A few years ago, the writer Anisul Haq wrote on his Facebook post, ‘When a writer can’t write, the days and nights before writing become bloody within, as if someone is cutting their heart with a blade. No one will ever see, understand, or speak of this pain. There is no one as lonely and sorrowful as a creative person…’ After reading these words, I was quite disoriented for a few days. My mind felt restless and agitated, I don’t know why. Now, I’m going through the same phase again. My mind is unsettled, completely unable to write. Especially that one line, ‘There is no one as lonely and sorrowful as a creative person’, it had shattered me, reduced me to pieces at that time. Whenever I remember these words, I feel like humans are incredibly alone. No one belongs to anyone in this world. I realized how deeply a single line from a writer can resonate within you.
Yesterday morning, I drove alone for a long time, feeling a sense of restlessness. I don’t know what was causing this unrest, why I was so restless. I was observing the changing nature around me; how beautifully nature had adorned itself. The leaves had turned various hues of red, yellow, and pink. Nature has a profound impact on my mind. It makes me feel so sad. At that time, my wife, children, relatives, and friends – it felt like they weren’t mine. I had nothing to do with any of them…
I too am a creative person. But I create in my imagination. I can drift away into the realm of imagination. It’s easy for me to imagine, and no one needs to know. I’ve been like this since childhood. In my imagination, I wanted to be many things. I wanted to be a boatman, a launch captain, a footballer, a tailor, a cinema hall gatekeeper, a hockey player, a striker like Salahuddin, or a hero like Rajjak. In my imagination, I also wanted to be a writer. When I was in school, I used to borrow books by Nihar Ranjan, Falguni, Nimai, Tarasankar, Bimal Mitra, and Ashutosh from the Barisal Public Library and read them. I would imagine myself writing like them. Books fueled my imagination. Since then, I felt like I had many dreams, many imaginations, but no one to share them with. So, I decided I would write. I would write and read it myself. I would be both the writer and the reader.
I grew up feeling very awkward. Compared to others, I was a bit of an outlier. I still am. I get upset over the smallest things. If someone is rude to me, if someone cheats me, if someone hurts me, or if someone is cunning with me, I break down in pain. But I can’t protest. I understand everything. I have deep observations. But I can’t take any action. I can never ask for anything. No one ever gives me anything. So I’ve learned that I’ll never get anything. I realized this from childhood. My mother used to say, ‘Even a mother won’t give milk if you don’t ask, do you understand? You’ll be ruined if you’re so meek.’ My mother was illiterate, but she understood me, very well. No one understands their children like a mother does.
When I can’t express myself, my insides feel like they’re bleeding, as if someone is cutting my heart with a blade. A little older, at about sixteen, I became a dropout. In the evenings, I would go to Sadar Road. I would sit by Bibi’s pond. Or I would go to Thirthy Godown. I would watch the Kirtan Khola river, go to the stadium to watch football matches. Standing near the goalpost, I would think about how the goalkeeper, like a striker’s shot, caught the ball with such skill, as if it were his own child. Sometimes, if my mother sent me to the market to buy something, I would buy two paise worth of chana (chickpeas) and eat them slowly, as if to keep myself busy on the way. In the evenings, I would take my friend Shankar and ride our bicycles to the Medical College doctors’ quarters. I would imagine that the beautiful daughters of the doctors were probably looking at me, that I didn’t look bad. In reality, they didn’t even notice me. My clothes were such that girls wouldn’t pay attention. Who would look at someone wearing a dirty shirt and sandals?
I went to Chittagong once after many years. I went to Chittagong Club guest house. There one afternoon someone discovered me in the club restaurant.
He surprised me and said, you are not Jassim!
I was instantly transported to the distant past. Looks so familiar! Yes, that’s the girl. This look is unforgettable. Love is embedded in the mind. This girl used to smile at me as I cycled through the medical college quarters. I used to shy away and turn my face away. After that I met this girl a few times in BM college. Talked twice. This girl was the center of attention of the youth of the city then.
you are Maya
Yes, you know it.
What is there to know? I remember everything.
I have read your writing.
No writing!
You wrote about me. Maya story.
i smiled So or not!
I didn’t think it would be like this.
It is written in the book “Starry fire filled night”.
I know, I bought the book.
One day suddenly I decided to leave Barisal. I don’t know why to leave. The city is so beautiful, the city of dreams, so green, so beautiful, so many illusions, so many memories, so much tension, one penny or two penny account where someone wants to leave that city! But where to go! Just like one day I thought I would leave this country! Bangladesh is so beautiful where I have my friends, my relatives, my mother, there are stories of struggle. There is love, there is not getting it. Everything is there. What is not! Despite that, I left this country one day. One day I left Barisal. Leaving Barisal was difficult for me. It was like jumping into extreme uncertainty and darkness. I knew that if I left Barisal, I would be alone. I will be destitute. Maybe go to Dhaka and spend the night at Farmgate Overbridge. I will sing in my heart ‘.. the city of Dhaka is Aisa Amar Asha Puraiche…’ In fact, I don’t know where the shelter will be.
One day I said to my mother, mother, I will go to Dhaka.
Mom looked at me in disbelief. He said, what to do after going to Dhaka.
I don’t know what to do. I will study, if not I will try any job.
Who will pay the cost of education!
I don’t know that.
Where to stay there, what to eat.
I don’t know either.
Don’t need to go. Saying this, mother started crying.
But I’m the type of person who will do whatever comes into my head. I will not think about anything before. I got into my head I’ll leave…
Mother said, insects are entering your head.
yes mom
Khali called a dove on his head. can’t go anywhere I will not get a single rupee.
don’t need
After coming to Dhaka, I joined the university and started trying for a job. I went to a couple of places for a job but it didn’t work. Who will give me a job! I don’t know anything in Dhaka city, nobody knows me either. I had only one or two friends. Apple is one of them. I’ll write what’s going on in my head. That is why I came to Dhaka. i want to write I want to see from the authors of the dream. I want to touch and see how the writers are. But I can’t tell anyone that. This can be said to anyone! No one can be told that one can leave home to become a writer.
When I came to Dhaka, I started swimming in a huge ocean. No one anywhere. The shells of dead snakes are lying like smoke bales. But hope in the chest. One day I went to Barisal as the amount of money in my pocket ran out. Mom is very happy.
No more going to Dhaka. Start going to college.
I said, mother give me some money. Never again. This is the end.
Mother gave money. I came back to Dhaka. Mother could not stop. By that time admission is done. But I didn’t get a seat. At Gopi Bagh, I got up in a mess and started tutoring two young children. I am terrible as a tutor. It seems that the children’s parents soon realized that.
Talking one day, Bani Apa said, do you write?
I smiled shyly and said, “Eito Tukitaki”.
I read a story about you in the newspaper.
From then on he began to look at me with considerable affection. One day I said, I don’t want to do tutoring anymore. You don’t mind. I’m not good as a teacher.
Well don’t have to. what to do then
If I get a seat, I will get up.
How will it go?
don’t know I will work in the newspaper.
Then I was in contact with this wonderful family for a long time and they stood by me during my difficult days.
Concluding with Jibanananda’s poem,
“Life-Raba is pulling the angry stick!
In the distance, the petals of Madhumalati are falling in the sky, –
The daylight is extinguished,
– I am at the door of life and death, who lives better
I’m dying to think about it alone!”
Toronto, Canada
