A Tourist

Banglay lekhar chorcha ta onekdin dhorei nai.....so seeking forgiveness in advance.

A Tourist

This happened 4-5 years ago. I was coming back home after a hectic business trip. It was an Emirates flight, which meant that things were more comfortable at economy class than many other airline's business class.

I am not the kind of person who usually indulges in conversation with strangers. My way of spending long, lonely flights is through listening to music or watching a movie or two, and only taking a break when food arrives.

However, that day, I had to change my ways. The guy who sat beside me was exceptionally chatty. He inquired about my profession, background and what not! I found him quite intrusive and started judging him a bit.

But then he told me his story. He was a US citizen and was running his own, small business. He made a fortune and was having the time of his life in his mid 30s. When he thought things couldn't get any better, he met the girl of his dreams.

Both of them felt a connection unlike anything they felt before. Things started advancing like a movie. In no time, they had their fifty first dates, moved in together and within six months, they got engaged.

Unfortunately, just like the movie their life was, one fateful day he came back early to give the love of his life a surprise; only to discover her entwined with his best friend in a very compromising and improper position. She tried giving some lame excuses, that she was sad, drunk and he was only trying to console her. He really wanted to believe her, and he believed her, too.

I don't know why this stranger was sharing his story with me, but me being a good listener, did not interrupt.

I thought there was going to be a happy ending to this story, but I also knew there won't be.

He caught her having sex with that same person just a few days before they were "supposed" to get married, and that was a very traumatizing event for him. He cancelled the wedding, sold off his business and went in to recluse.

The next few months were a blur. He was spiraling down a path of no return. Drugs and alcohol became his best friends, and his bank balance kept on shrinking.

Until one day he just couldn't do this to himself anymore. He got up, checked his remaining bank balance, and went out on a world tour.

He deliberately choose the cheapest destinations, and also places where it was, as per his own words, "difficult to stay connected".

After hearing this, the mood of the conversation changed drastically. I converted myself from the passive listener to a very active participant. I told him everything I knew about Dhaka, and Bangladesh. Places to see, food to eat, people to meet, things to do, and what not? He was asking one question and I was answering five.

In no time, the flight was over and the jet was ready to disembark. I gave him my card and ask him to call me if he ever needed any help. He wanted to stay for a whole month. He told me that "If I am not staying for a month, I cannot live the life". He did the same thing in Nepal, Thailand and intended to follow his self made ritual in Bangladesh, too.

While giving him the business card, I saw his eyes making a specific motion, and I knew he will never "connect" with me, and this was going to be the last time I will talking to him.

I advertised my country to him with a lot of heart. I believe I managed to convert his skepticism to curiosity. I gave my two hundred percent to convince him that he made the right call to visit the country which boasts places like Coxsbazar, Sundarbans, Kuakata and St. Martins.

That was five years ago. If I had this trip right now, would I be able to endorse my country like that?

Not sure, not after what happened on 2nd July. I hope I will be able to change my stance soon.

Poked By The Ball

The door has a vivid poster on it. The top line is written in a font bigger than the rest. A nice, shiny "I", followed by the not so ceremonious and yet overused word "Shit" is written. Below the I'shit, we can see "ON PEOPLE" written in all caps; giving out an air of arrogance and pride. By now, it was clear to Steve that this ought to be the office of the head honcho. 

But I'shit was not the end of it. There was this interesting graphic image which is popular and well distributed via forwarded emails. There's a tall multi-branched tree in the poster. A big bird is sitting on the top branch, and all other birds are sitting in branches below him. Each bird below the big bird has their heads covered with "white stuff", which has striking resemblance with bird excreta. 

While he was taking a good look at the poster and wondering his next step, Steve heard a loud glass shattering noise and a yelp. Before he could react, a suit clad bulky guy shoved him aside and ran past him like a rocket gone haywire. 

He didn't get enough time to recover from this "heavy" interruption. He heard someone yelling "I am gonna kill that fucking faggot." Steve quickly redirected his vision towards the source of the cursing, and found an intimidating person holding an empty glass. He was wearing a polo t-shirt, which once was dry and ironed, but now it seemed completely wet. Beneath his legs, Steve saw a puddle of liquid substance and the remnants of a broken bottle. 

Steve, being the analytic he is, quickly added two plus two and inferred that the olympic runner is the  source of this carnage, and now the t-shirt guy wants to kill him. 

"What are you looking at you dumbshit?" Boomed the t-shirt guy.

Steve, despite of being a self conscious, confident and proud person, stammered back "I err, umm....I'm here to see Mr. Randy". 

"The hell you are. He's wasted. Don't bother knocking. Wait a while and you will be called", came the reply. 

Suddenly Steve felt a poking pain in his head, and saw a small plastic ball in front of him. Once again, his analytic mind told him that he has just been poked by the ball in the head. It is like having spider sense, thought Steve! Always being conscious about the surroundings. Dad said I'd be dumb if I don't take notice of the surroundings.

He looked around and found an extremely cute young girl smiling at him from a short distance. She was batting her eyelashes and looking at him intently through the pink spectacles she was wearing. The big glasses made her look a bit comical, but her revealing clothes, enticing smile and playful looks were distracting enough to kill any comedy element in the whole situation. 

What sounded like a barking dog with a distorted vocal chord came out as another yell from the t-shirt dude--"You fucking slut, what the fuck do you think you are doing? Get your ass back to work and leave that pussy alone"!

Steve was awestruck. He couldn't recall another half an hour where he was called dumbshit and pussy in quick succession. When he used to wear the sombrero and wield the dual beretta's, he would have blasted anyone who dared insult him in this manner. He put both of his hands inside his pockets and gave the guy a nasty glare.

Then he remembered. He only wore sombreros in his dreams. While awake, he finds them stupid and he also hates anyone Mexican, Spaniard or the whole lot of Latinos. He considers them lazy, pathetic lying cheating and stealing beings whom are infesting the united states of 'merica with their silly attires and retarded gestures. All of them should die the way Eddie got eaten up. 

He didn't realize it, but his hand-pocketing made an impression. The t-shirt guy looked concerned, and his right hand was moving towards a button on the wall. Steve's patience had worn out by then. Gone, exhausted, and not to be refilled anytime soon.

He shouted in his Bee Gees voice (yeah, the voice that was common for two of the brothers, the third one had a different one)-"You stupid cunt. Don't even dare touching that button!". 

The girl with next to no clothes had her mouth open; instantly. The gaping hole created a gap through which a piranha or a baby elephant could jump inside. Well, maybe not a real elephant, but a stuffed variant would easily go through. 

At that exact moment, Steve noticed that everyone in the room was looking at him intently, and there were actually 4-5 others in the room. Every eye was fixated upon his pocketed arms, with a look of fear and trepidation, and there was actually pin drop silence. 

Suddenly, heavy footsteps were heard. What seemed like an army entering ended with the loud door crashing entrance of the "fucking faggot", as termed by the t-shirt guy. He came in and was just going to say something, and then he saw our "arm-pocketed" hero. 

His open mouth stayed open, as his slow brain slowly processed the situation. It seemed to him that someone is here to rob the bank, and he amused the audience by making another quick exit. 

At that moment, Steve got deprived of the opportunity to take a look at the I'shit poster for the first time since he entered this "office". The door opened with a loud creaking noise, and a tiny man came out of the door. He was dressed in black; a black suit, a black tie, black shoes and a black hat. He even had a black mustache.  He looked surprisingly similar to John Larkin, but this guy, the "head honcho" seemed a lot smaller. 

He gave a questioning look at Steve, and instantly realized the tensed situation in the room. He was also going to open his mouth, but Steve interrupted.

"Don't bother opening that fucking hole. I've seen my share of open mouthed morons today". 

So he complied. Steve said "Are you Randy?"

"Umm no, but my name is. Who's asking?"

"I am Steve. I have an interview with you which was supposed to start 30 odd minutes ago. These moronic cohorts of yours held me up from getting in"

Randy smiled meekly. 

"Oh, hello Steve. When can you join?"

"What the fuck do you mean?"

"Yes, I am making you the boss of these assholes. They are now your moronic cohorts. You listen up buddy! They are now your problem, I will get back to sleep now."

Leaving Steve perplexed, Randy got back to his office leaving behind a loud bang and a tough job. 

"What are you looking at, you scums? Get your asses back to work and someone fetch that fat dumbfuck that ran away." shouted Steve, and there started a new era in stark naked industries....the world's weirdest office. 

"Sigh, and I didn't even talk about the paid vacations!"

The Road To Utopia: The Peaceful One

Suddenly it started raining. Rainfall in a desert is rare, but not unheard of. As the afternoon was fading away slowly, the gas pump owner stretched his legs and yawned in his comfortable armchair. He looked at the wall clock and realized that within an hour or two, he will be surrounded by complete darkness. He knew he was supposed to get up, perform wudu and say his prayers. But for some reason, he decided to spend a bit more time listening to the drizzling rain. 

His assistant Alam did not show up this morning, which forced him to get up from his usual, comfortable seat and to go to the pump to refill the fuel tanks of peaceful and restless voyagers. But after the last restless one left, there hasn't been a vehicle for over an hour, and considering the usual trend, he doubted the arrival of any new cars. 

He closed his eyes, and peace surrounded him in all ways and means possible. To enhance the feel good factor, he extended his long arms and opened the drawer at the back of his seat. The drawer is part of a six storied archive cabinet. The ipod was not supposed to be stored in that cabinet, but he remembered putting it inside hastily when he was dozing off (just like now) yesterday and suddenly a peaceful customer arrived.

"Who am I judge whether a customer is peaceful or enraged?" He thought. 

The sweet sensation of holding the ipod touch and finding the earphones entangled with it compares to few good feelings on earth. He disentangled the entangled wire and instantly put the earphone in his ears. Years of encountering and practicing has made disentangling the entangled wires an easy task for him. He remembered spending difficult times and overusing the F word towards earphone makers during the times when he was younger and life was difficult because one had to carry walkmans and diskmans instead of ipod, zens and zunes. 

 "But then again, life never reached the zenith of difficulty where I was forced to carry a zune" 

 The sweet nylong stringed sound, coupled with the more contemporary steel string guitar playing sound filled his ear with peace, enjoyment and a nice loving feeling engulfed him within minutes. As he kept on listening to Roseland, a great, exhilarating song--he thought he'd drift off to sweet slumber. It was a sweet summer day.

Sweet summer day 

Talking about a sweet summer day

Take your troubles and let them fly away

Suddenly a whistling sound broke the trance. He was in a blissful state, the last minute before falling in peaceful sleep. His whole body jerked while he took out the ear phones and turned off the ipod. His body was mildly shaking, conscience still not clear and he was still in between the land of dreams and reality. As the whistling tune of Wind of Change kept playing, he remembered changing his ring tone last night. 

He hastily picked up the phone, and realized that the call was from Alam. He never calls from his home or his own cellphone. In fact, the gas pump owner doesn't even know whether Alam has a cellphone or not. He never saw him using one during work, and he only remember seeing his land phone number in the curriculum vitae that is stored in Alam's personnel file, which is securely stored in that same six storied cabinet. 

Even before Alam started speaking, he knew that he was going to deliver one of his famous cooked up excuses for leaving work.

"I must start paying him on a daily basis so that he can't take these casual leaves frequently"

Alam kept on speaking about the dead rattlesnake that was found in his bed this morning, and how his wife was traumatized. In his Arab like thick English accent, he kept on apologizing profusely, and let him know that only a dumb Arabian woman would confuse a loin clothe as a rattle snake and freak out. He said he can come now and make it a half day's work or give his wife company and apply for a non-paid leave tomorrow, although the major portion of the day has ended. 

"Now that's surprising", thought the owner. "Alam wants to consume one of his annual leaves. That's news to me"

 He granted his wish, and decided that he, too, should call it a day. After all, daylight will go away soon and leaving the gas pump open during sunless hours is not only pointless, but also scary. With Chris Rea singing in his ears, the pump owner proceeded to reverse the open/close signboard. As soon as he held the sign, he heard a loud, screeching noise....

The Road to Utopia: The Restless One

Sometimes he feels a terrible emptiness. As if time has stopped. He fears the next moment. He is not sure whether he is annoyed or irritated, afraid or reckless--he just doesn't want the next moment to come. He wishes he could Medusa-stare the clock and make it freeze. When communication is patterned and single channeled, things don't get resolved. The other person, being so close by relationship stays far away through their actions and chosen path of communication. You can reach the same destination by taking a peaceful walk or by continuously honking the horn and alarming the pedestrians. The end of the road might be the same for the peaceful walker and the frenzied driver, but the way they arrive to their final destination might make a lot of difference. The peaceful walker will be refreshed, recharged and happy. He will be able to enjoy the amenities of the destination he has reached with utmost peace. But the other guy will remain restless. He will not linger his break. He will continuously look at his watch, and will frantically track the ticking away of time.

"How are you brother?" "I'm so so" "How was your journey?" "It was ok" "What's your next destination?" "Do you really need to know?" "I really don't need to know, but I am curious" "Well, to hell with your curiosity. Refill my tanks and let me be on my way. I am running short of time"

At this point of time, the humble owner of a gas pump in the middle of nowhere is somewhat confused and bemused. Everyday, he meets hundreds of travelers, and this frantic one is not the first frantic one he has met. And yet, every time, a specimen like him appears, and makes him wonder. What is the true purpose of life? All this speed and hastiness, running and jumping around, restlessness and panic--how does it all boil down? No matter how active a life you live, all activities can cease within seconds. All this madness and stuff. Only bubbles waiting to burst, aren't they? But I am not a philosopher. I am just a gas pump owner.  He obliges and quickly refills the fuel tank of the restless one. He drives away with his heavy duty Ford Mustang car, leaving behind a irritating mixture of dust and smoke. As the roaring screeches of the tires die, the gas pump owner awaits his next customer.

The Rude Awakening

“Almost heaven, west Virginia.”

The words seemed familiar to Allan. He yawned and tried to remember the song. Is it a Bob Dylan song? “Nah, that can’t be. Dylan has a much more nasal sound! As if the guy’s been suffering from cold forever. It can’t be John Lennon either. The lyrics seem too simple for him. But I know this song belongs to some “John”. Must be lil’ john. Lil’ John was a Robin Hood guy, and a rapper, too”.

 Allan felt a sharp pain in his head. “I’m thinking too much and too hard”. He reached for his head and felt a hat.

A magical bulb lit up and Allan suddenly remembered! The song was sung by John Denver!

“I’m a Barbie girl….like a plastic, it’s fantastic….”

“Ugh, not that song!”

Allan gritted his teeth and looked around for the source of the sound. His eyes caught sight of the boom box placed inside the shop, and before he knew what he was doing, he pointed his hand (or at least that’s what he thought) and shouted “Shut it off”. A well-endowed girl came out of the Taco Bell outlet to address the commotion—wanting to shout at the trouble maker, but she ended up bursting in laughter.

Following her gaze, Allan realized that he was dressed in a nun’s habit and he was brandishing naked Barbie doll like a sword.

“Note to self”, thought Allan—“Never mess with a nun again”. 

Rude Awakening Draft 1

WWUSF Contest--Week 4

And that is how he came to awake in the alley behind the Taco Bell, 400 miles away from where he last remembered being, wearing a nun's habit and clutching a naked Barbie doll.

“Almost heaven, west Virginia, blue ridge mountain, Shenandoah river….life is old there, older than the tree, younger than the mountain…”

The words seemed vaguely familiar to Allan. He yawned and tried to remember the song. Is it a Bob Dylan song? Nah, that can’t be, he thought. Dylan has a much more nasal sound—as if the guy’s been suffering from cold forever. It can’t be John Lennon either. The lyrics seem too simple to be penned by John. But I think this song is sung by some “John”. Little John? Or was it Lil’ John?

Must be lil’ john. Oh wait! Little John was a Robin Hood guy and Lil’ John is a rapper. At this moment, Allan felt a sharp pain in his head. “I’m thinking too much and too hard, he thought”. His hands slowly reached his head and he felt the presence of a hat.

“What the hell! I don’t remember wearing this! Hell I haven’t even saw a nun since I left Denver 6 months ago. “

As if a magical light bulb started emitting a brilliant while light and Allan suddenly remembered that the song was sung by John Denver, who shares his last name with Denver the last dinosaur.

“Damn, I feel wasted. My head is completely messed up. Otherwise, why would I compare John Denver with Denver the last dinosaur? Wait, what’s that infernal noise?”

“I’m a Barbie girl, in a Barbie world, like a plastic, it’s fantastic….”

“Ugh, not that song!”

Allan gritted his teeth and looked around for the source of the sound. His eyes caught sight of the boom box placed inside the shop, and before he knew what he was doing, he pointed his hand (or at least that’s what he thought) and shouted “Shut it off”. A lusciously curvy latino chica came out of the shop to address the commotion—her eyes flashing with a combination of anger and amusement, but her mood quickly converted to absolute amusement and she burst out in laughter.

Her laughter seemed like the beautifully serene sound of a splashing waterfall, and she was looking at the raised hand of Allan. Following her gaze, Allan realized that he was dressed in a nun’s attire, wearing the stupid black and white colors, and his hand is brandishing a naked Barbie doll. It could have been a stick, a pole, a rod, a gun, heck..it could even be a dragonstring wand, but no, it had to be a naked Barbie doll. 

Greeting, not Gritting!

Dear XYZ,

I'm sending this to ask you for a brief recommendation of my work that I can include in my LinkedIn profile. If you have any questions, let me know.

Thanks in advance for helping me out.

-Insert name of the requester here

This is a standard Linkedin template for asking people for recommendations. To be superfluous, Linkedin is the business oriented brethren of facebook with a lot less (garbage) and a lot more (networking tools). Receiving and giving recommendations is a core part of the linkedin experience, where people usually write very nice stuff about others with the hope to get the same in return.

A person has recently sent me one of these emails. I feel pity for these emails because they try to sound personal, but they aren't. Secondly, people often send these emails in batches, i.e. to everyone in their contact list which further diminishes the personal touch.

In today's era of auto completing forms, pre-made templates and bot generated emails, it is sometimes too much to expect a personalized email even from your close friends. The impersonal email phenomenon has stretched its evil aura of influence in to short messaging service, too.

Once upon a time not too long ago, SMS was treated as the most personal and surefire way of one to one communication. I remember hearing people say "the sound of SMS receipt cannot be ignored or missed by mortal beings--people might ignore calls, delete emails without reading them or burn direct marketing snail mails, but they are bound to read SMSs delivered to their cell phones.

Well, does the above still hold true? Not really. Thanks to spamming in the name of SMS marketing, people are getting bombarded with promotional short messages from dusk till dawn. However, that's not a big problem, nor is the tradition of sending SMS to the customers is unheard of. In fact, most other Asian telecom operators send more SMS to their customers than our operators send.

But the problem is, along with the plethora of impersonal SMS and emails being exchanged, we are getting used to this impersonal style of communication. Every year during festivals, I get a number of SMS from friends, colleagues, contacts and acquaintances. Not a single of them seems addressed to me. You ask me why, and I am telling you why.

A person who never addresses me anything but buddy sends a message stating "May you and your family be blessed with blessings on this blissful occasion- Mr. XYZ, doing ABC job". It's a dead giveaway--you have been hit by a carbon copy (!).

Once native to email clients like Eudora and Outlook, CC culture is paralyzing SMS now. Long time ago an operator launched a fancy service called "group SMS" which had the capability of sending 10 people from your contact list the same message in one go. Charging could be done individually (i.e. X amount per message delivered) or an overall group rate could be imposed.

But due to the arrival of advanced phones, that service has lost its charm. Nowadays one can easily CC the same message to everyone in his contact list. This means a meager 255 from the SIM or virtually unlimited contacts from the phone can get your "blissful blessings" message within a short time frame, and to make it even better, one recipient will not never know who else got the same message, which is in contrast to email CC where everyone in CC can see each other’s email addresses.

Just like the recommendation seeking Linkedin email, the content of these messages are impersonal, boring, and they give out an essence of "doing something that needs to be done instead of doing something that feels good to do".

The psychology behind these messages is mostly linked with the need to remain connected. A quick analysis of the messages I received during Eid this year tells me that the highest number of messages came from business partners, followed by lesser known acquaintances and a few stragglers, err strangers (!).

Surprisingly, I received similar messages from some family members and friends, too. I know life is busy and it’s busier during Eid holidays, but it doesn't take more than a minute to write a personal message. This year, I tried sending personal messages to some near and dear ones whom I couldn't meet. The result was pleasant.

I received wholehearted and relevant thank you replies. When I sent them greetings, I tried to make the messages sound as personal as they can be. I wrote stuff that an auto-generated or templated message can never convey.

Our life is hectic, and we are alarmingly becoming robotic as the days are rolling. To put an end to this miserable situation, we should keep no stones unturned, and every opportunity of bringing back the days of adda and casual conversations (the real Social Networking) should be availed.

By the way, what I really want to write as a recommendation to the person mentioned in the beginning of this article is this:

"I know ABC from my university days. No matter how hard I tried to avoid him by switching phone numbers and changing email addresses, he has managed to keep contact. During our brief time together as classmates, I've seen him as a slacker, a bad influence and a horribly uncouth person. He never tucked his shirt or t-shirt, and he could never avoid the influence of local dialects while speaking in Bangla or English. Despite of being a senior student, it took him more than six years to complete his undergraduate degree. He has a great skill of bragging; he never runs out of fresh new stories about his special exploitations and escapades. I wonder how he ended up as a business graduate, and to make it further amazing, he is now holding a respectable (!) job in a reputed (!!) organization. I wish him all the best, but I feel pity for the organization at who's expense the well-being of Mr. XYZ is being achieved."

I also got a blissful and blessing-filled Eid greeting from him, too, but I felt like gritting instead of being greeted.

Wrote this article a few days after Eid Ul Fitr 2011.

After Abstinence Come Celebrations

I wrote this article on request from a good friend of mine who works in The Independent. This version (that got published) was heavily edited and it only contains 30% of what I originally envisioned. After submitting the first draft, I was asked to modify the article to a certain extent, i.e. to make it shorter and to include more happier stuff.

Thus I came up with a second version with more happier elements and less amount of doom and gloom. I was told that this version would be published without much editing.

However, when I collected the physical newspaper, I found out that 50% of the 2nd draft was modified and I can barely recognize my own writing! Almost everything, including the title has been changed. The key ideas from my original draft is still there, but the sarcasms and puns have mostly been removed.

I belief the nation deserves to know the truth, and thus I will be posting my first two drafts in subsequent posts.

No one might read these now, but I am sure 50 years down the line, someone from my lineage will stumble upon this blog and get to know how we lived our lives in Dhaka.

Tales Of Dhaka CIty Roads

This article has been published in The Independent's Weekend magazine:
http://theindependentbd.com/weekly-independent/49569-tales-of-dhaka-city-roads.html

I observed a very unusual incident a few days ago. A young guy was talking on the cellphone while riding his bike. One cannot really imagine how this feat can be achieved unless seen by own eyes. To make things more incredible, he was actually using his one hand to attach the cell phone with his right ear while trying to maintain balance with his solitary unoccupied hand. Result—he stumbled in front of a car and almost got hit by the rickshaw I was riding. The guy had a minor fall and I gave him a friendly advice – “Brother please don’t use the cellphone while driving”. My words did not register in his ears; he did not even look at me. He simply got up, set his cycle on the street, gave a meek smile and within no time, I saw him repeating the same activity. Soon he had to slow down again to avoid getting hit by another speeding vehicle.

This is an extreme example of the roadside hazards that we face everyday in our beloved Dhaka city.  Thanks to the bread earning job, everyday I have to make two mandatory travels—one in the morning and the other after sunset. Apart from these, I also have to do those small strolls and extended rides to satisfy various needs during the day time.

In my opinion, pedestrians and rickshawpullers are the prime reason behind traffic jams and accidents in Dhaka city. Almost everyday, we have to exercise rock’ n roll dance moves in our car in order to save the lives of a pedestrian or two.

Let me paint an everyday picture for a better understanding. Imagine you are driving your car at normal speed on a typical Dhaka evening. Car movement is slow due to dense traffic. Suddenly you notice that there is a significant gap between you and the next car ahead. Naturally, you would want to speed up to cover the distance. However, it is almost biblical that a stray pedestrian will want to utilize the gap and run to cross the road. So what happens is that you have to break hard, make some deafening tire screeching noise and stop the car “just” before hitting the adventurous jaywalker.

Now you just stopped yourself from killing an innocent. Innocent, is he? No, he is not.

He did not assess the traffic situation before attempting to cross the road. He failed to notice the incoming, speeding cars. He is totally irresponsible to both himself, his family and everyone around. He nearly killed himself, and it is only because of your extraordinary braking skill and driving finesse he can still glare at you unharmed. It is only natural that he will shout out obscenities at you for being a “mad, people killing” driver while you will be in a bewildered state.
The pedestrian walks away unharmed, but you, the driver, continue to remain grumpy and shaken. He just “unmade” your day. For the remainder of the journey, you tend to be over cautious and slow. This causes you severe annoyance to the other drivers on the road. They get impatient by your slow driving and make it a holy quest to show you the way “it is done”. For the remainder of your journey, all you hear is deafening honking of varied horns at the back. 

According to everyone’s trusted friend Wikipedia, a vehicle horn is a sound-making device used to warn others of the approach of the vehicle or of its presence. However, I am quite sure that once overused, the “warning” part of the definition turns in to “annoying”. Actually a vehicle horn becomes a sound making device that is used to annoy others.

It seems that drivers are always keeping a hand on the horns just to annoy pedestrians and other drivers on the roads. The relentless honking of several kinds of horns (ranging from hare krishna hare raam type sounds to vuvuzela imitators) will make even the most ardent heavy metal fan’s ears revolt. It is a mystery how we, the Dhaka city dwellers are still eluding deafness. Or are we? Maybe there is some unpublished statistic that shows that on average, 80% of the city dwellers are already suffering from some kind of hearing imparity.

And these are just a few examples of what goes on in the streets of Dhaka....

Monopoly: An Age old Dilemma

This is an article that I recently wrote for banglalink's internal newsletter, "The Roar". It was published in the 4th issue (December 09). People working in banglalink are likely to relate to the article more, but others can enjoy, too.

Monopoly: An Age old Dilemma

The first time I heard about Monopoly was when I got the board game as a birthday gift. I absolutely loved the game; I remember spending long hours buying and selling properties and having lots of fun in the process. However, it wasn’t until I studied micro economics in university that I realized the true meaning of monopolization. That, too, was merely theoretical knowledge involving some graphs and fancy facts. If we consult wikipedia for the definition of monopoly, we can easily figure out that Monopoly is rarely a favorable situation for the consumer:

“A monopoly exists when a specific individual or an enterprise has sufficient control over a particular product or service to determine significantly the terms on which other individuals shall have access to it”. In summary, having one company providing a particular product or service can’t be beneficial for the mass because the monopoly company will have absolute authority over the pricing and distributing of that particular product or service. However, innovators and or inaugurators are often granted certain number of years to practice a “state approved monopoly” whereby no competitors can enter the market.

Examples? Citycell in Bangladesh—they introduced mobile communication in Bangladesh as a new technology. The earliest CDMA models were big huge and ugly, and bore resemblance with obnoxious weaponry carried by uninvited dark street companions. Still, mobile phones were a symbol of status. It is an urban legend now that merely bringing out a cell phone from the pocket would grant people access to the important places like the secretariat in those times.

That was not too long ago. In less than a decade, things have changed dramatically. GrameenPhone came in with the GSM technology, which lowered down the entry price to around ten thousand taka from the insanely and atrociously expensive Citycell lines that could cost individuals one lac or even more. But GP was not too generous. Still consumers had to pay Tk 6.9 per minute to make a call to his dear and near ones, and fixed line connectivity was very difficult to attain. SIMs would die every 21 days unless the customer paid 300 taka to get a scratch card; regardless of need. There were regional charges, monthly fees, few recharge options—mobile technology was still exclusive to the solvent urban populace.

It was still a monopolistic scenario. The player changed, but the game did not. Citycell struggled and went in to hiatus. Aktel and Sheba kept on fighting for existence. People called it oligopoly, but actually GP was dominating the industry with 62% market share.

Then came banglalink. Sheba was a troubled company, but banglalink quickly turned things around and became the 2nd largest operator of the country in record time. En-route to reaching that landmark, banglalink exercised competitive pressure on GP and took away a large portion of their loyal customer base. Today, with six highly competitive and competent operators, Bangladesh boasts a scenario which can easily be compared with an economics book definition of perfect competition. The industry dynamics is now far, far away from being a monopoly or even an oligopoly. Consumers are highly benefited from the extremely low call rates. India’s “so called” low rates have been proven highly deceitful, while in Bangladesh if an operator advertises Tk 0.25/min, it is truly Tk 0.25/minute, plus government imposed value added tax. There is no other hidden cost whatsoever.

We can call this an industry evolution and revolution for the consumers.

While the telecom business is still growing, the organizations are also evolving internally. We, the tigers and tigresses of banglalink have also experienced a revolution. Anyone who has recently visited the ground floor cafeteria has enjoyed his or her meal and could clearly feel the traces of stiff competition. Like any other Bangladeshi, I am sure none of us misses the British colonial age and the old aristocratic ways.

Monopoly is never good. Never.

Reddish

Ridwan works in a multinational corporation. He has a very hectic job which seldom allows him to follow the agreed work hours of 9 hours a day and 5 days a week. On a typical Thursday, Ridwan enters office with a pleasurable mind—the week is finally ending.

The all too familiar jazzy sound of his cell phone started ringing. Boss is also on a call, so I might as well take the call.

“Hi Ridd, how’s life?”

“Life’s good on Thursdays...you know that very well. What’s up with you?”

“Nothing much; I am also glad that a tough week is ending.”

“Talk about toughness! I had two tough presentations as well as many other ad-hoc tasks that I absolutely had to finish this week.”

“Oh yeah, all the businesses are going through the mid year craziness, and the bosses have become suit wearing lunatics!”

“Anyways, wanna catch up with the updates after work?”

“Heh, as if there’s much to update! But hell yeah, I’d love to get together. What about the rest?”

“I’ll be calling them as well. Just give me a call when you’re outta office”.

“Cool, see you in 9 hours!”

Ridwan, Rizwan, Ronny and Rakesh—the four R’s, as they call themselves, have been friends since primary school. It’s kind of amazing that even after so many years, they still stick together. They all began their life journey at the same point of time and they grew up through the 80s and 90s to see cassettes and VHS tapes getting replaced by CDs, DVDs and Mp3s.

Ridwan noticed that the sole female colleague in his department is cutting a red apple in two halves. She wakes up late, and used to come late at work a lot. After several warnings and an eventual HR threat, she started arriving early. But that also means that she started bringing in breakfast from home; which she never shared. No matter what the core breakfast is, she would almost always finish it off with an apple, some grapes, an orange, or some bananas.

“What is redder than a red apple?”, wondered Ridd, as friends affectionately called him. Ridd, Ron, Riz and Rack they became. None of them are working in the same fields now. After school, half of them studied in the same college, but after college, there remained nothing common in their career choices. But still four souls are tuned as the first four strings of a bass guitar. Okay, there are only four strings in a typical bass guitar!

“Ridwan, are you day dreaming?”

The thousand-times-heard-damn it’s so boringly familiar voice of the boss brought Ridwan back to reality. “Sigh, there goes the happiness and calm”

“Blood! Yeah, blood is redder than an apple”, thought Ridwan whilst jumping from cell A1 to AE99 in the obscure business case neatly arranged by the analyst in the excel file.

“Red roses are very good to look at, and red cars aren’t half bad”. The other day, he was stuck in a severe traffic jam within Gulshan 1 and 2, and he saw a good looking lady driving a red RX 8. He was looking at the car body. Ridwan is a long time fan of NFS, and he loved driving the Mazda RX 8. “Sigh, I will never be able to buy an Rx 8. CNG and public buses are the only options for me”

When work was finally over, he un-silenced his cell phone to find 4 messages and 8 missed calls, and it was 20:20. He was supposed to get out of office by 7 and call Rizwan. He hurriedly called him and found out that everyone was waiting for him.

While ascending from the ten storied building, he saw a “Lady in red”. What’s going on? What’s this obsession about red, wondered Ridwan.

After rendezvous, they all went to a bar. It’s an open secret that despite of strict rules and regulations, almost anyone and everyone can get a sip or two. None of them are addicted to alcohol, but sporadic in take helps the pack unwind after a hard day’s night. When hard days become plural number and turns to hard weeks, it becomes essential to chill out in style.

At around 12:30 AM, they finally decided to head off home. Though not all of them were too happy and confident about facing the folks after spending so much time outside home. Luckily they found a CNG driven vehicle. Ridwan lived the farthest, while Rack just lived nearby. So watching Rack speed away in a Lamborghini rickshaw, the others boarded the CNG. Ridwan remembered about the argument he had with Ron regarding calling a CNG vehicle just “CNG”. “See dude, CNG is the juice that gets the vehicle going, it’s just a baby taxi that’s being driven by CNG. You can’t call it a CNG!”. “To hell with your arguments, I am so going to call it a CNG”

The idea was Ridwan’s but, tonight’s liquor outing was heavily supported by the usually quiet guy Ron. He’s quiet by nature, but when he decided to speak up, he’s hard to argue with. However, that day Ridwan won the argument. Then they started another silly argument as to why the CNG’s are only painted green instead of Red, Green, Blue or any other color whatsoever...

“Red is not my favorite color, but why red is circling around me? Is it because she was wearing red when we broke up?”

“Procrastination is the devil that stops us from climbing the stairs up”, thought Ridwan and looked sideways to find himself alone in the CNG. His other two friends did drop off at some point of time, but he could vaguely remember himself bidding farewell to them while they descended. Anyways, he thought, they should be home safe and sound by then. He looked around to find a secluded alley, which he could not readily recognize. “Err, is the small gifts of madness drink causing this?” The memory of getting mugged by who looked like a friendly acquaintance came back to his mind. That was almost four years ago. Since then, he maintained a high level of alertness while traveling alone in a CNG.

The difficulties at work, the break up, the arguments, the demanding family—everything was finally hitting him hard. He was definitely tipsy, and when he found the vehicle slowing down, he wasn’t too surprised. As he thought, a guy jumped inside the CNG as if he’s an old friend. He saw him brandishing a shiny knife and saying something to him. He was hearing but not listening. He smiled and said “Who are you?” The knife guy was half amused and said something about handing over the belongings in a harsh tone. He also added something about splitting his belly if he failed to comply. The CNG driver was nowhere to be seen, nor were anyone else found in the locality.

The knife guy was wearing a red shirt and blue jeans. Ridwan was not in the mood. He felt a sudden rush of anger ridden emotions surging up.

A memory of past bothered him. He was very afraid of chickens when he was a kid. He found the otherwise tasty bird like species to be very frightening when they were alive and flying and charging at him. So when he was asked to hold the neck of the bird when someone else would be slaughtering it, he was afraid, but he was also happy to be part of the killing session of an annoying thing.

When the knife was placed on the neck, the bird’s reddish complexion and lamenting moans did not create any sympathy in the young Ridwan’s mind. He was jubilant when the first drops of blood spilt over and med his hands red. That was blood, and it had the same color as it had when he used to have nosebleeds.

In an unthinkable act of urgency, he snatched the knife from the knife guy. The guy was not expecting this. He had been mugging people for quite some time, only to ensure the regular supplies of heroine and other such substances. At the beginning, he found it appealing to keep count of his victims, but he ceased to do so after scaring away his hundredth victim, and not a single one showed any signs of courage. He had a deal with a number of CNG drivers, and they would always bring him coward victims.

When Ridwan was stabbing the knife into his abdomen and neck repeatedly, the knife guy was staring in surprise, “What’s going on? I am the hunter, I should not be hunted like this”. He struggled, and managed to punch his victim in the eye. But it did not seem to bother him a bit.

Ridwan was taking a blood bath. He saw the CNG driver standing nearby. He had both his hands in his head. He was not coming to help the once alive figure of the knife guy. Ridwan’s purple shirt was now red. The knife was also red, and so was everything else. His eyes were filled with blood.

Flicking the knife casually, he came out of the vehicle. Home is not too far away, he thought. He looked at the CNG driver, who was now trembling in fear. Ridwan started to laugh. There was not even a dog or a cow to hear his laughter, let alone other humans. It was sadistic, and he made the streets red with all the blood.

He took out the ipod from his pocket, and started playing Californication by Red Hot Chilli Peppers on his way back home....

“Today’s been an eventful day”.

Fiha Equation: Chapter 5

Chapter 5

It’s a heavy iron gate. No calling bell is visible from the outside. Marla Lee knocked the gate couple times. He wasn’t sure whether the barely audible knocking sound reached the inner parts of the house. He noticed that the sky is getting cloudy. It might start raining anytime. He started feeling cold. How long will he stand like this? Marla Lee resumed pushing the gate. He heard some heavy footsteps; robotic steps. Some robot is arriving with heavy treads. What type of robot this? Such noisy robots are no longer manufactured.

The gate didn’t open. A small peep hole opened. Bookworm’s face became visible. His Iridium brazen eyes were illuminating in the darkness. In a happy tone, he said “Did you bring the book?”

“Yes”

“Give it to me and you can leave”.

“It cannot be given to you. The book is very expensive, and I myself have to deliver it to Fiha”.

“You can give the book to me without any hesitation. I am a personal aide to Fiha. My name is Bookworm. He likes me very much.”

“I am very happy to know that Fiha likes you very much. Fiha doesn’t like me much, but still I have to give the book to him myself”.

The peep hole closed. Bookworm went back towards the house making heavy noise. Fiha noticed that it already started drizzling. The temperature is going down fast. He started wondering whether he should go inside the car. Who knows when this Robot called Bookworm will return? These are PR type Robots. They are clumsy in nature, but their thought process is very improved. The most important thing is that they acquire knowledge from the surroundings.

The gate opened suddenly. Bookworm asked him to get inside.

“Fiha is waiting inside the library room for you”, said Bookworm. You will have to be very careful. There is no light inside. You can take my hand if you wish to.

In a very calm voice, Marla Lee said “I don’t need to hold your hand. You can lead me instead”.

Fiha frowned at Marla Lee. He didn’t even show the slightest intentions of hiding irritation.

Marla Lee said “I did not feel like disturbing anyone else at this hour of night. So I myself brought the book. I know I’ve trespassed. I should not be nearing 1000 yards of your home. But still I came”.

“You could’ve sent this book via a Robot.”

“No sir, I couldn’t. This book cannot be entrusted with anybody and everybody.”

Fiha extended his hand and took the book. Marla Lee said “It’s very cold outside. I am not sure whether you have noticed or not, it’s raining outside. I’d be very grateful if I can get a cup of coffee.”

“Please sit down. Let me ask for coffee.”

“Thanks”.

Marla Lee sat down. Fiha did not sit, he kept standing. Even if he wanted to sit, there was no way of doing so. There is only one chair in the library. Marla Lee said “Won’t you sit, Fiha?”

“Do I need to sit?”

“We can have a conversation if we sit face to face. Once in a while, people do talk with their enemies. As you have given me the permission to enter your house, I am hoping that you’ll permit me to talk as well.”

Fiha came out of the library and asked Bookworm to get another chair. Bookworm said “It is kind of demeaning for me to move furniture; can I ask the cook robot to do this job?”

Fiha nodded.

“Another thing, sir. I have noticed that this person is really irritating you. You are being gentle. If you permit me, I can do some trickery of words, which will irritate him, and eventually he will leave.”

“I don’t see any reason for doing that. You were eavesdropping, which I don’t like. Go and stand in front of the gate.”

Bookworm left instantly. His Irridium brazen eyes looked a bit dim.

Marla Lee said "I am very surprised to see only one chair in your gigantic library".

Fiha said "There is nothing to be surprised about. I'm a loner".

"I'm a loner too, but I can't even imagine having only one chair in my living room or library", said Marla Lee.

"You are not Fiha and that's why you can't imagine that. I can, and this is the most logical thing to me. My library is not a place for drinking coffee or chit chatting".

"If you think it's a trouble sitting here and discussing, we can sit somewhere else".

"Do you really need to talk to me?"

"It'd have been better if we could talk, but we don't have to talk if you don't want to"

"I am not feeling like talking".

"Alright. I will bid farewell as soon as I'm done drinking the coffee."

Marla Lee silently finished his coffee. He removed his cap and placed it on the table. He wore the cap again. In a calm voice, he said "I will be leaving now. Good night, noble Fiha."

"Good Night"

It seemed to Fiha that Marla Lee was just going out. But instead of placing his feet outside the door, Marla Less stopped abruptly. He turned around, and in an even calmer voice he said "I could have easily forced you to listen to me. I am a Mentalist. If I want, you cannot say no. I could've forced you, but I did not. Mentalists never force anyone in doing anything. Still there is a serious misconception among the human beings that mentalists are forcing their will on the general mass.

"Don't you have total control over the army?"

"Of course we have. There is a reason behind it. If we did not maintain this control, the army would split in to two parts--mentalist's army and general people's army. I don't think I need to explain the outcome of that."

Fiha said, "A very important and specialized research is taking place in the physics laboratory. You people have shut down electricity supply in the lab. You are impeding the research progress".

"Correct information, but wrong explanation. Electricity supply has been shut off because a strong storm is approaching. It's a very powerful tornado. The power will be restored as soon as the storm ceases. No matter how much hatred you have for us, you must agree that we never discourage any kind of research work. It is regrettable that we have no scientists amongst us. Mentalists cannot do creative work. Thus those who are creative get special respect from us. Just consider yourself, noble Fiha. Can you imagine how much respect you get?"

Fiha said "This respect is not selfless. You need us creative people for your own interest. You have no other alternative; you are fully dependant on us for scientific and technological progression".

"You just presented another faulty interpretation of another correct piece of information. It is a fact that we cannot progress in science without the help of humans. But whatever progress has been made till date is good enough for us. We don't need more than this. The requirement is little for mentalists. They are easily satisfied. They don't dream about conquering the whole galaxy."

"So they prevent those who have such dreams?"

"No, we don't. As a long time head of the scientific council, you know that we do not stop any kind of research. When you wanted to conduct a research on devising ways of telepathic communication, we did not prevent it. Conversely, we allocated a big budget for that research. But that research was a failure. On the other hand, when we request you to do research on particular issues, you do not agree. Mentalists face some physical problems starting from the age of thirty. A specific kind of enzyme comes out of the pituitary gland. No scientist agreed to conduct research on this area."

"I am not a biologist, so I don't know about this".

"Noble Fiha! You don't know many things. When we get sick, we have to depend on robot doctors. When human doctors come to treat us, they come with deep hatred. We are mentalists, we can sense it."

Fiha said "You don't have doctors?"

"No. There are no doctors among us."

"I did not know that".

Marla Lee said "I took a lot of time of yours. Thank you for listening to me patiently".

Fiha said "Will you tell me a truth?"

"Of course"

"We just had a lengthy conversation. Did you not carefully prepare the field for this discussion? Did you not use your mental powers to influence me?"

Marla Lee said "No, I didn't. I don't know whether you believe me or not, but I am telling the truth. Good Night".

The night was not too good. The storm was terrible. The tornado wrecked the whole science villa. Despite of taking all security measures, twenty three people died. All of them were police men. They had street duty. The did not have the permission to go to the shelters.

I wrote this quite some time ago, but forgot to post it. Hope you like it. You can back track the older chapters in this blog.

Classfriend

Classfriend

By-Satyajit Roy

Translated by- Me

It's quarter past nine in the morning. Mohit Sarker was fastening his tie. Suddenly, his wife Aruna entered the room and said "There's a call waiting for you".

"Who's calling at this hour?"

Mohit Sarker is habituated with reaching the office at exactly nine thirty. So the natural response was a frown when he heard about the phone call just before setting out for office.

Aruna Devi said "He says he went to school with you".

"In School!", exclaimed Mohit. "Did he tell his name?"

"He said you know him by the name Joy"

Mohit Sarker left school thirty years ago. There were around forty students in his class. If he thinks hard, he might be able to recall the names and faces of around twenty students precisely. However, he could easily recall Joy or Joydev's face, because he was one of the top performers of the class. He was neat and clean in appearance, he was a good student, he was a high jump champion, he was adept in showing nice card tricks, and he also once received a medal for reciting the poem Casabianca. Mohit Sharker did not hear from him once after leaving school. He realized that despite of being friends at that time, he is not feeling any attachment towards him after such a long separation.

However, he decided to receive the call.

"Hello"

"Hi Mohit! Do you remember me? I'm Joy--Joydev Bose from Baliganj School."

"Your voice seems different, but I remember your face. What's up?"

"You are a big officer now man; I'm obliged that you at least remember my name!"

"Oh cut that out-- Tell me what's going on?"

"Err; I need to talk to you in person. Can we meet sometime?"

"When?"

"Whenever you are free. But if you can make it early...."

"Then let's meet up today. I'll be back by six. Can you come by seven in the evening?"

"Definitely. Thanks friend. Will talk to you in the evening".

Sitting in his new light blue standard car's comfortable seat, Mohit Sharker was engrossed in thoughts. He was on his way towards office. He tried recalling some incidents from his school life. Despite of head master Girin Sur's hazy looks and grave serious attitude, the school days were filled with happiness. Mohit himself was a good student. Shankar, Mohit and Joydev--three of them had clash among themselves. They used to occupy the first, second and third positions in turns. Mohit Sharker and Joydev Bose studied together since class six. Many times they would sit side by side in the same bench. They also played side by side in football games; Mohit played right-in, Joydev played right-out; at that time Mohit used to think they would remain friends forever. But they walked different roads after passing school. Mohit's father was a well off person; he was one of the prominent barristers of Calcutta. After finishing school, Mohit got himself in to a good college, and passed out in two years to join a merchandising office. Joydev went to a different city and got admitted in a college there because his father held a transfer oriented job. Strangely enough, soon he realized that he was not feeling the absence of Joydev; he made new friends in college. Then again friends changed when he finished his student life and entered the job life. Now he is one of the top four men in the office, and his closest friend is one of his colleagues. Amongst his classmates, he only comes across Proggan Shengupta occasionally in the club, who also holds a good position in a reputed organization. Strangely, Proggan has no place in his school memories. But Joydev--whom he didn't meet for almost thirty years--occupies a lot of space in his memory. Mohit realized this truth very well whilst reminiscing.

Mohit's office is in Central Avenue. As soon as the car came near the intersection of Chourongi and Shuren Banarjee road, the traffic jam, honking horns and polluted smoke crashed him back to reality from the memory lane stroll. Glancing at the wrist watch, Mohit realized that he would be two to three minutes late today.

Finally, when he finished office work and returned to his house in Lee Street in the evening, not an iota of Baliganj School is present in his mind. As a matter of fact, he totally forgot about the morning phone call; the whole incident came back to him when the butler brought a note to him. The note was made by tearing a piece of paper from a ruled exercise book and it had these words written on them--"Joydev Bose, as per appointment".

Turning off the BBC radio news, Mohit told Bipin "Ask him to come inside". Saying this, he realized that he should have arranged some food for Joy who was coming to see him after so many years. It would have been very easy for him to get some cakes and pastries from Park Street on his way back from office, but he totally forgot about the appointment. He was wondering whether his wife remembered about the appointment and did the necessary arrangements.

"Can you recognize me?"

Hearing the voice, and then after looking at the owner of the voice, Mohit Sarker had a feeling which can only be compared to the feeling one gets by stepping in to emptiness thinking that there is another step; while climbing a staircase.

The person is wearing a ash colored, non-matched and bigger-than-needed sized cotton pant and a cheap half sleeve shirt; it is apparent from the outlook that neither the shirt nor the pant ever went through the process called ironing. Mohit tried really hard, but he failed to find any resemblance between the Joydev in his memories and the mouth that is popping out of the shirt collar in front of him. The stranger's eyes are dim, his skin is deeply sun burnt, his cheeks are wrinkled, he has at least three day's old unshaven whiskers, his upper portion of the head is smoothly bald and he has a few locks of disheveled hair near his ears. As he asked the question with a smiling face, Mohit managed to see the inner portions of his teeth and he thought someone with such betel-leaf eroded teeth should always cover his face before attempting a smile.

"I have changed a lot, didn't I?"

"Please have a seat"

Mohit stood up by then. After the stranger sat in the front seat, Mohit occupied his own seat. Mohit has a few pictures from his student life; anyone can tell today's Mohit from the fourteen year old Mohit. But then why am I struggling so much to recognize this person? How can a person's appearance change so much in thirty years?

"You can be instantly recognized. I would have recognized you if I saw you in the streets"--the gentleman continues talking--"Actually I've been through a lot of ups and downs. Father died when I was in college, and I was forced to quit college. I started looking for a job. You can understand what followed. Good luck and backing are essential elements for a normal person to strive..."

"Will you like to have some tea?"

"Tea? Oh yes, that'd be...."

Cutting him short, Mohit called Bipin and asked him to bring tea, and thought that it's not a big problem even if there is no cake or sweet available; biscuits are good enough for this person.

"Oh!--the gentleman continues, "Throughout the day I've been thinking about the old times, Mohit."

Mohit decided not to tell him that he also spent a significant time looking back.

"Do you remember LCM and GCM?"

Mohit forgot, but he remembered instantly. LCM was P.T. master Lalchand Mukharjee and GCM was mathematics teacher Gopen Mitter.

"Can you remember who forcibly made us stand beside the drinking water tank and pose for a photograph?"

Grinning, Mohit made it clear that he remembers. Strange, all these are true incidents. If this person is not Joydev, then how come he knows all these?

"You know, the five years of school are the best years of my life", said the stranger, "Those days will never come back".

Mohit could not resist saying one thing.

"You and I are almost same aged, as far as I remember".

" I am just three months younger than you."

"Then how did you age up so fast? What happened to your hair?"

"Struggle, it's all due to struggle", said the stranger. "But baldness is a common syndrome in my family. Both my father and grandfather became bald by the age of thirty five. Wrinkled cheeks are the result of hard work and toil, and also due to poor diet. I don't hold a desk job like you lot. I worked in a factory for seven years, then I became a medical salesman, an insurance agent and then I tried many different types of commission agent jobs! It is not my luck that I will stick to a single job. Just like a swinging pendulum, I'm swaying from left to right, all the time. They say you can make your body absorb anything and everything, but at the end of the day, the body becomes battered, rammed and the end result is premature ageing. You can clearly see it in me.

Bipin brought tea. In another plate there was Shingara and Shondesh. My wife is smart, thought Mohit. However, Mohit dared not imagine what would be his wife's reaction after seeing the likes of his so called classmate.

"Won't you eat?" asked the stranger. Mohit nodded his head in the negative. "I just ate".

"One Shondesh?"

"No, you take it.

The gentleman started chewing on a Shingara and continued talking with food in his mouth--"My son's examination is imminent. But my state is such, I cannot imagine how I will manage the fees."

That was enough for Mohit. He understood instantaneously. He should have guessed the reason behind this visit. It's nothing but seeking aid. Financial aid. How much will he demand? If it's twenty-twenty five, it'd be smarter to give, because there is no guarantee that declining will stop this botheration permanently.

"You know, my son is very bright. I lost my sleep thinking that his studies might stop prematurely due to lack of finances".

The second Shingara ascended from the plate. Mohit is constantly trying to match the childhood Joy's face with the stranger's face, and gradually he is getting more and more confident that there is nothing common between this elderly person and the boy in his album.

"So as I was saying, brother", with a loud sip in the tea cup, the stranger continued, "If you can at least hand over one hundred or hundred fifty bucks to this old friend of yours, then....."

"Very Sorry"

"Huh?"

Mohit previously decided that he would decline instantly if money matter comes up. But after saying it, he thought he could have done it in a less rude manner. Thus in order to do some damage control, he told him in a gentler voice "Sorry brother. Right now I am running a bit low on cash".

"I can come tomorrow. Any time. Whenever you say."

"Tomorrow I am going out of Calcutta. I will return after three days. You can come on Sunday."

"Sunday...."

Disappointment was visible in the stranger's face. Mohit is determined. There is no proof in the face that this person is Joy. Calcutta people know thousands of ways of ripping off people through hideous tricks. If he is an imposter? Maybe he knows the real Joydev. Is it a very difficult task getting some thirty year old information about Baliganj School? I guess not.

"At what time are you returning, on Sunday?" asked the stranger

"I'll be back within nine to nine thirty AM."

Eid holidays start from Friday. Mohit has already made plans to visit a friend's farm house during the weekends. His wife will also be with him. Two day's stay and return on Sunday--that is the plan. Thus the gentleman will not find him if he comes on Sunday morning. This trickery was not needed if Mohit could refuse directly. But there are certain people who cannot do such things. After Sunday, if the person again tries to see Mohit, he will find another excuse to not see him. Then maybe he will not bother Mohit again.

As soon as the stranger took his last sip in the teacup, another person entered the room. He is Mohit's bosom friend Banikanto Sen. Two others are supposed to join in for a card playing session. This is a regular event. Banikanto gave a look of suspicion to the stranger which Mohit did not fail to notice. With a straight face, Mohit totally bypassed the fact that he knew the stranger.

"Okay, I'll go now..."--the stranger stood. In a very informal tone, he said "If you can do this favor to me, I'll be very, very grateful, friend. Truly".

As soon as the gentleman went away, Banikanto faced Mohit with a frown and said "That person was talking to you like a close friend--what's the idea?"

"He was speaking in a formal tone until you came. Just before leaving he used the informal tone to let you know that we are really close."

"Who is this person?"

Instead of replying, Mohit brought out an old photo album from his book shelf, opened a particular page and moved it towards Banikanto.

"Is this your school group?"

"We went to the Botanics for picnic", said Mohit Sarker.

"Who are these five?"

"Can't you recognize me?"

"Wait; let me take a closer look".

Banikanto brought the album page closer to his eyes and he managed to identify Mohit in ease.

"Now take a close look at the boy standing at the right side of me"

Banikanto took an even closer look and said "Okay, I saw the picture". Mohit said, "This is the person who just left".

"Did he start gambling from his school life?"--Banikanto grumbled after closing the album with a loud bang and throwing it on the sofa. "I've seen him at least thirty two times in the race course."

"That is expected", said Mohit Sarker. Then he told him in brief the entire conversation within him and the stranger.

"You should call the police", said Banikanto, "Calcutta city has became a depot of thieves, forgery specialists and touts. The boy in the photo album and this gambler cannot be the same person. It's impossible".

Mohit grinned and said "He will understand that I don't believe him after not finding me on Sunday. I don't think he will disturb me again after that"

Eating freshly caught fishes from friend's pond in Baruipur, poultry chicken eggs, mangoes, blueberries, palm and guava, lying in the shadow under trees, playing cards on a mattress laden on grass with a pillow on the chest--all these activities eliminated all sorts of mental and physical fatigue far, far away from Mohit. He returned home at 11 PM on Sunday and heard from his butler that the person who came before came again in the morning.--"Did he say anything while leaving"

"No, sir", replied Bipin.

"Great", thought Mohit. It's a simple trick, but it did the job. He won't come again. The annoyance is gone.

But no, he was wrong. The annoyance was gone for that day, but it returned again the next day morning. Mohit was in the living room. It was eight AM and he was reading the newspaper. Bipin entered the room with another piece of paper. Mohit opened the folded paper and saw a three lined letter.

Dear Mohit,

My right foot got injured, so I am sending my boy. Even if you can manage to give him a very small amount of money, it would help dearly. I hope you will not disappoint me.

Bye,

Joy

Mohit realized that there was no escape. But he decided that little means little and he told the butler "Call in the boy".

Within a few minutes, a thirteen to fourteen year old lad entered the room through the door, approached Mohit and did a small bow as per Hindu religious custom. He instantly moved back a few steps after completing the respect-showing bow. He stood silently.

Mohit deeply gazed at him for a few minutes. Then he said "Have a seat".

The boy hesitantly sat at the corner of a sofa; placing his hands over his lap in a stationary position.

"I'll be back soon".

Mohit went to the second floor, took the key lock from his wife, opened the almirah, took out four fifty taka notes and placed them in an envelope. He sealed the envelope, closed the almirah and came back to the living room.

"What is your name?"

"Sri Sunjoy Kumar Bose".

"There is money in this envelope. Can you take it carefully?"

The boy nodded in the affirmative.

"Where will you keep it?"

"In my chest pocket"/

"Will you take a tram or a bus?

"I will take a walk".

"You will walk? Where do you live?"

"Mirjapore Street".

"You will walk that far?"

"Father told me to walk back."

"Rather than that, you can do this. Wait for an hour, have some tea and sweets. There are many books and magazines here; you can go through them. I will go to office at nine; the car will drop me in the office and then take you to your home. You will be able to direct the driver towards your home, right?"

The boy again nodded in the affirmative.

Mohit called Bipin and asked him to serve tea to the boy and went upstairs again to get ready for going to the office.

He felt very light and happy with himself.

He could not recognize Joy by seeing him, but he found the Joy of thirty years ago within his son Sunjoy.

The End