Travel in Dhaka City: Where Life Moves on a Roller Coaster

As the twilight sparkles through the magnificent architectural glitz of the city, Dhaka unwraps herself from a tedious day of work to pave way for an evening that has loads to offer. Dhaka- a boring, unadventurous city of the seventies is now a total contrast, it is the half of all happenings, the city that throbs will all possible and imaginable diversity. Infused by a new blood of globalization the cosmopolitan infrastructure is constantly changing. A touch of experimentation can be perceived in all spheres. The city fabric itself under a manic metamorphosing process has lost the prosaic, bland colour that once upon a time made life-absolutely colourless. Be it food, entertainment, shopping or just hanging about, the people of Dhaka have a massive array of option to choose from. Madu’s canteen is now not just the only place.  Life is multifaceted, and Dhaka is hell bent to reap the fun out of life and her spices.

Start with eating, the capital has become a big-frying pan sizzling to the newly found taste buds of the city dwellers. Eat, eat and eat just stuff your stomach to your hearts content. That is the motto of the eating scenario. Bunking classes with mischievous looks on their face, young college kids hang around in the fast food joints. Munching on burgers and sipping sodas is their idea for a break. The latest Boyzone, Aqua lyrics are their driving force. To keep up with the demands of the “Tommy-Hilfiger” obsessed generation burger and fast food joints are springing up. The idle evenings are not spent on the roof philandering with girl next door. Now it’s cuddling in a fast food joint while listening to J.J Cale’s sensitive kind.  Rock lovers usually hang about the Rock Café. As Bruce Springsteen sets the ambience with “I am on Fire” the hips swing in the floors, the tension released through a bit of shakin and rollin. Dance-mania is on and Boogie-Woogie is a hit with the youngsters. American Fried Chicken, Southern Fried Chicken, Sously’s, Coopers and hundreds more caters to the gossiping, flirting young generation. Their identity now intertwined with a culture, that was once just a part of Archies comics. For a real hip and trendy ambience try the Hot Hut. Hot and wild-its got the delicious flavour of Eternity and Poison delicately blended.

The mobile food cart of Sajna and Yummy Yummy offer food in a novel perspective.

Some prefer to hang about the market places. Life and high heels both can be observed without offending anyone. Go near fuller road. In the serenity of the university area pairs sit on the pavement-engrossed in one another, oblivious to the world-love being the most powerful of all things. Gossiping finds loads of adherents near the TSC where all topics from Sharon Stone to Sonali Bendre get brewed up with sips of hot tea. Near Shabag the Boi Para-gives sanctuary to those who claim to be a bit different from the others. Lenin, Che, Polanski are familiar names and Kurtas with jute bags hanging from the shoulders are the patented attire.

The greens of Ramna echo the resonant voice of a would be poet reciting Robert Frost. The theatre buffs hang around Baily road. The evenings there are full of activity. The stages come alive as the actors weave a hypnotic world of cultural perfection. People sit by the road talking about Eugene O’Neil or Tennessee Williams. The air is that of sophistication-trying to make its presence solid within so much mediocrity around. For those who work during the day evenings in Dhaka is a respite from the demands of life. They unwind, relax and let the moments pass by leisurely.

Bibliophiles stroll around the second hand book shops. Who knows they just might stumble upon Jeffrey Archer or a Frederick Forsyth. Rainbow, Soor Bichitra is the regular hang about place for the music-lovers. Waiting for the new released Ritchie Blackmore L.P inspires nostalgic chats that go back to the years of temple of the king and snake charmer. Calvin Klein, Hugo Boss are no longer met with questioning eyes. Brand lovers go about the flashy markets that offer everything from Cravats to Cuff links.

People with a weakness of art can have their aesthetic senses invigorated by dipping into a different world in one of the many art  galleries in Dhanmondi . Those with taste as well as money to spend to go to galleries not only to appreciate art but to acquire them. Gourmands paradise will be the best name for the cosmopolitan and one might want to spend the evening trying the Kimchi or the delectable Spaghetti washed  down with a fine bottle of Baron D’Arignac. Cordon blue food is served in the vast number of restaurants in Gulshan . If your aim is to having a lovely evening  having an agreeable meal with a glass of good wine then money should not be the deterrent. Royal Orchid, Ninfas, Lemongrass, Wakana, Young Bin Kawan, Sky Room, Lazeez, offer variety and class in the eating scenario. A nice evening , a lovely companion and good food –a potent combination that revs up the system to go on.  After work the health conscious end up pumping iron in the gyms. This gym-mania is the latest trend that takes up the time of many people. This is a short of elixir, that freshens the system, releases tension and makes me ready to face life’s fickleness said Ershad a reputed banker. Health centres are coming to the scene and along with Van Dame encouraged figures. A bit of billiard with a few glasses of chilled fosters is some people’s idea of living the life in Dhaka. For those who can not operate without a pleasant libation there are the bars. In the cool darkness, drenched within the melody of Pankaj Udas and an iced whisky many tend to severe all bonds with reality. The crystal glasses create a spectrum of illusion as the night gets synthesized with the Tequila charm.

Those with a liking for the drink but unable to go to the bars settle for bottles bought from the Banani area. Meanwhile some just prefer the local stuff.

As night gets older, the skin of inhibition falls off the night-clubs roar. As the fog lights flash on the dance floors couples get wild in ecstasy –Ricky Martin pierces through the heart as the limbs roll with the bit. Tramps,

Atlantis, the International Club take life to the peak of fulfillment. Clad in Armani skirts and Gap t-shirts, young girls with their curvaceous figures chill out. “Youth passes in the blink of an eye so enjoy it while it lasts” is their motto and they surely are living up to it.  With the clock reaching for the 12 o’clock mark life slows down. Down to the waterline or Sultans of Swing play in the car stereo as many take long drives through the isolated streets of the capital.  The cool night air freshens the lungs. Some just sit around the corners of silent streets and savour the lucidity of silence.

The sun shines again over the capital and announces the beginning of another new day in the city. Life and her variations roll again and one is reminded of that famous saying in a different way. “If one is bored with Dhaka, he is bored with life, cause Dhaka has everything that life has to offer.”

Travel in Dhaka: The Life and Times of Dhaka in My Eyes

There is a short anecdote about Jug Suraiya, the renowned columnist, which I am fond of retelling.A fellow guest at a party in Greenwich Village told Jug Suraiya that when he visited Calcutta, Satyajit Roy showed him around the city. “I bet I know your Calcutta better than you do” he said. “No,” Suraiya replied. “You know Roy’s Calcutta not mine.” So it is with Dhaka. Anybody who has stayed here or even visited the city has his own pleasures and pains, memories and anecdotes. Though I was born in Calcutta, my first conscious memory is that of Dhaka. In Dhaka I have been moving from houses in Madan Mohon Basak road, to Azimpur, to Dhanmondi and now in Uttara. All these movements have coincided with distinctive eras in the history and development of the city. In the fifties and sixties  I have stayed in  Madan Mohon  Basak road  and then Azimpur, which were at that time the newly developed areas, and then in the  seventies and eighties in Dhanmondi which has now become replete with offices and multi-storied apartments, making it too crowded for my tastes. Uttara is now for me a place with urban amenities and with the quiet of the suburbs. The secret of karate is to turn your adversary's strength to your advantage. Similarly to survive in Dhaka, the secret is to make every adversity, every misfortune, and every misery work to your benefit. At least that is what I have been trying to do in my Odyssey through the city. Perhaps no other place exercises quite the same kind of lure, composed of about equal parts of nostalgia and anger.

In the various decades and the various areas I have stayed in the development of the city I have seen the first paving of roads as Madan Mohon  Basak road transformed from a bed of brick chips to a broad swathe of asphalt, along with others in that area and elsewhere north of the railway tracks. Speaking of the railways , the railway canteen  of Sorabjee's at the Phulbaria railway station was a good place for dining out, as were the ‘cabins’ of Sadarghat, where cutlets-prawn or chicken-were a prime attraction. Then came the Chinese restaurants, first Cafe China and then Chu Chin Chow. This ‘Chinese’ revolution has brought about by now the highly popular concept of eating out in a Chinese restaurant. The Gulistan building housed the Chu Chin Chow, and Gulistan cinema hall itself, which was in the fifties the largest and the first and only air-conditioned cinema hall.

One of our principal recreations in our younger days was to loiter around in that novel market place, the New Market, the first example of a shopping mall in our country. In the evenings a saunter around the New Market, mostly to ogle at women and sometimes to browse in book shops. And then an hour or more of chatting at a tea shop. The chatting is one institution, present also in the neighbouring metropolis of Calcutta, which is most importantly an instrument of cathartic release. All the pent up emotions that the average Dhaka  dweller builds up in the course of his daily Odyssey, careering between  the Scylla of chronic shortages and the Charybdis of chaos rampant, while clinging on to an overcrowded minibus, are poured out in the Homeric epic of the chatting. The daily chatting acts as an emotional armour which protest the participant against the slings and arrows of outrageous urban life. The range of chatting is as vast the city and as small as the closed circle of cronies. From street corners and the tea-stalls there, to the private clubs such as the Dhaka club, and in between the two extremes are the tea shops in the markets and the educational institutions, these are the locales of the Dhaka citizen for his marathon talkfests.

Festivals such as the Eid, the Pujas, Christmas, and also Bengali New Year and fairs of all types such as Ekushe Boi Mela, and Export Fair, are occasions for us to indulge in an orgy of festive activity.  All our bottled-up emotions and sentiments are let loose and we undertake recreational parades around the town and on the fairgrounds. The simple reason is that there are now precious few places to wander around.

The only park worth the name, Suhrawardy Uddyan, is like New York’s Central Park, quite forbidding at night, and not quite enjoyable in the daytime. The same goes for the zoo and the botanical gardens. The minuscule Shisu Park is always overcrowded.

Cultural events in the city are of infrequent occurrence. The most regular amongst these are the theatrical performances, while public musical or dance performances are rare and often relate to events like Bangla New Year, or Boi Mela or visits from artistes abroad. These days cable television has literally opened a window on the world but we are at the same time swamped by the invasions of other cultures.

The city therefore seems to be all past and no future, and so capable of inducing a virulent attack of nostalgia. Random, haphazard, raucous the city has lived through wars and riots, epidemics and floods. But Dhaka, as many of us have discovered, is a movable chatting. In our homes, in the clubs, in tea shops, and on the streets, Dhaka is everyone's childhood, measles mumps and all.

(Not) a Love Story

                                                        
I am nervous as I dress: I am seeing him again after all these intervening years. I thought I had successfully blotted out that whole painful episode of my life. I still remember our final parting. He was charming as usual, wanting to say how much I had enriched his life, but that, all things had to come to a natural conclusion. I could only nod numbly and found just enough voice to tell him how, on the contrary, he had left me feeling…impoverished, depleted. In my heart I promised never to cross his path again.

And yet here I am, hurrying to meet him. The moment I see his suave figure, old sensations come rushing back, the same sense of panic, the palpitations. I want to turn back and flee. But he moves forward and, as always, takes my hand and brings it to his lips, as elegant European social courtesy demands. You haven’t changed a bit, he assured me as he leads me into the room. I allow him to push me gently into the comfortable chair.

Is that Vivaldi in the back ground that I hear as he begins to lean over me. Suddenly I relax. There is no point fighting the inevitable. I was fated; I sigh as I slowly open my mouth and allow my Dentist to commence his initial probing.

Well, I told you, didn’t I? Anyway, here I am, back in the clutches of one of the finest, most expensive , and most charming dentist in Rome. My husband disagrees in part to this description.  He agrees vigorously that my dentist is certainly one of the most expensive dental surgeons in town, and says that for the kind of money he charges he better be fine at his work too. I am content that he is one of the most charming dentists I have ever allowed to get fresh with my mouth, definitely the only one who kisses my hands at the beginning and end of each session. Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! That robber does this to every lady patient, and each time the man kisses your hands you kiss your money goodbye, my husband says darkly. Oh! Please! What would he know about dentists, this husband of mine who has never had a cavity in his life! There should be a law against people like that.

I happen to be a woman who hides a history of failed relationships with dentists and dentistry behind her flashy smile, because I loathe going to dentists, (unlike others). Or, as someone once said wisely, ‘You see I am not like others, I hate pain.’ Then, I found this magician of a dentist who uses a drill as gently and subtly as an artist uses a brush, or as my hubby adds ‘as a pick-pocket removes your wallet.’

At any rate, only my dentist can make a woman, lying with her mouth gaping like a freshly caught carp, feel like a fragile Camille languishing in the sofa. Such a sensitive man! No matter that I have a tube bubbling away my saliva and that my eyes are squinted at all times trying to ccheck whatever the hell is going on inside my Novocain numbed mouth, he treats me like the most ravishing woman getting her eyebrows plucked in a Beauty Salon.

‘Am I hurting you?’ he asks ever so gently. Of course he is not. ‘Lo,’ I respond through the drool. ‘A bit to the right,’ he suggests tenderly and I obediently turn my head and catch sight of my madly grinning gummy profile in a mirror. I scream in horror! My chivalrous dentist is beside himself with grief at causing me agony. ‘Lo lo’, I struggle to protest that I look like a hideous skull. Later, as I sit up and try to locate my dead tongue and smile through my bloated lips, my dentist has already bowed over my sweaty hands murmuring Bellissima Signora. Till the next time.’ Sigh! You see, you see!

Ten years ago, after a protracted six-month treatment, I had come out of my dentist’s office with a new lease of life, a free woman. I was also a walking showcase for all his dental skills:  I had every third tooth root-canalled, bridged, treated, excavated, pulled out, restored, gold-mined or porcelain capped. I thought that was the last I would see of the inside of a dental studio, until that first nagging ache reminded me that we smile on borrowed time and that once you let a dentist near you  he gets his teeth into you. It’s for life.

Well, I have just returned from my visit and now that the minor matter of a loose filling has been sorted out, I think I’ll break it up with my Dentist. It was an unhealthy relationship. I mean, now that my teeth are healthy, who needs him? OUCH!

Oopth! Ith  thith a looth tooth?

Rip Van Winkle

 His grandfather had moved with the capital from the pre-partition days where, five decades later he was born. He grew up in a family that believed in traditional Bengali values from both parts of Bengal. His career later demanded a change of capitals. But the desire to visit his roots remained with him. In fact it grew stronger with the years.

 Now when his work had brought him to Bangladesh he was overjoyed.  This trip would be a culmination of all that he had heard and learned about it. For the next four days he would live his dreams. He would imbibe the very essence of Bangladesh first hand and carry it back for his eager parents.

What he hadn't bargained for was the looks-the peculiar, furtive glances that he received from all those around him the minute he opened his mouth. The liftman and the bellboy grinned at his obvious idiosyncrasy. The receptionist gave him a once over and did a quick mental assessment –must be one of "those" and continued with his job.  Not one word of that dialect would part from his lips. Their unspoken words questioned the level of his sanity-what could have gone wrong with him?

This perplexed him more. All his life he has heard his parents speak it. In fact they had two different sets of dialects at home- one that everybody spoke and the other reserved for their parents. Nobody even attempted to infringe on their domain. It was a language that belonged to ”the previous generation". But their frequent reminiscence and strong urge to hold on to that tradition had left its mark on this young impressionable mind. Unknown to him he had picked up the nuances till one day he could speak it fluently. Unknown to him too he had quietly but surely slipped into a time warp.

But things were not working out as planned. The wide roads, the swanky cars and the bright neon lights were contrary to what he had in mind. And the rows of concrete and certainly the language had forced him to think otherwise. The first food joints and innumerable Thai and Chinese restaurants also contributed to it. He had thought and brushed aside at the airport came back carefully to him. Bangladesh had changed, evolving with the times to become another metropolis of the world. He needed to grow up and fast.

Next day over lunch the rest of his dreams were shattered. An incongruous plastic box bearing the name of a Thai restaurant was offered to him. "It will be a working lunch"-he remembered having said that but why Thai food that he could also have back home. But the exigencies of work pushed aside all thoughts of mouthwatering Bengali delicacies  that he desired so much-streaming rice hilsa in mustard sauce the succulent prawns, that he had heard were better this side of Bengal.

Things were going wrong horribly.  Attitudes change; habits also die a death but monuments? They stand as sentinels guarding the progress of time. Sadarghat seemed a safe bet. It couldn’t have changed much- a few launches perhaps. And the "river"-no, it couldn’t have changed course! But the events of the past few days made him cautious- he no longer ruled out the slimmest of possibilities.

The few phaetons that piled on the road pleased him. At least there was something that he could relate to. But he had not bargained for the chaotic traffic of old Dhaka. And the crowd was maddening. After a hurried look he went back to the safety of the car. The countless launches waiting to set sail brought home the truth-he couldn’t place a finger anything in Dhaka. Everything was just beyond his reasoning. But he had only wanted to take back memories with him?

The faint fish smell that emanated from the hilsa in his suitcase reassured him. He had salvaged some of his dreams after all. And what better way to celebrate this. Sweet memories.

The unlikely Master-Mashai

When William Radice, in 1972, went to learn Bangla at SOAS, Tarapada Mukherjee, teacher of Bangla at the department of the languages and cultures of South Asia, on his arrival at the school after holidays spent in India, jokingly asked Radice why he was interested in learning Bangla when there were plenty of people in the world who could speak Bangla well.

Radice said he wanted to translate the Bangla literature into English. And he translated a number of pieces of the Bangla literature – Rabindranath Tagore, Michael Madhusudan Dutt and Sakuntala – into English. Being a poet himself, he wrote the libretto for a chamber opera, snatched by the Gods, based on Tagore’s ‘Debatar Gras’.

But the most notable of his achievements is his effort in continuing the study of Bangla and its literature at London University, especially after the death of Tarapada Mukherjee in 1990. After the death of Tarapada, who held a chair for Bangla, SOAS planned to get rid of Bangla teaching and the professorship was discontinued. Bangla now continues to be taught with a lectureship. Given to William Radice.

Both Oxford and Cambridge got rid of chairs for Bangla long ago. The only Oxford PhD in the Bangla literature in about decades is William Radice, who did his doctor of philosophy on Michael Madhusudan Dutt in 1987 under historian Tapan Raichaudhuri in the South Asisan studies department. Now the School of Oriental and African Studies in the only institution in England with a chair for Bangla.

‘I struggled for 14 years for Bangla at London University and now I have an assistant. I am hopeful of its studies in Europe. I have now six research students taking  courses in Bangla at SOAS,’ he said, sitting in the lounge of a hotel at Baridhara towards the end of the first week of March, in his fluent Bangla with less aspiration that what is required for the initial sound of the word, cbbatra, for ‘students,’ with a tinge of English intonation. The students are from countries such as Portugal, Slovenia or even India.

Chittagong University Bangla professor Moniruzzaman, a friend  of Radice’s who failed to attend the lecture Radice gave at the Bangla Academy the day before, sitting by, shook his head and explained Radice’s struggle for the study of Bangla at SOAS.

Radice has now Hanne-Ruth Thompson, known as Hanna Thompson, as his assistant teaching at SOAS. She had a book, Essential Everyday Bengali, published by the Bangla Academy in Dhaka in 1999.

On a hopeful note, he said SOAS evening classes for Bangla have 40 students. Who are not required to pass any examinations. But they attend the classes only to learn how to speak, read and write Bangla. Unlike the research students, the evening class people have different reasons to learn the language. Abu Musa Mohammad Arif Billah, a teacher of Persian at Dhaka University, now doing his PhD at SOAS on the influence of the Persian literature on Shah Muhammad Sagir and Alaol, two mediaeval Bangla poets and teaching Bangla in the evening classes, said many of the English speakers came to learn Bangla as they are in love with or have planned to get married to Bangla speakers. Arif, sitting at the table, said some of the students learn Bangla as they wanted to work with borough councils working with Bangla-speakers; some of them work with aid groups and some of them are general practitioners.

SOAS will be offering course in Bangla, along with other languages, in its new School of Languages, ‘of the wider world, not just French or German, but also the African languages or Bangla from the next year,’ Radice said, expecting the number of students for Bangla to keep growing. Arif Billah said it would just be like the Institute of Modern Languages at Dhaka University.  Radice said he would try to take classes in the evening so that a large number of working people could take the courses.

Radice thinks a growing number of participants in the Bengal studies programme of the European Conference on Modern South Asisan Studies from 14 in the past session to 27 this time is a pointer to an increased interest in the Bangla Language and literature outside South Asia. But even then, he said, he could count on one hand the chairs for Bangla in the educational institutions in Europe. But Bangla is taught at many universities having no chair. ‘There is a chair for Bangla in the whole of France, at the Institute National des Langues et Civilisations Orientales (the national institute of oriental languages and cultures),’ Radice counted on the fingers. There are two women in Czech Republic teaching Bangla. He said Prague is a linguistic stronghold for Bangla, ‘probably because of folk songs,’ as explained Moniruzzaman.

‘In the whole of America, there is only one chair, at Chicago University, given to Clinton B Seely. There were two chairs, but one was closed after the death of Edward Dimok. Farida Majid teaches at Columbia University; but there is no chair for Bangla as such.’

In Germany, there is Hans Harder who teaches at Halle; there was Alokranjan Das Gupta at the oriental studies department at the University of Heidelberg; now the wife of Deutsche Welle’s Bangla section chief teaches Bangla, but there is no chair for the language.

The universities across the world, Radice said, expanded their areas of interest and many universities opened departments and chairs for Hindi and Urdu, two dominant languages of South Asia of the time. Bangla was no state language at the time and when now Bangla has attained the status of a state language and people around the world are interested in learning it, the universities worldwide have been facing resource constraints.

Radice talked with the Bangla Academy, the cultural affairs ministry and few other organizations during the tenure of the first caretaker government in 1991 to fund or subsidise chair in London; but the matter could not get rolling because of the unwillingness of the agencies he talked with. He said he did not expect the government to subsidise chair for Bangla in London or in other places as the Bangladesh government had other priorities. But he said the government would need to do this if it wanted the keep the studies of the language and literature going among the speakers of other languages.

Students in England can take courses in Bangla in GCSE, O-Levels and A-Levels. There are people in the educational institutions who can set the questions; but there is no moderator who can evaluate the standards. Radice thought there should be someone at the top for such jobs. And for this there should be chairs for Bangla in the countries where educational institutions offer courses in Bangla.

The teaching of Bangla at SOAS has not faltered for lack of study materials. Radice has his book, Teach Yourself Bengali, published by Hodder Headline in London in 1994, which the teachers follow in Bangla classes. Arif Billah said all the people like him supplement the method of Radice in teaching.

Hanna Thompson, who ‘speaks Bangla more in the style of Bangladeshis’ unlike Radice who thinks his speech resembles more the West Bengal style, has been working towards a definitive grammar of the Bangla language based on a practical study. The SOAS web page says she has moved away from the high form of Bangla, sadhu bhasha, and included examples from the modern spoken form. And more importantly, her work will include the area of compound verbs which Radice said have not been adequately dealt with in any existing grammars or dictionaries. In an article in the February 2 issue of Desh, published from Kolkata, Thompson said no knowledge of Sanskrit might be her strength in writing a grammar of the language as she might look at it from a neutral standpoint.

But there is dearth of dictionaries, especially English-Bangla, for learners who speak other languages. Any foreigner willing to write Bangla needs a good English-Bangla dictionary. But most dictionaries, published from Bangladesh and West Bengal, give only definitions of entries, rather than giving specific synonyms of the word. Radice said English-Bangla dictionaries define, for an example, the word ‘horse’ as ‘a quadruped animal,’ which might be enough for one to understand the word, but all such people need is the Bangla word for ‘horse,’ ‘ghora,’ or ‘ashwa’ or something else.

Much earlier, the Oxford University Press in Britain wanted to bring out a concise dictionary in its much routed format, in two sections – Bangla-English and English-Bangla. There had been some communications between the Oxford University Press and the Bangla Academy. But initiatives fell through as the Oxford University Press in India said it would bring out such a dictionary and it was not willing to work with the Bangla Academy. Many years passed by and, unfortunately, the Indian dictionary did not come out. Radice said back in London, he would ask if the press was still willing and he would ask the academy if it was ready for such a job.

Creator of Peter Rabbit

Perhaps you have read some of the stories Beatrix Potter wrote for children. She lived in a time when most little girls her age did not go to school. Those lucky girls who could go to school, learnt things and made friends not possible outside school. Beatrix Potter’s father and mother thought differently. So Beatrix Potter stayed at home and had no school friends. Her childhood was a very lonesome one and she grew to be a thoughtful child. Her only close friend was her brother. Without attending school she managed to learn a great deal.

When Beatrix’s brother went away to school, she was left alone with a lot of time to be by herself. She found a way to amuse herself by writing stories. And sometimes she would make sketches, paintings and drawings to go with her stories.

Beatrix’s favourite season was summer. This was because her brother would come back from school during summer. And Beatrix Potter and her family would visit the countryside for a holiday. All summer long, Beatrix had someone to play with – her brother.

Beatrix and her brother loved the outdoors. They were deeply interested in Nature. They would spend hours and hours outside, happily watching animals play, deeply engrossed over plants and animals. They would watch frogs in a lake. They would stop to see a wood louse making a house. They loved observing the ways of animals.

On one particular summer, Beatrix and her brother began a collection of plants and animals which they had to hide from their mother because they knew that she would be horrified, disgusted and petrified at the sight of crawling bugs and beetles, and wriggling snakes in her house. She would turn out the whole collection of animals and plants at once and also prevent them from spending their time outdoors.

Throughout the summer, brother and sister painted pictures of rabbits and crows, farms and fields, flowers and furrows. Most of the time, Beatrix would try to paint the animals and plants exactly the way they actually looked in real life. But at times, she would paint a mouse wearing a hat or a rabbit with a basket, just as in her stories. But soon the summer was over, Beatrix’s family returned to their house and Beatrix’s brother was back at school. But this time, Beatrix was no longer as lonely as she had once been. She had a new friend – a rabbit called Peter whom she had found in the countryside. Beatrix’s mother did not approve of Peter Rabbit, and informed Beatrix that she did not like Peter Rabbit, and wanted him out of the house. But Beatrix managed to find ways to take her pet rabbit to her room.

Beatrix grew up into a quiet young lady, knowing a good deal about plants and animals. And she became a good artist. Her father and mother did not like Beatrix to work. She began to think of an idea. She wanted the drawings to be compiled into a book then, scientists would be able to look at them. But her father and mother did not think that it was a good idea. Fortunately for Beatrix, she had an uncle who did think that it would be a good idea. He sensed talent in Beatrix, and took her to visit some scientists with whom he was acquainted.

Unluckily, these scientists were not good people. They made dreadful comments like, “She’s too young”, “She hasn’t been to school” and “She’s only a girl!” Beatrix’s uncle was very annoyed with the scientists for disheartening Beatrix.

“They are silly,” he remarked angrily to Beatrix. “You know as much as they do. Your drawings are better than theirs.” Her uncle asked Beatrix to write about a particular type of plant which he read out before a meeting of scientists. Beatrix had a real flair for science.

Many of Beatrix’s friends had children with whom she often played. One of them was a little boy, Noel. When Noel became ill, Beatrix started to write letters to him. Most of the time, Beatrix would write to him about the things that she and Peter Rabbit did. But when Noel was sick for long time, Beatrix would make up stories and send those to him. Noel loved the stories. He showed the story-letters to all his little friends. Everybody loved the story of Peter Rabbit. And so Beatrix decided that she would have the stories made into a book.

Peter Rabbit soon became one of the best-loved children’s story-books of all time. If you read the book, you can tell the original drawings were done by a person who knew all about animals. May be you also can tell they were done by someone who learned to love little animals because they were her only friends.

How to Overcome Sufferings in Life

There are five stages to overcome sufferings in life. The first stage of the five stages is denial. At first man denies the fact that the person has moved away from his or her life. In case of failure, people deny the fact of the whole failure. In other words, in most cases people can not take this fact that they failed.

This denial is not only in the face but also in the mind, he wants to believe it. Although he understands that the distance is being created, he wishes to believe with passion, this distance is temporary, one day all will be alright. Although he fails to understand, he wants to think forcibly that this failure is temporary and it will be all right soon.

In this stage people can understand the denial and there is no profit to deny. The incident is really happening. He really failed in this particular matter. He's lost the man. At this moment he becomes very angry. That step has been called Anger.

At this time people feel angry at the person leaving him, feeling angry. This anger comes from rigorous behaviour, arguments, hitting tendency. The other side is either severely hit or completely ignored. Whenever there is a problem in the failure of some work, most people are angry at the work that comes in the rage. Many people are angry with those people who work with them to do his job. 

Since the work had ended and the results did not come well, so there is no special gain by rigors. And when the work is done, do you blame if the chance comes back? So this phase of rage ends one day.

One day when people see that their anger is not working. Nobody is able to see the undercurrent of their rage, and then it comes in bargaining tendency. It's called bargaining stage. People at this stage want to negotiate with the other side, but with some concessions, the other side wants to come back. If there is a temporary solution, after few days he gets annoyed with the deductions given by him, and he seems to have deceived him.

 The feeling of being lost is naturally quite deep in the mind of the lost people.

At one stage, the man gives up. Depression comes at this stage. Depressed people understand only what is depression. Not only about the relationship that is being discussed this time but also people are indifferent to many more. He can not find any meaning in his life and his work.

During the step each person has different types of complexities. Someone has less, some has more. But the fourth step or depression that lasts most in the lives of people. If you get out of it, you can get out of this flowchart. Those who can not, we find themselves committing suicide because of failure in love or in any work.

This step is called depression or sadness which is long lasting even though it is possible to overcome from this situation with his own efforts and with the help of his closed one. However, many people go to chronic depression. If there is no expert help on time, the person will be subjected to intense deliberations at any time. That is why we have to learn how to  overcome pain and suffering.

Fifth, when the last step of the depression is over, people accept at one point. He accepts that people can go away from life and the sooner they can cope the better. He admits that failure will come and he will accept this failure as quickly as possible and learn from it as much as he can to become successful. This step is called Acceptance. This accusation comes to this stage and does not have much trouble as before, but if you remember or remind me a little bit!

Anyway, to overcome any difficulty, agony, loss and trouble people have to undergo these five steps. It's a sort of process. The negativity in you is shivering. If there is a step left then there is a possibility of losing the balance. After going through all the steps, we see the golden period.

Life and Story

 Teacher’s Lunch

There was a teacher in our class who used to bring very delicious lunch to school every day. Smell of the yummy food of kebab or tandoori chicken used to come out his bag and those of us sitting in the front row used to die of hunger smelling it. We used to crave to have a single bite of it. One day, some us planned to steal the teacher’s lunch and for that we kept a close watch on him that day. We waited for him to leave his bag in the teachers’ room and go out. One of us instantly ran into the room, no other teachers were there and exchanged hid food with what one of my friends brought. The teacher later came back and probably never realised what we did with his food. We all later had an awesome time having his meal!

Party Blow

It was my cousin’s birthday. It was her first birthday party, celebrating her third birthday. In the evening, we prepared everything and called her. She stood on a chair and the cake was in front of her on a lower table. I lit up the candles and switched off the fan. Everybody, who was standing around the table, told out to blow out the candles. But she didn’t understand at first. After sometime, she smiled and said that it was easy. Then she dipped her mouth in the cake and tried to put the candles out. The cake was spilled on all our face as well as hers. Our beautiful dresses got spoilt. We were for a moment, very annoyed at such behavior. But then, all of us, including the three year-old child, burst into laughter. It was a very funny incident. Even when I recall it today, I laugh out loud.

 Victory Day

On our victory day I was strolling around the busy road of Dhaka near Dhaka University and saw a speeding car with our national flag on its bonnet, which make me think of something. Our epitome of pride is our national flag and it must be upheld with respect. This flag is not merely a piece of cloth, rather a true mixture of colours that signifies thirty million people who sacrificed their lives. Some of the so-called upper class people like to celebrate this victory day as any other day partying with friends. It is a day to be inspired, recalling the martyrs’ sacrifice, appreciation of liberty and liability to carry it out. But again it’s our own mishap that we still do not recognize ourselves. We carry our own identity as foreign supporters do for their favourite teams in sports. Can’t we uphold our identity with self-respect? Doesn’t this day inspire us to do so?

Paying to Go Home

After Eid when I got on a rickshaw one day and started towards Rifles Square in Dhanmondi, where my friends were waiting. The streets were still empty and it was turning out to be a joy ride. That was when my friend Salehin called me my cell phone and asked me to meet at the Dhanmondi Lake and Rifles Square. I asked the rickshaw puller to take me to the lake instead of the mall, when Salehin called again to let me know that no one will be going to the lake. The gang head now decided to stick to meeting at Rifles Square .irritated at the constant changes that were taking place, I asked the rickshaw puller once again if he could stick to the original point, when he informed me a stern tone that would take me wherever I wanted to as I pay him his dues. Humour struck and I asked him if he could take me all the way to “Amrika” (United States Of America) The rickshaw puller   said nothing, but parked his vehicle at the side of the street turned towards me and scowled, “I could not go to my village this Eid because I could not afford bus tickets for TK.300 a piece,” he retorted. “And you are talking about going all the way to ‘Amrika’?” After venturing out his frustration, the rickshaw puller   started towards Rifles Square once again.

Songs of Innocence

Nowadays, playgrounds are rare in urban areas. Beside our house there is an open space, where our neighbours’ children play. The other day , while I was watching them play happily, running around in what is the only open space in the neighbourhood, the landlord, who usually doesn’t even notice them passed by and started shouting at them and asking them to go home. The children looked broken hearted as they left to go home. This left me thinking, is it fair for our future generations not to have a space where they can enjoy nature and breathe fresh air?

Unusual Feast

A few days ago, it was almost midnight and I was returning home after work. It was the day of our glorious victory day and everywhere I could feel a sense of celebration. The air of winter was announcing its pretense powerfully. I was walking beside a community centre not very far from my residence. Suddenly a big crowd attracted my eyes. It was quite an unusual scene. I became curious and went to see what was up. Within moments everything became very clear to me. A man selling leftover food which he must have collected from nearest community centre and there were many poor people who were enjoying it at a very low price. Mainly rickshaw –pullers, day labourers and street urchins were consuming it. The fragrance of the food was all over the area. I saw a very small kid eating it happily. Suddenly I felt very bad after many years of independence, we could not provide the most basic need of our common people—food!

Material Boy

Every year I come back to Dhaka for the holidays and find a city that is somehow changing constantly while simultaneously never really moving forward. What stands out to me is the vigorous pace this evolution of lifestyle exclusively applies to the elite of our country. In a conversation I had with one my old high school friends I ran into at a cafe, she was casually joking about her two-year-old nephew refused to get into any other cars in their house except his maternal grandfather’s, a former BGMEA tycoon S-class Benz. Even though everybody else found this story very entertaining, it failed to humour me. Was I being judgmental towards a tiny toddler’s naivety? Or was I simply worried about how this illustrated very clearly how far removed members of our upper class are getting from the reality in which we live? We are spiraling out of control into a culture of materialism that will surely isolate us further from the mass population. It gives a glimpse into a future that horrifies me, one where the leaders and the rich will be even more irresponsible. I hope my pessimism remains a fear that does not have to be confronted.

Ghosts Exist as They Did in The Past

When I was a child, I used to get afraid of ghosts. People in villages often tell many stories about them. They say that in a particular tree of this or that area, or this or that bush, there lives an evil ghost, or a benevolent one. When dusk falls, when the day hastens to become night and trees get silhouetted against the sky, the vision of dark trees getting darker on the horizon used to filter a ghostly feeling in me.

It is said that during night-time, some even heard, in a particular tree, the moaning cry of a ghost turned so because the person whose ghost it was had died an unnatural death by committing suicide. I could not go through such an area, because of fear.

Even if I went through such a place with my elders at night, I used to grab them by my hands, lest a ghost or two jump at me from the nearby bush. Later when I grew a little bit older, I learnt to dismiss ghosts as mere superstitions like others. I used to taunt those who still believed in them. I became so courageous – not without fear of course! – that I could stay, like Srikanta of Sharatchandra Chattyopadhya, in the dark village graveyard with numerous unknown sounds of insects at night, betting with my boyhood friends, who still could believe that ghosts existed. My fear in the grave-yard was, however, generated by the poisonous reptiles and insects. The village graveyards were so bushy with numerous holes!

Prince Hamlet of Shakespeare had also seen a ghost, his father’s ghost, at the palace. His father was killed by his uncle who afterwards married the queen, now a widow, Hamlet’s mother. The ghost of Hamlet’s father enjoined the shocked and grieving prince to take revenge upon his killer brother who had unjustly captured the throne and married his wife.

Well, in Elizabethan England, Shakespeare could use such supernatural machinery, because then, the Shakespeare scholars have found, people still used to believe in ghosts. A modern reader of Hamlet, very justifiably, may find it difficult to accept this supernatural scene in the play. But to me, the scene does not appear unrealistic, if not rational. I don’t call the scene irrational either. There are many things that happen in the world which our rational mind is incapable of explaining. They are ever shrouded in mysteries. The ghost sighting scene in Hamlet and the madness of Hamlet later in the play have a sound psychological as well as spiritual basis. And human psychology and the world of spirituality are so unfathomable that our rational mind only touches the surface of them, cannot reach the deepest deep of the matter. Freudian critics have tried to explain the case of Hamlet, but I think they have not succeeded.

No, still I don’t believe in those stories of ghosts, that I used to hear during my child hood. I still reject those stories as mere super stations. But I am inclined to believe, or rather I am forced to believe, that ghosts and spirits exist, in the world beyond the natural and temporal, the world unknown shrouded in mystery, a holy mystery inviolable and unfathomable. And why? You are a ghost standing there or walking there in your flesh and bones. The ghosts inside you are commanding you to do this, don’t do that. Yours may be a ‘good’ ghost or an ‘evil’ ghost, a harmless ghost or a harmful ghost. The very ‘you’ is your ghost, the very ‘I’ is my ghost, and ‘we’ are our ghosts.

Mystically transformed, - indeed it is mystically there from time immemorial – this daily and mundane world of ours turns into a world of spirituality, a noble creation of Allah, for a definite and set purpose.

To many an intellectual, both of the east and the west, religion has become some sort of superstition nowadays, and rejecting religion – as I rejected the childhood stories of ghosts – has become a fashion to them, who are working as forces of disintegration, both at the individual as well as social levels. It is time to exorcise bad ghosts from the wrappings of bones and flesh.

Flower Power Short Story

 I was stuck in traffic in front of Sonargaon hotel, when I saw a very sweet-looking girl selling flowers on the street. I stopped her and bought a flower from her, giving her a tk.20 note, the flower was only tk.4 so she ran off to get the change while she was returning the traffic started moving and my driver had no choice but move forward. I figured my money had gone with the wind. However as I looked back, I saw the girl running after us. My driver stopped near the curb and she ran up to my window and handed me the change. I was so touched. It is amazing how even when faced with poverty, some people can still remain honest, while privileged people often tend to be dishonest and greedy. Just a thought..

An Ordeal

Last week I experienced an ordeal which I was always wary about when I ventured into the streets. I was going to my office from Kazir Dewry to Agrabad by rickshaw and the traffic was moving but slow. My rickshaw was passing a bus, when I felt something wet drop on my arm. I looked at it and screeched. Some uncouth person from the bus had spit out of the window and the bomb landed on me! I was so revolted at the sight I felt like cutting off my arm. I had to go back home for a shower and was inevitably late for work. I never understood the habit of Bangladeshis spitting in all directions every five minutes.

 Bargaining

Bargaining is truly an art. I realized how much of an art it was once when I went to new market with my friend one day to buy some clothes for him. A lady was there with her teenage son, who was looking somewhat self conscious and also a little embarrassed. At first we could not figure out the reason behind the boy’s wary glances all around, after a little while we have no doubts as to why he was feeling like that. We guessed that the boy was leaving for college soon and that was the reason behind the buying spree. The lady was going around from one shop to another and asking prices of almost every clothing article there was. After the shopkeeper said the price, the woman looked clearly shocked, no matter how reasonable it was. And she didn’t stop there. She went a further step and asked the shopkeeper if he would give the item for quarter of the price. The shopkeeper looked extremely irritated and said a big no. This continued for a while and in vain. Nothing seemed to satisfy the woman and the poor boy seemed to grow more timid at every shout his mom gave to the shopkeepers. A small crowd had also started gathering around to watch her. It was enough for us. We decided to leave the scene immediately.

Broken Heart

I am a 17-year old boy. I am going to take my O level exams in 2019. I have been studying at a coaching centre for some time now. I have many friends there, both male and female. From among those girls there is one girl, Susmita that I have fallen in love with. I don’t know how she feels about me but I want to tell her about my feelings. My problem is that I am shorter than she is. But without her I won’t be able to succeed in life. Please tell me how can get my confidence back.

Great Confusion

I am a 29-year old man and I have completed my post graduation in mathematics. I have a female friend who has also completed her post graduation in economics. She is a very good friend of mine. She has a younger sister who is a 2^nd year student at university. She is very pretty. A few months ago we fell in love with each other. We had decided to get married. But the problem is that recently I came to know that my friend is also very much in love with me and wants to marry me at any rate. But I have always thought of her as just a good friend and I do not feel anything else for her. I just want her younger sister. Will this be unfair? Please advise me on what I should do?

At a loss!

I am a final year BCom student I adore a girl that I used to know in school. I could not tell her about my love when we were in school. Afterwards I wrote to her saying that I idolized her and I would marry her after I got established. She responded positively and since then we have been writing to each other .It has been approximately three years since that and now we live far away from each other and hardly ever meet. Still I adore her so deeply that I feel that she is beside me all the time. But now she is old enough to get married and I am still in no position to marry her. But it will be very difficult for me to live without her. Please tell me what I should do.

Darkness Conundrum

I am a twelve- year old girl. Recently I have joined in a new school after studying in Sylhet . I think that I am very ugly. I have big teeth and I am very dark and fat. That is the reason that the girls in my class don’t like to make friends with me. I feel very lonely at school and also very upset when I see others talking and laughing.  Sometimes I see girls pointing at me and giggling. I cry every night before going to bed because of these things. I hate going to school for that. I don’t even feel like studying.  I think the teachers hate me too. My mother tells me to go and make friends but I am scared of the girls. What can I do?