with a stranger who took care of her in the most intimate way. This man was to travel with her to the city and deliver her to one of the best brothels in the country. Sitting by the window, Zerin bid her village goodbye. Her eyes watered as she thought of her mother. Although she never received any affection from her father, she still felt an inborn love for him. She knew she would miss her brothers who at that moment knew nothing about her. The next day they were told she had run away from house.

            The night swooped down with darkness on its wings; sending Zerin to a desperate sleep decorated with nightmares. As the night died away, she awoke to see a big jungle of glass and steel gleaming in the horizon. She had arrived in the capital of the country! She was at the gateway to heaven!

            The old lady, who received her at the front door of the huge mansion was no other than the mistress of the legendary brothel called ‘Hundred Stars’. Welcoming Zerin into the palace with a warm embrace, she handed the packet of money to the stranger.
            “Welcome to my sweet abode where dreams comes true and men drown in the pool of desire, lust and sensuality.” She said with suitable gestures, “Follow me darling.”

            Zerin followed without a second thought. She knew the place was evil and she also knew no farishta could help her out of this mess. In the next room she was undressed and scrutinized inch by inch. There were questions about her cleanliness. And there were praises for her ripe features.

            “Done with you, sweetheart!” the examining lady gave her a kiss and her clothes.

May be Zerin’s ashen face arose some sympathy in the mistress’ mind because she ordered, “No more for you today. Go and rest. Eat your food. Tuntun will have your clothes ready by then. In the evening you’ll be called for the beauty bath. Go babe.”

Zerine was accompanied to her new room by three of her co-workers. Each of them were dressed ostentatiously – thick lipsticks of dark colours, sarees adorned with pearls and glass, sandals embedded with colourful stones, hair tied at the back with butterfly hair-clips and a perfume that was powerful enough to set any man’s mind racing.

Cupping her breast they measured the size of it. They commented on it, being too small, though the silver lining was it increases with use. They tried to undress her once again; fondling her in the sensitive places. But this time Zerin resisted, she tried to push them off her. She wanted a way out of this labyrinth of hellish lust. But God knows why, she never found a way out. Being lean and short she couldn’t fight the three monsters. Two of them held her hands and the third removed the torn saree that she was wearing. And then they did what even animals would think twice before doing – they made use of her. Tired, broken, exhausted, wasted they left her, lying on the bed.

After an hour or so, a glass of water and three chapattis with some vegetable curry arrived. The middle-aged lady who brought it was unlike any of the people there. She was kind, just and reasonable. She helped Zerin out of the bed, helped her wear a new saree and fed Zerin herself like a mother to a daughter.

The following evening, Zerin went through the first grooming session of her life. They tidied her up; shaving her, giving her a rose-water bath, polishing her nails, sorting out the best hair-cut for her, bleaching her face and lending it a new look. When it all ended, the mistress was more than happy because she had found her baby doll.

From the next day onwards Zerine was classed on dancing, talking and performing. She learnt how to do the hip dance and the butt dance. She learnt how to talk to gentle customers and rough ones. She was taught the small things that customers enjoy during sex – like sucking a candy, drinking a little and so on. And finally they taught her the most important thing – the several ways in which she could please a man. She learnt how to give a man the maximum pleasure of an orgasm and how to make him feel like returning to her every night. And they taught her the safety tips – what should be done if any customer loses control of himself. There were health lesson also where she learnt the exercises she needed to execute before and after the intercourse so that she doesn’t lose the elasticity of her womanhood.

Zerin had accepted her life just the way it was. After bothering her for a few days the first three co-workers left her alone. The lady, who was the cook, loved her like a child and Zerin grew fond of her. Each day was a battle for her to be what she never was. But she was victorious at the end. Her first customer arrived a month later.

He was a business man. There was a mark of worry on his face. He never allowed Zerin to touch him. He had come to satisfy his hunger, but guilt didn’t allow him to. He felt he was betraying his wife. She passed the night sitting on a sofa opposite to him.

However, the next customer on the list was a driver and a good driver too. He drove her to the edge of yelling out in pain and gasp for breath. Her puny physique could take in no more. For this beastly driver, sex was like food, it didn’t matter how he ate it, what he ate or with whom he ate with. All he cared about was his hunger got to be satisfied. This left Zerin out of work for two days. She had to be given some medical care before she could get back into business again.

Every night she slept blanketed with dreams of happiness; the seemingly desolate moon watching over her torn self. Someday she would own a house, a bungalow, a baby car; her dreams tempted her. Sometimes she dreamt of her first love – the boy in her village named Arafat – tall, dark eyed and a sports-lover. The crystal ball of her dream showed her that she had husbanded Arafat and they had three children. But more often a particular nightmare disturbed her merry dreams. She never told anybody about it; it sounded crazy to her; of course dreams are always non-sensible.

Day in and day out, she lived the wretched life that she was put in. Her price grew with her experience. After six years of labour, she was on top of the price chain. Only rich men could visit her heavenly self. The mistress in order to interest the customers named her ‘the girl with soft feet’.

Zerin no more felt pain when they rode her. She no more missed her ancestral village or her prince charming Arafat. Her mothers face faded away from her mind and she learnt to deny the existence of her father. Only sometimes in sleep she would see her mother in the sick-bed dying without proper medicine and food.

At the peak of her success after twelve years, she met an author by the name Mahmud. Mahmud had gone to ‘Hundred Stars’ to relax. His family life was a torn one with many scratches, scars and stitches. He desperately needed a gateway to leave behind his family life at least for a while. And he thought a total uninterrupted sex after three years could make him feel relieved. He was looking forward to feel the void that one feels after an orgasm.

Zerin was chosen by him. Although the mistress warned him of her expense, Mahumud gave her half the money in advance. With no more warnings, she led him to Zerin’s room. Welcoming Mahmud in, Zerin offered him a drink. Then she sat on his lap, and they kissed. The intensity increased and the heat rose. After a while Zerin unbuttoned his shirt and massaged his body. Slowly moving down to his pant she unbuckled the belt and then removed it from his pants. Salaciously unveiling his manhood, she did what was her business. Without waiting much longer he grabbed her hair and tore her dress. Mahmud then entered her in a very delicate way unlike any of her other customers. For the first time in her life Zerin felt she wasn’t just giving, she was receiving too. This man was giving her pleasure – something that she never felt in her life. They slept in each others arms afterwards.

At some time in the middle of the night Zerin woke up with a screech of horror. Mahmud, incomprehensibly, looked at Zerin. “What is it?” He asked.

“It was a nightmare.” She answered gasping for breath.

He rubbed her back. Zerin rested her head on his shoulder. “Can I know what it showed?” He asked thinking she would not answer.

“I often see a nightmare. It haunts my sleep almost every night. It happened when I was young but it is as fresh as the day before.

When I was a young girl, growing up in my village, we had to go for bath in the pond. This particular pond that I am talking about had a deep side and a shallow side. Usually we swam in the shallow waters. But sometimes my older brothers would help me swim in the deep waters. One day one of my older brothers took me to the deeper waters and after a while when I could manage a little, he went to fetch a friend of mine. I was doing fine but suddenly I lost it. I couldn’t swim. I was drowning! My body was violently moving its hands and legs to come up to the surface. But nothing worked. I was simply losing my breath and my eyes were losing the green vision.

It was at such a moment that I felt my soul leaving my body like a light feather. It seemed to glide upwards and finally out of the water. I was the soul and the body! I could see my soul looking down on my body. And I could see my body fighting to survive. I shared two viewpoints, two perspectives!

I was choking underwater, water penetrating my nose and mouth, and I was smiling, hovering over the pond, free and independent.

Suddenly my brother caught me and pulled me out of the depth. I was conscious. I lived. But the experience never left me. It haunts me. In my nightmares I feel I am trapped underwater and my soul is smiling at me.”

Mahmud looked at her, amused. “After how long have you talked to somebody with an open heart?”

“I used to talk with my mother but after she left I found nobody to talk to. The lady who cooks here is a good friend though.”

The harmonious tune of Azan floated into the room. It was early dawn. And Mahmud left for his house. As the rickshawalla sped past the familiar destroyed neighbourhood, Mahmud thought of her.

The shops at his sides were broken down for being illegal. The houses were hammered for not having a land certificate. The people who lived there were now next to beggars. Where can they go after all? No other country will take them in. They have to stay here even if it’s on the road. More than six generations of these families lived in this place. Nobody cared to make a land certificate – who would deny their authority over the land? A time of more than six generation is not a small deal! But somehow there arose a group of people who questioned and drove them out of their own houses. Where would the old go? The young though had a better situation – they could make their livelihood out of robbery.

At the age of fifty-five Zerin made her first wish to her aged mistress. She wanted to go to Azmir. Realizing, she was not useful anymore, the mistress gave her the percentage of her lifetime earning and sent her to Azmir. In Azmir Zerin visited the Mazaar. She had gone there to beg for redemption of her sins. But before she could raise her hands for prayer, she fell. For a moment the young face of Arafat flashed in her mind and then she saw her mother dying. Just before the she lost her consciousness, she could see her soul hovering over her, smiling. The string binding her spirit to her body tore and she lay motionless.

Her soul fluttered away to its destiny.

The Window Of My Soul

I am a leaf orphaned by its mother in the tide of winds. I am a tamed pigeon abandoned by my mistress, going untamed. I am a drop of salty water lost in the vast capricious sea of melancholy. I am the wingless cupid with a broken bow and blunt arrows.

If you are the adopter of the orphaned, tamer of the wild, rescuer of the lost and admirer of cupid then hear me. Give me a hand; bear with me as my eyes tear. Assure me a shoulder to rest on and a patient ear.

I hear you say, “Who are you to me?”

Friend, I am none to you but you are to me an angel to whom I can confess as I would in the church. I have seen a lot though you see me young. Each second gives us an hour, but we just grasp a second of it and the rest goes unseen, unperceived, unused. I am none to you, but you are all to me.

That is what I felt for the blood of my heart, the breath of my body and the tune of my soul, Paro. Why is it always that way? Emotions are never equal. Each person’s emotion is as identical as their genes. Every mother doesn’t share the same degree of love for her children. Every son doesn’t share the same scale of respect for his father. Every friend doesn’t feel the same way as his friend does. You do not love me in the way I love you. Nor can I ever love you like you love me. So was it with Paro.

I never knew anybody who loved, admired and respected me as much as her. Listener, mine is a poignant story.

Parents I had to order me. Teachers I had to advise me. And friends I had to envy me. A life of commandments, advises and jealousies is a curse in disguise and I was a prisoner to the shackles of this curse. I can’t remember any occasion when I acted independently until last year. The bringer of me, my father always had a finger pointed in the direction I should go. And my host, my mother always dictated him which way to raise the finger. Large mouths of wisdom were always open wherever I went and there were plenty of well-wishers. But larger mouths with my ill-praises unlocked as soon as I left. And I happen to know about it because those who wished to hurt me told me boldly all that had been said.

Last year I met this girl named Parvati in a garden. I have a habit of recounting events of the day as it ends, and I do it as I walk in the garden, as the sun goes to sleep. Sometimes my interest is stolen by the people sitting on the benches or the bird singing from the tree. That day it was an old lady. She was in gloom and the sight saddened me too.

“Good evening! Can I sit here?” I requested.

She just nodded and looked in the other direction. After a minute or so she turned and asked, “Do you plan to abandon your parents when you grow up?”

I was at the mercy of a sharp question to which I could find no answer. “I don’t know why you ask that. But yes, sometimes situations just force you to do things you never wanted to.”

It seemed the answer angered the old lady. She took a more aggressive stance like a halberdier and I was a shield-less, vulnerable peasant.    

“Would it have been right for me then to throw away my son when he wet his pants, dirtied his dress while playing, broke expensive toys and show-pieces or said rude words unknowingly?”

“Isn’t that a part of your parenthood that you took up willingly?”

“Yes, I did and I expect the same from him now. I want him to look after me. He should repay me with the love I gave him.”

He should repay me with the love I gave him – her expectation ran through me. It was my turn!

“I do not know which line of thought you follow. But if you are asking me to answer your question then I would say, dear lady, you shouldn’t have brought up your son to be repaid later on. Love has no repayment. And if you look at it more closely, you will realize that the affection you gave him was just not for him but also for yourself. You had your own self-satisfaction in helping a dependent kid. How? You must be wondering. Poets, authors, philosophers, religion, politics, talk of maternal love and its greatness every now and then. But they hardly glorify the small but priceless repayment that the child gives his mother. It’s happiness! Didn’t you feel happy when a tiny, reddish creature lay beside you on the bed after the delivery? Didn’t you smile when he grew two bunny teeth? Didn’t you laugh when he first told you ‘ma… ma’ with the tone of a Doyel? Didn’t you hold his hand when he took his first walk? Haven’t you felt you were walking by the side of heaven itself? Were you not worried when he ate rice for the first time? And when he succeeded, didn’t you jump gleefully? Do you remember him going to school? I bet you were proud of him. When he broke toys you scolded him you say, didn’t you feel bad when he cried? You hugged him then, didn’t you? And when smile appeared on his tear torn face, didn’t you feel happy and guilty for hurting him? In his embrace you found elixir of joy. Do you ask for more?”

She looked at me with wondrous eyes and a defense-less gesture. “I wish I had met you before darling boy.”

Her joy ridden tears flowed followed by shining laughter and I smiled too. “Oh, I am so happy. Sing me a song, dear boy. But tell me what’s your name and what do you do?”

I told her my name and my profession. And against her loud laugh I started singing.

Joy in my heeeeeart,

Smile on my lips,

I move ooooon

To the mountain peaks.

Fatigue in my liiiimb,

Ache in my head,

I was following ooooon

The way you lead.

Crest we reaaaaaached,

And we breathed,

Baby you inspired meee

To move ahead.

I love you I need you

I need you I love you

You haaaaave won me a mountaaaain………………

Be there, wherever you are

Be the same, whatever you are

We will, be, together

And we’ll, be, happy forever

And we’ll be happy foreverrrrrrr…..

hhhOOO…. Oooooooohmmmmmmm…hmm…ooooo

Suddenly in my bare, music-less song arose a soft jinik-jinik rhythm of nupur disclosing the presence of a third being. Without losing my voice I looked at the source of the sweet tune. We met with our eyes and it felt as if I was drowning into those enigmatic oceanly eyes, divulging my thoughts and stories to her and swimming helplessly in her vastness.

Hmmmmm…ooooooooo…hmmmmm

The song was over; the lady planted a kiss on my forehead and was gone. I left the place immediately without stealing a second glance at the unexpected guest. The thought of it frightened me; I never submit but it seemed I surely would if I looked at her again.

Nobody ever understood me because I never gave them a chance to. I am too much of an introvert as a person. Even my best buddy Omar doesn’t know what I am going through. Whether sad or happy I bear the same face on my shoulder. The night after the eye-meeting was painful. Sleep eloped from my eyes, dreams abandoned me, ego frustrated me; I would never submit I decided and the voice of Muezzin inviting people to pray brought me to reality. It was early dawn already; I washed and spread the zaynamaz.

Allahu Akbar!!            

………………

Barely getting a few hours of sleep, I hurried to class grabbing a glass of orange juice.

First sip, second sip, third sip.

One big gulp… another one… it was over.

…threw the one-time-use glass in the dustbin. And DASH… DUSH… books and papers fell from my hands and the strangers hands. “I am sorry… I really am…”

“No problem… it’s okay…” It struck my ears. It was familiar and it was deadly familiar. Looking up I met those bewitching eyes, losing my breath I kept drowning until I reached the bottom of it and found a pure, baby pearl shining in the darkness. It was inviting me. I swam deeper… deeper… deeper… and when I tried to touch it, something pulled me out of those eyes… she had blinked!

“Would you like to …. Eh… sit… in the… eh… in the garden?”

She nodded. And we strolled to the garden and sat there; talking. We spent days engrossed in each other’s company. Not for a second did I feel tired of talking. Each word from her fueled me. Time seemed to have stopped at our feet. And when we finished sharing our past years, we joined the present life again. But with a big difference; I never left her side. How it ended is what bothers me my friend. I wanted her to be my northern star but she wanted to be a direction-board on the road!    

………………

Answer me friend, does love make us blind or only the blinds fall in love?

I have become blind to the odds around myself.

A few days ago a moment of patience knocked at my door. Daddy stood at such an unenviable position that I controlled my erupting mock-smile.

He called me something like a whore’s hair and a donkey’s bone! He called me the worse idiot of all time! He called me a witless, dumb, brutish, irresponsible, out-of-track boy! He called me unworthy of passing matriculation!

He crashed down on me because I didn’t bring the battery He had asked me to bring. A mole-hill into a mountain!  He claimed that he had warned me “It’s very important.” But I had heard nothing like that at the dawn of his order. Maybe I am deaf too!

Assuming I am all that he said, couldn’t he forgive me for my lapse of wit and memory? Hasn’t he ever felt like he was at his wits end?

What has he done? I have floated a few hundred kilometers away from him after the thunder and lightening. The boat of faith has drowned amidst the terrible storm.

How could I ever say him what had happened with me? And therefore I turned to my mechanical friend, my computer and expressed myself by electronic pulses. I am in love! I am dreaming high!

My love makes me forget myself and dreams add intensity to this forgetfulness. Maybe I’ll appear for the Daily Star Short Story Contest. But can I win it? What can be the plot of my story? I wanted to tell him all that and ask him for advise. But he just shooed me away like a cur out of his way.

What can I learn from him? Anger, impatience, least sense of understanding and innovative vulgar words like ‘a whore’s hair’ and ‘a donkey’s bone’! Well, to tell you in the straightest, I am not interested in any of those qualities!

Such incidents are common at home, and at such times I usually parry. But unusually that day I was blind to his faults.

So I forgave him. I forgave him for his rude impatience, mythological anger and for the astronomical rate at which he is failing to understand those around him. I forgave him for the mistakes he committed and the way he is scaring me away. I forgave him because I know to be human is to err.

How come I am so patient? How come I am so forgiving?

It’s all because of her… she has endowed on me so much love that I have no way but to give some away, in every way possible. Friend, are you still lending me your ear? Or have you drifted away?

I have nothing more to say. The last bit of my story has vanished into itself. But friend, before you go away, let me tell you something.

Don’t mistake her for Rapunzel when you see her on street.

And if you ever see a girl resting her head on her hands like a lily resting on its petals, know that it is my love – Parvati.

And if she asks you about me say her, I am a desperate violinist looking for my lost chord.

 ………………

Parvati sat on a purple cushioned sofa watching TumTum in MoonPlus, but her mind was not in the serial or the hindi singer painfully pulling his voice, pressing his nose! Her soul wailed as she thought of him. She was scribbling on her diary:

In my shadowed solitary life, he came as light; as the fertile tide that fertilizes the barren land. Amidst all the blessings, there was a slight trouble. Fyruz is not a person to share; he wanted me for himself absolutely. That pride and arrogance always works in him. He became disappointed if I talked with any boy, he lost temper with the boys who looked at me and he remained upset for days. Maybe he was feeling unsecured.

I thought so and confronted him. But he wouldn’t disclose his thoughts. That is another trait of his character. I knew everything of his and yet nothing of him. Fyruz never shared his thoughts. He said the mind is his and nobody will get a share of it. But there are things in him that can erase all the stains his rude attitude may leave in your mind. His idea of love was to keep me away from everything, cage me aloof from the rest of the world and make me divine out of the reach of all. But being an independent person I could never accept it. I wanted to be a human of flesh and blood not some goddess with austerity and purity above anybody else. I wanted to be myself, not under somebody else’s protection and commandments. And then disputes arose and they never ended.

Dear diary, what should I do? Happiness knew no bounds when I was with him, it showered on me every second. But now sorrow is flooding my life, and this too has no bounds.

She wept. The writings on the pages slowly faded away as tears heaped on them. A diary dedicated to her love with tear-washed pages was what remained.

………………

Efadul Huq

An unlikely teacher

A week ago, I had an appointment with my editor and I was hurrying to the bus station. An old man in torn rags came up to me and wished me “As-salamu-alaikum”. I hardly glanced at him, rushing past him with impatience and stealing a look at my watch. The bus was luckily empty except for a tolerable number of other travelers. I got my preferred seat and mobiled my editor.

“Hello. Good morning!” I said.

“Hmm… listen I am very, very busy right now, we’ll talk later. And I have left your new assignment on your desk, so go through it. If there’s any question let me know.”

The connection died. I had a lot of things to tell her. Ask her for some postponed payments, extra-works and about those articles that weren’t published till now. But she hardly had time for me.

I was pondering over her no-care attitude, when suddenly the face of that old man flashed through my mind. Did I give him some time? Did I at least wish him in return? Did I care to ask him what was wrong with him?

‘My life is in my hands’ is true but truer is ‘I can’t expect my life to bloom brightly if I don’t help somebody else to better his situation’.

Sometimes all it takes is a smile, a handshake or a few words to show that I care for them. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to give the old man a five hundred taka note, but would a smile and a reply to his wish be less?      

THE POET AND THE PRINCESS

“What is the replacement for love?”

   The youngest poet in a century went on a journey to find the replacement for love. God shaped him in a way which was moderate but quite suitable to his profession. He had hazel eyes and brown hair. He was fit as he ate to live unlike the unfits who lived to eat. The only bed he had was the ground under a tree. The soft grasses made a fine pillow for him. He often had silent communion with the angels of God when he looked up at the blue sky, stretched under a tree.

   Suddenly on an usually beautiful summer day, the angels asked him, “O poet, what can replace love?”

   The poet could twist and turn clauses very well and was often referred to as Klause. But this particular question sounded stranger than any question ever heard and harder than any clause to be twisted. Having said this the angels vanished.

As soon as the angels were gone, the poet decided to embark on a journey to look for an answer.

   He moved from green pasture to deserts and from rivered lands, he ventured out into the sea. He climbed lofty mountains and walked across vast dense jungles. But nowhere did he find an answer to the question.

   The poet was walking, tired and crestfallen at not having found an answer. He was in the middle of a desert and could see nothing but the yellow of  the sand and the blue of the sky. He had already gone across all these places looking for an answer but this time there was something special about coming back there. The previous night, he had seen a dream in which a beautiful red rose stood in the sands of this desert, untouched by cold or heat. He realized there lay his answer, hidden and untouched because he knew everything happens for a reason and the dream too had a reason.

   All of a sudden he found himself looking at a magnificent palace across the desert. The palace was built at the foot of a mountain where the dominion of the desert ended.

He reached the palace and before he could make another decision, the door opened and the king welcomed the poet in. Seeing the poet troubled the king inquired.

   The poet made the king aware of his puzzling question and the king smiled. The king took the poet up to the terrace and asked, “What do you see?”

   The afternoon was very hot and rough wind touched their faces. The sand moulded their bodies. The poet looked around but discovered nothing. The king raised his hand, and showed the desert.

   The poet’s eye caught sight of something shimmering in the desert. He knew what it was because he had written many poems about it.

   “That’s a mirage.”

   “That’s my love.” The king replied.

   The poet smiled and looked at the mirage again.

   “I have been trying hard to catch her all my days and was never successful. She always hides somewhere in the desert. So, I’ve decided to flood the desert and catch her when she will have no place to hide.”

   “How will you do that?”

   “With the water that I can buy with my riches.”

   The poet left the palace and after walking awhile towards the mirage, sat down and thought about it. Soon the elements around him cooled down and the king’s love could be seen nowhere. But now the poet’s eye could see a beautiful princess walking towards him.

   The naughty wind rolled the sands and tried to play with the princess’ hair. When she reached the poet, she sat down beside him and smiled, “I know about your trouble.”

   The poet looked at her and discovered all the fine lines on her face which were formed when she smiled. Neither summer nor winter could affect her entirety just like the mirage.

   “What can replace love?” She asked.

   “May be hope - the hope of catching your love someday and trying endless times to catch it - just like the king.”

   “Poet, you’re missing the point on which you bet your life.”

   The poet had an immense faith in God and he believed God was but the one who proves impossibility wrong and in doing so he performs miracles.

   So the poet said, “I believe in God and possibility and eventually in miracles.”

   “There’s your answer. A life without love can be survived only by miracles. If desert is your life, mirage is your love then the water has to be your miracle.”

   “But miracles can’t be performed by all.”

   “Only in case of true love.”

   “So, the mirage is hope not love?”

   “Partly, it is hope but the greater part is illusion.”

   “So, there’s no replacement in common?”

   “No,” she smiled, “life is often full of illusions like mirage in a desert but love is one and that’s the rose in a desert.”

   The poet said, “You!”

   She blushed like a blooming rose and just disappeared over the horizon.

END

The Poet and The Damsel

“Is it necessary to be loved?”

A slender lady knelt in a chamber veiled by the finest muslin that could be procured throughout the kingdom. Her eyes were crystal blue like that of the ocean. Her fair face radiated light like that of the moon. She possessed shining brown hair which flowed down over her shoulders. Her fingers were decorated with sapphires and diamonds. The necklace too had diamonds and rubies embedded in it. Pearls embedded white clothes wrapped her delicate form.

The poet was sitting on a rock, thinking about his last travel after having breakfasted of bread and water. Suddenly the messenger angel appeared before him.

“O poet, you have a task to fulfill.”

“What is it?”

“Is it necessary to be loved?”

“-loved by whom?”

“-loved by the one whom you love.”

Saying this, the angel vanished into thin air. The poet sensed the reality – the strong gale and the trees bending in the direction of it. He was puzzled and looked around helplessly.

He cried, “Why do you test me in such ways, O Lord?”

There was no answer. “Lord is silent at times but he has reasons for his silence”, he concluded and stood up.

He walked for three nights and four days across the plains and reached at the foot of a mountain. He was hungry and weary of the travel. Instead of climbing the mountain, he planned to go the other way.

Hardly had he taken the first step away from the mountain when a sleek, dark snake appeared out of nowhere. It hissed and raised its head against him. The poet was in a dilemma- whether to make way by fighting the snake or to take the snake as a sign from God and climb the mountain. He preferred the latter and started climbing.

No sooner had he reached the mountaintop than he fainted out of hunger and fatigue. He woke up at night and found himself being nursed by vultures.

“When God wishes, nature bends on fulfilling them even by changing its existing laws”, he thought and raised himself. Some fruits lay in front of him brought by the vultures. He accepted them and thanked God for it.

When he had finished, lightening tore open the breast of heaven and the angel appeared again.

“Do you have an answer?”

“No.”

“We have little time at hand to spare.”

“But- “

“You need to find an answer as quick as the speed of light.”

The poet looked around and found his answer shimmering on the bewitching lake below. He laughed loudly and said,”There it is!”

The next moment his vision blurred and he saw something never seen before. He saw a huge gate to a majestic kingdom and a fair maiden standing in front of it, holding up her hand as if calling him.

When he tumbled upon reality again, the angel was gone and he knew that he had a new task at hand. He declared jovially, “O Lord, your reasons are unthinkable, your power incomparable and your wishes inevitable.”

Then he embarked on a quest to find the gate of his vision.

After having crossed meandering rivers and over grown jungles he reached the gate of his vision. The gate stood tall and proud of its greatness. It was bigger than any other gate ever seen by the poet. He entered the kingdom and for a moment was dazzled by its beauty. Beautifully built houses lined the paved streets of the kingdom. Ornated statues of the Gods decorated the streets. Boisterous people walked in the streets. There wasn’t any mark of sorrow in this kingdom. Millions and millions of tiny, twinkling stars perforated the night sky.

Tired and exhausted, the poet knocked at a door. The damsel opened the door and asked, “What it is, that you knock at my door for, O stranger?”

The poet recognizing the damsel said, “I need food to eat, water to drink and a place to sleep.”

The damsel asked, “Do you have a reason for your demand?”

“Yes, because I believe you have a question to ask or a problem to solve.”

The lady beamed realizing that her prayers had been answered. She stood aside and welcomed the poet in, promising God to comfort this stranger in every way within her grasp.

The following day the damsel asked, “Will I never be loved by the one whom I love?”

The poet assured the damsel that she would have her answer and said, “But for now we need to travel with haste.”

When the poet and the damsel reached the bewitching lake where the poet had come before, he found the lake to be indescribable. It was dark but the moon made the surroundings visible with its dim light. Tall, dark trees stood on the sides of the lake. The lake was indifferent from land except for the moon rays being reflected from its polished surface. The lake was breezy. All these elements together made it look magical.

The poet untied a boat and the damsel stepped on to the boat. The poet rowed and the damsel after sitting down asked bewildered,” Wherefore do you bring me here?”

“To answer your question.”

“How so poet?” she asked, ”I am in love with the prince. When the passion of love overtook me for the first time, I found everything transforming around myself. Even the harsh words struck my ear like tune of a harp, the monotonous dawn looked fresh and rosy, rain washed away my past and the new rays of sun bestowed a hope in me, flowers smelled better than ever, my soul danced with joy to my every heart beat. I knew I was in love and then worries overtook me belittling my hopes and dreams. The prince is destined to marry the princess of another kingdom by tradition. Besides, how can I ever dream of a prince to be my bridegroom, being so lowly! This painful game of love and rule has taken away my night’s sleep and makes me kneel and pray to God for mercy. I’ll die I feel and that’s my destiny.”

“Fairest lady of all, you lack the knowledge on which life depends, you live to love but you don’t love to live. If you loved the prince to live, you are in obsession, not in love. You live if you love but you die if you are obsessed.”

“So you mean, when he’ll share his life with another, I’ll still count myself in his life.”

“Do not count yourself in his life count him in your life.”

“What do you mean by that? How do I count him in my life when he will be far away from me? How do I love him when I can’t even touch him? How do I see him when he is out of my sight?”

The boat reached the middle of the magical lake. The moon’s image was portrayed on the surface of the lake.

The poet smiled and answered, “I love the moon for its poetic beauty but it’s far away. I am out of its reach and maybe it’ll never count me on its circle. But I can count it in my life and can love it forever. I can see it even when it is far away. I can touch it even when it is hundreds of miles away,” saying this he touched the surface of the lake where the moon’s portrait lay.

“O poet, that’s the surface of the lake – “

“Yes, the surface of my heart where the image will be etched forever in a way which I can touch, feel, see and above all, love and dedicate poems to it.”

A tear trickled down the fair left cheek of the damsel. “So I love him forever and he never counts me.”

“Love cannot be repaid but it is never betrayed. I can assure you that you will be loved someday. Man has loved moon for centuries but moon never counted man in its circle. But I can assure you that someday moon will count man in its circle. Moon will touch, feel and see man on its surface and love them.”

The damsel sat on the side of the lake, looking at its surface in great distress. The wind brought melancholy to her heart. She was pondering over the poet’s words.

Suddenly the wind brought the noise of galloping hooves to her ear. But she felt indifferent to everything. She sat motionless, staring at the surface of the lake. The next moment a blur image of a horse and a rider was formed on the surface. She looked at the image transfixed, recognizing every dot of it. She touched it as if to make sure it was a real reflection, creating a ripple.

Hardly had she stood up with a smile in her withered lips which just started to show a rosy hue and a tear in her twinkling eyes, when the prince swept her off her feet and galloped away to some faraway land!

To be continued…   

The Losing Game

The big game that’s being played for the last 15 (or more in fact) years is where the two players are fighting even after they have been defeated!

I often wonder why people still watch this monotonous game on TV or read about it in newspapers. The only logical answer is, the viewers of this lame game shows and the readers of this lame game articles are blind, deaf and dumb.

Wait! Do you know which game I’m talking about? Come on folks! Can’t you figure it out? It’s the GREAT lawn tennis game between Sheikh Junior and Mrs. Zia.

A big hand for them. They have played courageously without ever being tired. Their virtues are shining so brightly that nobody can miss them. Now is the time, we hand them consolation prizes (since none has won and both has lost) and send them away for a vacation, relaxation, redemption.

Why? – is the BIG question.

Dear friends,

Don’t you see that the ball with which they’re playing isn’t ‘just’ a simple hollow tennis ball - but all our lives moulded into a compact sphere.

Aren’t you fed up with these two smashing us over the net, below the net and sometimes smashing us absolutely out of the tennis court?

When they come to press conferences, all they can do is to scream peppery comments about each other. They are prepared to criticize bitterly but unprepared to accept criticism (How unfair!). The fact that they are the best players of the Blame-Game is undeniable. Never a sweet word will you hear from them. They have altered the meaning of being a lady.

Ladies ought to be sweet, gentle, intelligent, elegant, graceful, kind, virtuous, wise and so much more. But these two are anti-ladies. Never embarrassed to pointlessly cock fight on road or engage in high drama to prove each other wrong. God knows what’s wrong with them.

How long will they blow the trumpets of their Father and Husband? Don’t they need to prove themselves fit to be seated on the throne? How long will they claim for the hereditary ownership of the throne? They have clearly misunderstood the meaning of democracy and they are trying to replace it with the laws of Kings and Queens of ancient times. We need to remind them that we will judge how they play themselves not how their Father or Husband played. We need to remind them to stop screaming odes to themselves and impress us so that we sing those odes.

Every speech shouted by them, is full of promises of welfare activities, development activities. But there’s a condition – they will fulfill those promises only when they flop on the throne. Well, that’s a clever deal! But here’s a puzzle for you –

Did Mother Teresa need to become the Prime Minister to share sorrows and soothe pains? Did Florence Nightingale declare, “I will nurse these war wounded soldiers only if you make me the Queen.”?

The sum of money wasted on hiring picketers, creating banner, making bomb, leasing people to walk in processions, is huge, huge, huge!

With that amount they could build and run an Old Home, Orphanage or Rehabilitation Center for Beggars (which is a big problem here) with ease. One of them has beautified the streets but still the ugliness remains. Wouldn’t the streets look much prettier with all the beggars rehabilitated? There’s so much more they can do. But they don’t.

All they do is prepare to take revenge for a cause unknown. All they do is sharpen their claws and jump into dog-fights. All they do is make our lives unlivable.

          It would be very kind if anyone presented each of them with a dictionary on their birthdays. The appropriateness of this gift lies in the fact that they will be able to look up a long forgotten word – COOPERATION.

Let’s take a tour into the past. More than a hundred years ago we had fallen in the clutches of the tyrants in disguise of merchants owing to the lack of cooperation among ourselves. A hundred years from then, we ousted the tyrants by the strong bond of cooperation and our fore-fathers dreamed of a better time ahead. Now let’s return to the present. Once more these two players by not cooperating are inviting – the Disney version of Don Juan (you-know-who) – into our country. Is history repeating itself?

Maybe after looking up the word in dictionary, knowledge will dawn on them. Let’s hope for the best.

What can the children of today learn from them?

How to make false promises, create cock-and-bull stories to conceal the truth, tell lies, take revenge, be least cooperative, be egocentric, be pessimistic, lead their followers to ruin! I pity my poor country, its poorer people and the poorest leaders.

Both have the habit of talking about their Father and Husband as if those great leaders are for them only. They forget that leaders aren’t born for their wives, daughters, a particular group or a limited piece of land. Leaders are born to the world and its people. A leader is born for every religion, every language, every group, every chord of the society, every home and every heart. A true leader never discriminates but works to bring prosperity to the world as a whole.

So it is unfair if we create groups on the names of these leaders. We must pay reverence to undaunted Zia as much as we pay to Victorious Mujib. The same must be followed by the daughter and the wife. Each must respect Zia and Mujib equally and their personal feelings should be kept private.

But this peaceful, unselfish act may never happen. After all it is a country of unfair games where might is right and sword is mightier than pen.

Still there’s a bleak chance. Still there’s a corner of light and hope in this horrible darkness.

We need to stand up and voice our opinions. It’s pointless to be governed by a leader who commands no respect, no faith in us.

Why am I wasting my time, effort and ink on this?

If I were Brutus I would say,

“Not that I love them (the players) less;

But that I love Bangladesh more.”

But since I am a Bangladeshi and the rebellious spirit of my ancestors is in me, I will say,

“I am a Bangladeshi and I stand out from the crowd to declare that it isn’t a corrupted nation but has been driven into the maze of corruption and it is possible to drive it out with good navigation.

I stand out from the crowd to declare that my country is as beautiful as any other country, my people are as charming and intelligent as any other people and my children are as innocent as any other children in the world.

I stand out from the crowd to declare that the wind here is pleasant and the earth is sweet, the rain is refreshing and the sun is warm.

I stand out from the crowd to declare that we have a glorious past though the present is in gloom, and yes we have the potential to bring a sunny tomorrow.

I stand out from the crowd and declare that (I repeat) I say all these because I love my country –

this country was the womb for me,

and will be my grave if ever need be.”

 
Efad Syed

Marriage

How many of you are really enjoying your marital life?

How many of you think you are still the same as you were before marriage?

With how much trust are you bonded in your relationship?

If you find yourself in a position of difficulty to answer such questions then I would say you have mistreated each other.

The first thing to be talked about should be your demeanor towards your young wife. As to the oldish ones or widows, time and other things have blunted their feelings and stern demeanor in the husband isn’t a matter heartbreaking consequence. But with a young and inexperienced wife the case is very different and the first frown that she receives from you is a dagger to her heart.

It’s natural that men will become less passionate after the wedding-day and women will not.

Therefore women increase their interest in their husbands more and more as days pass by.

Only when a child is born, a new unimaginable and incomparable bond is born and their interest is diverted towards the child.

But before all that, the husbands have it all. So all the husbands present here, I say to you, if you have a mind to be happy, repay this passion with all your soul.

Let what may happen to put you out of humour with others, let nothing put you out of humour with her.

Tell me gentlemen, how many of you went for dates and candlelight dinners with your wives after marriage? How many times did you take her for romantic long drives after marriage? How many times have you spoken sweet words to please her after marriage?

Come on, that’s what you promised her before marriage. That’s why she married you thinking her life would be like that forever. So, let your words and looks and manners be just what they were before you called her wife.

Give her support. On a stormy night, if you know your wife is afraid of storms, go home a little early and be by her side. Do the right thing, in the right time, in the right way. A huge wedding cake is pointless, if your wife loves chocolates worth a few cents. A pearl beaded dress is worthless if only a hair band brings the little precious smile to her face. A journey by plane is uncomfortable if your wife loves to travel by bus.

Give her time. I agree that men must frequently be away from home. But I protest against the habit of spending leisure hours away from home and doing this without any necessity and by choice.

When absent from necessity, there is no wound given to the heart of the wife; she concludes that you would be with her if you could, and that satisfies, she laments the absence, but submits to it without complaining. Yet, in these cases, her feelings ought to be consulted as much as possible; she ought to be fully apprized of the probable duration of the absence, and of the time of return; and if these be dependent on circumstance, those circumstances ought to be fully stated; because you have no right to keep her mind upon the rack, when you have it in your power to put it in ease.

In a few words husbands must show their love, affection, concern and sympathy as they showed before marriage.

On the other hand it is a necessity for a wife to trust her husband so that their marriage may last. After all what is this life’s worth if we can’t trust each other, if we can’t love each other.

But in some cases in our society, we see none of these works, because the pair isn’t a good match.

When you are walking on the road, you see so many individuals, doctors, nurses, housewives, husbands, labourers, teachers, lawyers, artists, actors, directors, drivers, office-holders and so on. But has it ever occurred to you that maybe some of them wanted to be something different. Maybe the teacher wanted to be a lawyer and the lawyer wanted to be an artist. But fortune has misplaced them and therefore they maybe wasting their time on what they never want to be, rather than spending it on what they want to be which is a more successful decision.

In the same way, there are ladies who expected to be married to an artist but was married to a lawyer, there are men who wanted to be married to an actress but was married to a teacher. This sort of circumstances give birth to confusion and trouble at home because they don’t find each other suiting. Neither they understand each other nor they want to understand. But since the vow of marriage is holy and pure and having taken it already, they waste their life, instead of spending it to find the one they wanted, like the lawyer who wanted to be an artist.

So, the first thing for men and women to do is to find the person they want to be with for the rest of their life. The next and the last thing is to remain the same whether old or young, whether after or before marriage.       

BEGINNING OF THE ENDING

“On the 3^rd of March 2003, Nurul Islam, worker of a local political party raped the wife of a day labourer.” Daily star, April.

Well this is a usual story! You get loads of them as you take a flick through the pages of newspapers – welfare workers, well-schooled adults committing adultery, rapes! But we’ll review it again today.

There’s nothing more embarrassing for a writer than to re-visit a topic which has been wisely explored by many. There’s nothing more humiliating than to try educating the so-called educated masses in our society. But here I am reviewing a second-hand case, here I am standing on the stage of sanity, looking at hundreds, thousands, millions of insanes and trying to illumine their conscience because to be silent would mean the end of morality, sense of duty and responsibility, purity, innocence of our race, our friends, our families, our near and dear ones and us. So those of you who understand me, stand up and cooperate and may be we will be successful in educating these literate people and hope for a better tomorrow.

How come there’s a population explosion in Bangladesh? How come there are so many rape cases? How come there are so many victims of sexually transmitted diseases hiding in the dark corners? What now?

The government is trying its best to ‘cure’ these problems and there are foreign and private companies which are cooperating. My heartiest thanks to them. Thank you so much.

Still a question puzzles my logic. A philosopher once said that prevention is better than cure. Wouldn’t it be better to try ‘prevent’ these rape cases, this population explosion, these child abuses from happening? But we don’t.

It has become our habit to create a crisis and then ponder over it rather than not creating it at all. So how do we prevent it?

The wisest answer is, by introducing sex education in the curriculum of schools.

I am sorry it’s a taboo to talk about sex! How dare I write something so indecent on a teenage newspaper? How insolent can I be? Questions may arise if the editor was naïve to publish me.

Okay folks! I know. I know all that. Some may refer to me as Satan in disguise. But I am sorry. I care the least about how you mock me, jeer me. All I care about is the truth and if I don’t stand up for it, I will become one of the literates, one of the beasts without hearts, one of the unfeeling machines, one of you who laugh at my efforts to awaken the slumberers.

Sex is not ‘just’ the rhythm of pleasure but the rhythm of life. It is the ‘one’ thing by which we come into the light of the world. It is the synonym of the most common four-letter word ‘love’. It is sacred, it is holy, it is pure.

But if you look at it from the perspective of today’s world you’ll surely conclude that it is evil, it is unholy, it is impure. Why?

Simply because there’s no morality in sex.

Sex education is a process to induce morality in sex. It is a process of acquiring and forming attitudes and beliefs about sex, sexual identity, relationships and intimacy. Sex education classes inform teenagers about sexual development, reproduction, contraception and sexual diseases. It is also about developing youngsters’ skills on making wise choices regarding their social lives. It is a process to build wise and responsible adults of tomorrow.

How advantageous is it? It’ll prevent the spread of sexual diseases, unwanted teenage pregnancies; encourage resistance to group pressure to engage in unwanted sexual activities. It’ll help teenagers to form responsible views on their own sexual behaviours, to understand the difference between male and female views on romantic relations and to understand that sex is a part of the normal life and not something which needs to be associated with feelings of shame and guilt.

A survey of the UN says that 34% of the HIV persons are from the group of 12 to 19 years. In America 2800 teens get pregnant each day. According to Justice Department of US, one in two rape victims is under 18 years; one in six is under 12 years. I am unable to provide you with statistics of Bangladesh since none has bothered to look into this matter of grave importance. But it’s happening in the west and the east simultaneously. The difference is that they are aware and we are unaware, the difference is that they have taken steps to ‘prevent’ it and we are taking steps to ‘cure’ it, the difference is that they are logical and we are illogical. That is why they are progressing and we are regressing.

Our neighbour India, a country of diverse cultures, traditions and religions, has decided and issued a notice in the year 2002 to incorporate the subject of sex education in schools across the country. Why don’t we? What’s holding us back?  

Sadly, the rate of success is very low since only a few schools accepted the proposal but still it’s the first step that matters while starting a journey.

Here in Bangladesh, let alone a step, we haven’t even thought about it. Try eavesdropping when your child or student is discussing sexual matters with his or her friends. You will stumble into a world of falsity. You will discover how foolish they are and what grievous troubles they can get embroiled into. You will realize that when they don’t have an experienced elder to sort out their sexual troubles and answer their questions, they turn to their friends or the internet which often is full of misleading ideas. Our teenagers are dwelling in the dark, dwelling in ignorance, dwelling in myths and guilt.

Dear parents, teachers, elders,

I have something to tell you. You may call me wicked, impish, rude and my words – sour, vulgar, ugly but throughout history truth has always been bitter. I am sorry if I have offended you. But the truth has to be told someday by somebody. Why not today? Why not me?

We are developing as seconds pass by and this too is another step of development. It is your children’s need. I don’t mean to say that just by introducing sex education you can stop these abuses totally. But at least a few percents can be reduced, at least some of us will learn to live a better life. Don’t you care about us?

It is not contradicting our religious beliefs. Islam considers sex as one of the essential human needs that must be properly satisfied. Moreover, Islam does not treat it as a filthy or heinous act of man.

Allah states in the Quran, Surah Al-Room (30:21):

“And among His signs is that He created for you mates from among yourselves that you may dwell in tranquility with them and He has put love and mercy between your [hearts]: verily in that are sign for those who reflect.”

History says, men and women alike were advised by Prophet Muhammad (SW) about sexual relationships. He never ignored them. He never discouraged their approach.

So is it just, if you condemn sex as an evil act which deserves punishment? Is it right to remain introvert about it? Will you be loved by God if you create guilt in the minds of your sons and daughters and students misleading them?

Please speak up and share your experiences, wisdom, ideas with your children. Let them put forth their views. Rectify the mistakes but never ignore the truth. All kinds of education start at home and so does sex education. School is a place to learn and develop; sex education is a part of ‘learning to survive’ lessons, it is a stage of development. What’s wrong in introducing one sex education class a week in schools?    

Take the first step and stop the beginning of the ending of morality, innocence, purity in us ‘your children’ because to us the future is.

Sincerely,

 Efadul Huq.

A Story

“Mother’s heart never hurts”

Klaus met Helena up on a hill when he went for a walk. The day was windy and the sun was hiding. The left over clouds of monsoon painted the blue sky with white patches. He saw her sitting on a conveniently low rock patting a dog. It was at that precise moment when he fell in love with her.

The rough wind was ruffling her hair which was golden and she looked like an angel for Klause. She was fair and wore impeccable white garments which made her more divine. Klause lost all his words and looked at her with amazed eyes.

Klause came back home that day and overwhelmed by her beauty, sat thinking about her. His soul couldn’t find a way out of the devious maze of love.

His mother was a widowed lady who was pious and loved her child immensely. When her son used to go for work, she would stitch his torn clothes, arrange his belongings, prepare the meal and if there was any time left, she would then read the Holy Book.

Her neighbour was a garrulous woman who was dogmatic about the view that children must do their works on their own. She tried to inculcate this feeling in Klause’ mother, whenever she met her. But Klause’ mother was too good a mother to be mended. She paid the least attention to that woman’s suggestions.

When Klause’ mother brought food, he refused it. She looked at him belligerently.

“What’s wrong today, dear?” she asked.

He looked up at her and walked out of the house, deeply immersed in Helena’s beauty.

He stayed away from home for the next two days and on the third day, he asked Helena for her hand. He promised his ever-increasing devotion and care for her.

Although Helena was surprised at first, she listened patiently.

“Do you love me honestly?” she questioned.

“YES.” Klause said.

“You will have to prove it.” She declared.

She was not a girl who could be convinced easily.

“What do I have to do?” Klause asked impatiently.

The wind howled and roared; the sky darkened and the clouds threatened everything under them with thunder.

“You have to bring me your mother’s heart.” She said.

Klause driven by the illusion appeared on the door step of his house in the darkest hour of the night. He knocked and the door opened. The woman who had devoted herself to God and her child appeared with sleepless eyes but at the first sight of Klause a smile of relief hovered over her lips and happiness twinkled in her eyes. Her son had returned.

Klause without taking notice of her unsheathed a sharp knife and stabbed her. She breathed for the last time and laid motionless, an empty gaze with a tear trickling down but a smile on her lips.

Klause met Helena on the same hill and presented the mother’s heart to her with a broad grin. She smiled first and then laughed.

“I am afraid that I can’t accept you.” She said.

“WHY?” Klause asked grief-stricken.

“If you can kill the lady who fed you and cared for you so much for me. Can I be assured that you will not kill me for another new found love?”

She went away, leaving Klause ruined and sinned and stabbed emotionally.

It started raining hard and Klause was staggering down the hill, he slipped and fell flat on his face. The mother’s heart fell from his hand. He resembled a creature out of a nightmare; blood dripping from nose and body covered with mud.

The thunder roared and lightening threatened with flashy exhibition of teeth. The wind blew the rain drops in different directions. Darkness veiled unconscious Klause.

But the light of eternal love and devotion burned bright in the core of the mother’s heart, illuminating Klause and imparting warmth in the cold.

The heart asked, “Are you hurt, dear little one?”

THE INSIDE STORY

CASE#1: SNOW WHITE

The story spread by Snow White: unavailable because it’s a waste of time and space. Besides it’s found in all fairy tales books.

The story (unpublished till today) told by Snow White’s mother:

I am Queen Roxana (known to everybody as Snow White’s step-mother) of a kingdom which is far far away. In a few words, my step-daughter is ungrateful, rude, naughty, undisciplined, short-tempered and self-centered. The problem began when she was a child. My husband, the king mistakenly gave birth to a child which was as black as coal. Therefore it was named Coal Black. After his death the burden of Coal Black was heaped on my shoulder. I accepted this responsibility (burden) with optimism and a feeling which was so strong that I felt she was born in my womb. I requested all the royal maidens, beauticians and doctors to make this child as fair as snow. I was compelled to make this request because to have a princess who is coal black, is very very unlucky. Besides, no prince will ever fall in love with princess Coal Black. With each passing day I grew weary of my responsibility (burden) and I could feel death knocking at my door. I decided to do something concrete. I embarked on a journey to the east to meet Sage Gollu. I didn’t have to say much because he knew what I had to say. He gave me a mirror and said wisely, “This shall show your path when all lights fade.”

I returned to my castle with great hopes and dreams. I dreamed I would see Coal Black marrying Prince Charming. The mirror was put up in my study room. When I first conversed with the mirror, I was fascinated by its charm and intelligence.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall –

Who is the darkest of all?” I questioned.

“Famed is thy beauty, majesty

But hold, a dark-skinned maid I see,

Rags cannot hide her ungentle face,

Alas she is darker than anyone else.” It said rhythmically.

“Reveal her name.” I ordered.

“Lips dark as ebony,

Hair rough as straw,

Skin dark as coal” It answered.

“Coal Black.” I muttered.

“Is there anything we can do to cure her abnormality?”

“She needs fresh air, fresh water and fresh vegetables to eat. She must abandon meat. She must exercise and must consume apples everyday. She must go to a forest where everything is pure and green. Only a forest can provide her with fresh air to breathe, fresh water to drink and vegetables and apples to eat.”

“It shall be done.”

I was broken hearted. I called for Coal Black. Hardly had I finished my part when she started yelling.

“Shut up you ugly old vulture. You want to send me out of my kingdom so that you may rule it yourself forever.”

“Nobody lives forever child and that’s what I fear. When I am not around-” I was interrupted.

“Shut up. Shut up. You are jealous of my beauty. I will not go leaving my kingdom. I own it. I am the heir. I will pray you die faster, witch.”

She left leaving me feeling neglected and foolish. I wondered how on earth could I ever be jealous of her beauty. In fact, my maid servant was fairer than her. After a few days I planned a different way to send her away. I ordered my body guard to take her to a glade where she could play with wild flowers and leave her there. When I last kissed her good-bye, I felt like my nail being torn apart from my finger.

Things happened as I had planned but unfortunately the seven dwarves ruined it all. They fed her with meat and wine. She even stopped stealing a glance at apples. They wouldn’t allow her to exercise. Their house had foul air. She grew obese and darker.

When I lost all hopes and was ready to give up, the doctors came up with a clever and immaculate plan. They gave me an apple which was genetically modified and had beautifying medicines in it. This modified apple was equal to a thousand apples. They also gave me a cream called Fair & Lovely. This cream would increase the rate of the beautifying process. I dressed myself as an old beggar because if Coal Black recognized me she would never touch the apple.

She accepted my offering and ate the apple. As soon as she ate the apple she fell asleep and the beautifying process started. The evil dwarves thought I had killed her and chased me. I left the Fair & Lovely and started running. They chased me until they were tired which happened faster than I expected because they were stout. When they returned they misinterpreted Fair & Lovely as being a medicine for bringing back the dead. I was happy though since my plan was working. The dwarves kept her in a glass coffin and applied Fair & Lovely on her everyday. By the mercy of Almighty, the medicine had an effect and she grew fair within a month.

Then I sent Prince Charming to look for her. Prince Charming awoke her with a kiss. She returned to the kingdom with Prince Charming where she was renamed as Snow White. But she banished me from my kingdom after being throned as Queen. But she wasn’t satisfied until she published a story concocted by her against me called ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.’ Then she lived happily ever after in her small, selfish world.        

7 Days of Justice

…based on a true story…

The road was dark, forsaken and crowded only with gloomy buildings on both sides. I was alone. It was just me and the night blended into one colourless form except for the desolate moon which was peeping at me from behind the shadowy clouds like a Persian maid hiding behind her ostentatious veil.

I had been at a party of which I didn’t remember much. Nothing memorable had happened actually. All I could remember was smoke, smell and that it was a drug party.

Trust me I wasn’t out of my mind. Only a little marijuana was acting on me and I had my senses in absolute control. I was perfectly okay!

The lonely road joined to a main road and when I reached there, I found myself standing opposite to Metro Plaza.

A few cars galloped past me. None can blame them for their accident-causing speed; everybody knows about Dhaka’s traffic in the daytime; night is the only time to play with some of the built-in horse-power of these cars.

But a navy blue police van was moving slowly and carefully like a hunter tip-toeing for a prey. I think the driver saw me and hardly had he pulled the break when a torch-light was focused on my face.

Shut were my eyes and I heard the opening of a door, a few footsteps and then a harsh voice spoke into my ear, “ki koros aihane?”

“I can’t see. Please move the torch light.”

Another voice softer yet unfriendly spoke, “Sir, ganja khaichey monay hoi.”

The torch was switched off and my half-closed eyes perceived two unfit forms. The taller one had a bulging sack of fat below his chest and so did the shorter one. They were the knights of Dhaka city! The two policemen were staring at me, expectation twinkled in their eyes, their hands itched inside their pockets and they twitched their moustaches. Being inexperienced I stared back at them.

“You’re misunderstanding me. I was just going home,” I pleaded.

That was a white-lie for my part. What can a bit of marijuana do? How can a bit of it be a crime? I wasn’t exhibiting any effect of it anyway. 

“In the middle of the night, aye? For how many days have you been into drugs?”

“Please do try understanding…”

“Shut the fuck up. Check his pockets.”

The shorter officer checked my pockets which produced a lighter, a packet of cigarettes, a wallet and some papers. They checked the wallet together but found nothing except for my photo because I had spent all the money buying drinks for the party. They looked annoyed and shouted, “Get into the van.”

Inside the van I found a bearded, robust man self-consumed. As I sat down he looked up at me, “Do you have money?”

“Why? No,” I confessed.

“You look like a rich dad’s son anyway. They put you in for money you know, if you have some use it now.”

“I can just borrow from the nearby shop if that’s the case. The owner knows me well.”

“You are in already and they are planning for a bigger sum this time.”

I was regretful and knocked at the small glass window separating me from the knights. One of them turned, the car stopped, the back door of the van opened, “How dare you knock?”

“I was…”

“Shut up fucker, beat you up like an animal right now” he threatened with his fist.

I was robbed of my right to express myself and a line from my school essay titled ‘Police’ floated into my mind, ‘the policemen of our country protect our rights’. Adverse situations bring into one’s mind things forgotten.  The car started moving again.

It stopped again near the Dhanmondi field and another poor fellow was put in. He, as I found later, didn’t have money too. Ten minutes later they caught another addict but he was fortunate as he had cash to satisfy them. So he wasn’t pushed in; instead they slapped him cheerfully on the back. So this is what happens to rich criminals, I jotted down in my diary of experience.

After two hours approximately we reached Mohammadpur Thana and I was kicked into a cell full of weirdos. Three dirty looking roadies were playing cards in the corner, one was sleeping right beside me, seven gunda-looking guys were chatting in the centre and opposite to me sat Leku, who was a regular visitor of prison as I learned later. The floor was rough and cold. A broken, can’t-be-used short-toilet pan stood in a corner but the unbearable smell of it was in the air along with the smell of the poo which was on the floor nearby. In the days that followed I learnt that to pee and poo on the floor is normal!

Around twenty minutes later two more boys were shoved in. Blood dripped from the nose of one and another had a wrist broken. How horrible can reality be! It definitely wasn’t one of those bollywood’s prison cell where the hero has more than enough time and peace to write and dedicate songs and poems to a girl. This small cell was just the beginning of my journey through bars and shackles. But just then only one thought hovered in my mind, a regret, I had stepped into the night without giving a thought to how fearful it could be, I had stepped out of my house without lending a thought to how long the journey would be.

A police walked up to our cell and handed Leku a brown packet. Leku eagerly took the packet and fished out a hundred taka note from his pocket and gave it to the officer who accepted it with a broad grin. As Leku tore the packet open, shock overcame me. In the torn brown paper lay a candle, a packet of heroin, a matchbox, some cigarettes and a little marijuana.

Leku eyed them with pleasure and started his grand preparation. In the meantime another police officer came to check and when he saw Leku he said, “Kiray? Martasos?”

When the feast was prepared Leku gave a satisfied smile and looked up at me. Maybe pity overcame his better half because he offered me a cigarette. I couldn’t refuse.

Leku started sniffing and some of the cell-mates joined in.

The police officer was outside the cell, drinking water. The sight of water sprung my thirst so I begged for a glass of water. What I received was some mean vulgar words.

Warm tear-drops burned down my cheeks to mock my helplessness. Salty tear drops were my only means to quench the thirst. Sorrow filled tear drops were the only compensation for my loss of dignity. I slept that night absorbed in tear drops.

***

No dream decorated my sleep but it was peaceful and empty, simply dark without the slightest mark of light. May be it was the sweet result of the tiring long night. Grandpa always said ‘every dull cloud has a silver tint’. I woke up with a start as the pathetic screeching ringing of the bell penetrated my ear drums. There was no sun rays to wish me luck for the day and the hand that pulled me out of slumber was Leku’s, very different from my mother’s clean, fair hand.

 The wall clock above the officer’s table was visible and when it struck ten I heard a familiar sound to which my heart responded with glee. It was Bashar bhai, our neighbour and a very good person.

“Well, good to see you unharmed” he laughed optimistically.

“When am I going to get out of this non-sense?”

“Not soon. They have asked for a bribe of forty thousand taka which is way beyond what your mother can gather. She had fainted when she heard about you from the night guard but before an hour she called me and gave me five thousand taka to bail you out. But now it seems impossible. The SI and the OC are of the morning shift and they know nothing ‘bout you and they are going by the case report made last night which says ‘a drunk, drugged, half-unconscious fellow found acting funny beside the road’…”

“That’s a big … big lie.”

“What can we do? Anyway I brought you some breakfast. Here you go…” I almost snatched the packet out of his hand.

Opening the packet I said, “So what now?”

“You gotta wait. I am going now. Here’s some money. I’ll come to meet you again and next time I’ll take you home”, he flashed his evergreen smile and was gone.

Mom’s worried face ran through my mind but the next instant hunger hopped in. Before I could gulp down some water Leku pulled the bread out of the packet and I knew he was going to take away more than what he had given.

Minutes later we were hand-cuffed and almost thrown into the police van. It was just the eight of us and the van already seemed filled. Was the van smaller or were we bigger?

The van stopped at three ‘thanas’ – Dhanmondi thana, Kotwali thana and Lalbag thana. The van became smaller as it picked up more prisoners and the last person had to be forced in physically.

Like caged birds we gazed out blankly at the busy world through the small barred holes. Some of those busy outsiders paid no attention to us which relieved us of embarrassment but there were some who goggled at us as if we were dodos. To their utter surprise they received coughs and spits from the inside accompanied with words we don’t use in the civilized world.

The dizzy travel ended as the van pulled off in front of the court. Before I could shake off the nausea we were put into another cell. This to my least surprise was no better than the first. The floor smelt of garbage and the yellow pan in the corner overflowed with urine like a greedily filled cup of wine. More than thirty prisoners crowded the small cell and smoke penetrated every corner of it.

“Any idea what’s going to happen now?” Leku questioned.

I shook my head.

“You are a first time, aye? You are going to be written down officially and photoed. Do you want all that attention?”

I shook my head again.

“Well in that case just give the person who writes the name a hundred taka note and fifty taka to the photographer.”

Why was this guy helping me out in every turn? Was it pity or something more than that? Or was he just an angel sent to help me out in this misery? Surely God has his unthinkable ways to guide us.

Money proved its worth as I bribed the officer and the photographer. After going through the childish official works whose rules can be bent at will we were put back in the foul cell again. I wish I wasn’t nineteen; then maybe I would have been treated in a tender fashion!

Every five to ten minutes a guard kept coming and calling out a prisoner who was being given a paper to sign and then he was released. I waited earnestly for Bashar bhai but he seemed to have vanished into thin air after the first meeting. At the end of the day fifteen prisoners remained.

***

As the van moved on I was thinking, “This is it. This is going to be the last journey maybe. I’ll be in the central prison forever most probably. Mom must have left hope on me. I have brought down shame to my family, she really should abandon me. But won’t she miss me? Oh, forget ‘bout home right now. If the small cells were so nauseating, sordid and ghastly, how will the bigger one be? Dear God if I ever did a good job, award me now. How I wish I had prayed more and gone to mosque more frequently! Now that God’s the only one capable of helping me, the religious bird is fluttering in my mind. Whatever, let’s just shut up and think of some clever plan.”

When I stepped out of the van I eyed the monstrous main gate of the central prison for the first time. I took the name of the all-merciful Lord and started towards it. Why was I becoming so religious suddenly? Was it for the destitution that I was being pushed into? Was the whole thing a divine plan to make me religious?

Behind the main gate stood the second gate which showed an open pocket gate. Whoever had made the pocket gate was very thin and selfish, worrying very little about others. It was a challenge for me to enter through it. Not that I am fat but that the gate was too small for an average healthy person.

The fifteen of us along with some more who had come from other places were made to sit in rows in the cell called ‘Amdani’. This was followed with a checking. I was undressed behind a screen and checked. They took away everything including the money Bashar bhai gave me. Then an elderly looking prisoner stood up. He looked very much like my junior school headmaster except for his cruel eyes. But what he said was way beyond what I saw afterwards.

“As-salamu-alaikum. I don’t know what crimes you had been involved in but I do know that you have been sent here to better yourselves. Now to be a better person you need to become disciplined. Wake up as soon as you hear the whistle in the morning. Don’t stay awake after the bed whistle is blown at night. Don’t fight for meals. No smoking, drinking and taking drugs here. Bathing day is twice a week. The prisoner wearing the golden belt is in charge here. Take your glasses, blankets and plates from the cook. And always remember that you are here to refine yourselves so no fighting, abusing or quarrelling among yourselves. You are brothers here. And if you follow these rules, we will be peaceful. As-salamu-alaikum.”

Finishing his tiring welcome speech he walked away.

“Do you know what you call the police officers inside the prison?” Leku asked.

“No.”

“Mia Bhai. And since you’re new you will be sent to an ‘Amdani’ cell. The prisoner head of each building is ‘Righter’. Don’t forget the names and yes, remember to give five cigarettes to the barber when you are taken to have a hair-cut.”

For the first time I took a proper look at my new room. It was a small hall and it would have been luxurious to live in it alone but unfortunately I was sharing it with more than one hundred and fifty brothers. The picture of Hajj as I had seen on the TV flashed in my head. Leku was shouting, laughing, talking so joyously as if he was on a holiday. His habit of living in prisons had its use.

This floor was not damp but hard and dry. The toilet was in the corner but it had no door or curtain. It was better, in the sense that it was normal not overflowing. Maybe the absence of any door or curtain was a test of our brotherhood. Right in front of the pan were two drums. One was of water for private use and the other drum was of ‘dal’ which we were to drink with each meal. Now that was awful and I wish there was a stronger word to express my reaction when I heard that and right there I decided not to take ‘dal’. What made me lose my mind was that we were to drink water from the same drum of water which we were to use for toilet. One can stay without ‘dal’ but can one do without water? At this point I wish to allot a better name to our central prison. It is the Eighth Wonder of the Modern World, a desert within a country (beloved Bangladesh) criss-crossed by rivers.

Necessity is the mother of all our doings and I did drink seven glasses of water from that drum after three hot waterless days. It was a matter of despise to realize that we were to use the same mug for toilet as well as drinking. The first night was as sleepless as were the following nights. We slept on bare floor and hadn’t even a inch of gap among ourselves. There was no chance to move a bit. The sun fell and rose as we slept stiff like a wood stick.                    

      Defying the harmonious Azan the whistle blew and I got to stretch and bend my petrified body. Four were to sit together and eat from the same plate. There was no need for brushing or washing and that was the first lesson on ‘discipline’! There’s no name for the mock-chapati thing that we were given. It definitely wasn’t something that my forefathers ate or we eat. The cow’s breakfast was stolen away and cooked for us, it seemed. Leku saw me hesitating and smiled.

“Here you go…”

I landed up with some proper parathas and curry to start the day. I could feel the gift of money running down my throat. Truly money is a wonderful thing.

Mia Bhai came and announced, “Today the Jailer will be here. He is a man of honour. You must salute him when he comes in and answer his questions sincerely. He will talk ‘bout important things with you. Some of you may even find it fruitful being good to him. Be well prepared.”

I thought may be the jailer will call me and tell, “Now here’s a nice fellow. How come you are here? Go back to your house.”

But what happened was unexpected. He came in and we stood up to salute him. “Namaz kay poray eikhane?”

We exchanged glances among ourselves, quite surprised. Some did raise hands. But if namaz was the condition then most of us were not going to be unchained. He too looked at us for some time and then walked out of the hall. His departure left me feeling sad, an opportunity to get out of there had gone right through my fingers. Should I have lied ‘bout namaz? My conscious wouldn’t forgive me for that. Besides, why such a question when there’s no place in the entire prison for prayer?

Arranged in line we went to the barber who stood with a garden scissor in hand proficient enough to chop our heads off the shoulders like the executioners of old. He was a handsome fellow of nearly forty with short hair and an immaculate white shirt matching the black trouser. But he didn’t have to use his big, scary you-know-what because everybody possessed five cigarettes – a bigger weapon than his!

The next problem was of finding a proper plate, glass and blanket. The cook showed me a pile of out-of-order glasses and plates and pointed at a mass of blankets standing far away. Leku helped me find a good enough plate and glass. Well, good enough meant a little tapped at the sides. The pile of blanket welcomed both of us with its unpleasant sweaty smell. That pile for sure hadn’t been washed since the British reign.

“You want to try one of these. You will end up with different kinds of skin irritations. Take one because all are the same and it’s a rule. But never use it” Leku advised.

 The ‘Righter’ was calling the ‘Amdanis’ to gather around him because he had to sort out a few problems.

“First thing’s first. Every one of you, need a proper place to sleep. But for that you need to pay. A thousand weekly will guarantee you a nice place and three thousand taka weekly will take you to a better place – the medical room. Now those of you unable to pay raise your hands.”

Even before the poor ones could raise their hands totally the ‘Righter’ jumped up, ran and kicked them out of the circle.

“Fuckers, you will stay wherever you are.”

Was it another lesson on ‘discipline’?

The ‘Righter’ sat down and looked at me, “Maley thakba naa golay thakba?”

The question was undecipherable so I just kept quite. “What’s wrong with you? Ai, somebody explain him what I just said.”

Leku came up and told me, “To stay in ‘Maley’ means to pay for it, and the second thing ‘Golay’… you wouldn’t like to know.”

“Tell, tell, what if that’s a profitable choice?”

“It isn’t. It means to indulge in nocturnal activities with him regularly as a payment. He is a homosexual.”

I remember replying “’Maley’ will be okay with me.”

Lunch wasn’t any better than the breakfast. Rice and ‘dal’ were for the normal days. The rice was the thrown away type and the ‘dal’ was watery without any flavour and often reminded me of pee. Two days had special items. On Friday it was beef. Just two kilogram of it would be brought in polythene and then spread out on the floor where it would be cut into tiny pieces strictly following Dalton’s Atomic Theory. It so happened that the pieces at last became the size of our tooth and each of us got two pieces to satisfy ourselves with. Fried fish of the worst kind, the fishes which are thrown away from the markets, traced its path to our tapped and twisted plates on Saturdays. Leku stopped being kind as days passed by.

One thousand taka didn’t actually offer me a better place to sleep. It was the same obnoxious place except for the fact that the ‘Righter’ lived in this hall. I still faced trouble and had to lie stiff during the nights. Moreover the lights were not to be switched off and in seven days time I had learnt to sleep with lights on and this habit has followed me out of the jail. Really old habits die hard but new habits build fast. But this was not all. There was no fan and the ventilators were too small even to let a sparrow come in. Every night I saw the toe-lickers of the ‘Righter’ fanning him with a special kind of fan made with ‘lungis’ and the ‘Righter’ would be mating, if that’s the proper word, with a person who chose ‘Golay’. More than twice he sent his disciples to fan me at night. Leku told me later that my young age had attracted that fellow. Even one morning the ‘Righter’ took the liberty of bringing me a few slices of proper bread and a bucket full of clean bathwater. Good look is such an important thing I felt then!

On the fourth day Bashar Bhai appeared and I imagined he had brought some luck with him. But he told me seriously, “We are in a mess. Since I couldn’t give the forty thousand you are here today. Anyway keep these biscuits, khala sent it for you. We haven’t lost hope yet.”

“Bashar bhai I need a thousand taka.”

As Bashar bhai was giving me the money, it was snatched away by the righter.

“Okay bye. Cheer up.” Bashar bhai left.

Just a lie of an officer was making me stand behind the bars. Just a few rough piece of papers, they call money, was the cure for my suffering. How unfair the world is! How merciless God is!

A tour within the building enriched my knowledge of prisons in the following days. The prison was not highly guarded and any Hollywood thief could break in and out of it easily. The building to the left was for the child prisoners. But amazingly it seemed there weren’t children inside that building but Satan’s many forms. All of them moved about naked and for what cause I never found out. We tried not to look at them because if they saw us looking, they would aim their excretory organs at us and pee. But whether we looked or not if they ever saw us they used to spit at us. Sometimes I spied on them and saw these devils indulged in sexual activities among themselves. Well all of it was discipline. I had expected at least some differences between the juniors and seniors but they turned out to be… you-know-what!

The bathroom was slippery, unwashed and filled with alien germs. I never dared to enter it except for once. Every prisoner was standing bare-bodied under their respective showers and scratching themselves. Their skin showed boils and red marks all over. This was the miserable result of the blankets. We had our own clothes to wear and most wore a ‘lungi’ and nobody ever washed this. But the convicts had their prison dresses. They went on wearing the same thing may be for years.

The building to the right of the prison was for the prisoners who were formerly working in the police department. They were the only peaceful, polite group among all. Their politeness could have been the product of shame and guilt which definitely didn’t work on any of us. But unfairly their politeness received rudeness in return. The prisoners from our building never forgot to abuse them or spit at them. This behaviour was probably the effect of neglect and hatred towards the police department.

Every willing prisoner was delivered heroine, marijuana and every kind of drugs by Mia Bhai if only they had the cash. The food that was brought by Bashar Bhai fell into the greedy clutches of the ‘Righter’ and he shared it with Leku who showed his annoying side for the first time. I was left only with a few cigarettes.

But fate smiled at me for the first time on the morning of the eighth day and I was released. Money or lawyer did not free me. It was a relative – my brother-in-law was a high official in the government and when he heard about me he was furious and prepared my release within a few minutes with a few calls. Mom’s sense of pride had kept the news hidden for so long.

Once I was standing outside the prison with Bashar Bhai by my side, a glance at it refreshed my memory of the seven days of justice. What was it all about? Did a little marijuana deserve so much suffering to go through? My consumption of marijuana was just a grain of sand compared to the amount of drugs that are delivered into these disciplined buildings. Is this how a person is refined and made better?

But the lessons learnt were of greater value than a stick of marijuana. God has vanished from the face of earth. Heaven is a mirage. Life is a stony path fit for money holders. The concrete structure in front of me was hell and Satan reigned there with his weapon – money.

I now am a chaser of money and respected because I no more take little marijuana, I consume heroine, cocaine and all the worst sort of things. There’s no police who can put me in and even if I am pushed into jail, I will become a ‘Righter’ because ‘to reign in hell is better than serving in heaven’.

Efadul Huq

A Series of Conclusions

Seldom do we put thoughts on the things that enormously influence our lives. See the world in a grain of sand they say. But even after traveling through a desert some learn nothing at all; perceive nothing unique; feel nothing different. This is a tale of un-thought conclusions. This is not what will surely happen. This is not what should happen. These are some of many possibilities and probabilities cropping up in my mind. And touching the keyboard with my finger-tip I can feel the storm brewing up underneath my scalp. If you are looking for a calming sea of thought then check out the other articles; because this is a brainstorm of utter vagueness, confusion and uncertainty.

Imagine mathematics classes, accounting, banking, private expenditure management, shop-keeping…without calculators. The reliability on calculators has become so huge that young kids use them to find out 10X10 and adults use it to find 1.2X2. Paper and pens are getting more holidays, which do a good job of maintaining less use of paper thereby felling fewer trees. Though the father scolds his son for using calculator to find 4X2.2, the father himself returns to use the calculator to find 8+73. So agreed or not, without calculators, our lives would have been unimaginably slow.

Imagine a week without wheels. The country would be crippled, putting a full stop to every journey of its inhabitants. The schedule, too hard to maintain, and two legs turning out insufficient! Maybe hand-walking will become the fashion of the day! Declaring holiday and going to sleep is what the lazy ones will be up for. The adamant ones would start walking first and then running. The priests, panicked by the abrupt commotion, may start yelling, “Qayamat is here!” But neither the unconscious nor the conscious shall be at peace. Sweet slumber will be torn away from their eyes by desperate cries of those on the streets. The BD sun is sure to heat up the situation a little more! Those who are used to traveling by air-conditioned wheels may unsurprisingly melt like ice-creams. The others (who usually laugh away) will lack time and energy to laugh at them. Some religious fanatics will start racing up and down the streets setting everything on fire; helping God in His work! The fantastic boyfriend will end up failing to place the fabulous girlfriend on his back and gallop away with a Pulsar. The cool, young business personnel, heir of an empire ending up walking on the road dressed in his best attire will make the headline. Vegetables and food items rotting in the storeroom will impart terrible stench. Newspapers will be least circulated that day. Maybe that same day some bright buddy would come up with the plan of a teleport machine since necessity is the father of invention. In place of coins, people will have to pay with their sweat for the travel. Storekeepers are guaranteed to pull the price of goods to the peak of Himalaya. When everybody from every sector will have used up their money trying to live the life they once lived, the week may end leaving the country economically drained. However the silver lining (ironically) is, there will be no headache yielding bellyache of the country – traffic jam amidst all that!

Imagine a day without Internet. The playboy living around the corner will wail for not being able to send love e-mail to the girl next door. But photographers will finally get some credit since the ‘chors’ won’t get to download images from Google. The nerd may fail to answer the difficult question since he will definitely not receive the everyday Internet dose of information, which is always better explained with animation. The wider world will seem like some other planet to the reporters. The overseas correspondents will be happy; enjoying a day off. All the computers may be shut down because as blood is to body, so is Internet to computer. The music worm will curse around in the hippy style, in agony of not getting to see the latest top chart and hear some of the new-released numbers. The movie freak will wonder which movie hall to peep into. But he certainly will remain clueless without the reviews on the net. Even those nincompoop reviewers will have the worst day of their writing-life without the helping hand of Internet reviews. Some girlfriends’ hearts may crack at not receiving mails from the distant Romeo. Some fathers’ business may fail at not getting to sit on a meeting via web-cam. Some mothers’ eyes may run diarrhea (in the nicest possible sense) at not hearing the voice of their children over the voice calls. Maybe some politicians will call for a strike for the compensation of not getting to chat with their counter-parts in other countries. But the caretaker government will come to the rescue, turning up with heavy artillery to fix the internet connection and putting the freaks behind bars! McAfee may lose the battle against Trojan that day without its supply of daily updates. Are those the only things? NO! The gamer will dive into desperate gloom of not catching a glimpse of the new release (sob…sob). This day may even become of historical importance. Obviously the day will make some cheater-cocks honest and some honest folks angry. But, at least for a day – a single day, the wide Internet pornography would be left alone!

Imagine a second without your pet music players be it mp3 or mobile or radio today! Mathematics practice will be pointless without the earphones hanging on the ears. A ride on the wheels may become incredibly boring without them. Workplaces would have pained you to death if the music players hadn’t come for the rescue. There will be nothing to brag about if our tech pets were to vanish someday. The volume of the monster music player at home HAS to be raised up even when I go for pee, poo or bath. It is fair enough to say that music has forged a metallic chain to our souls and that can’t be undone. Like clothes they give us a dazzling appearance, lending rhythm to our otherwise monotonous lives. Tapping of feet or winking of eyes all happen in accord to the tune of that thingy stuck to your hip and remember hips don’t lie. If you are hanging your buddy by your hip you are being the most truthful music lover. Cupid prefers love songs over arrows nowadays! A good romantic song often wins you a friend and partner. There’s not a group in the society who doesn’t listen to music. Those who can’t afford mp3s make sure to buy portable radio players which look quite like mp3s. And with the radio stations galloping away with amazing musical-power, radios are a better choice.

What may happen if these beloved possessions were to disappear someday? Leaving the culminating effect of the storm on you!

As for me to sum up the situation, I want to dedicate a poem to them:

Beloved comrade

On my hand

At my nail tips

What can I say?

Wonderful – you make me feel

Through lonely nights and busy days

On imparting love and sheltering sorrow

For giving so much and taking just bit of electricity

In deed and

In need

You have been a friend indeed

Efadul Huq