BREAKING NEWS!! BREAKING NEWS !!!
Look forward to the lists to be uploaded on December the 31 st 2007
These and many more…….Coming soon !!!
Don’t miss. So, watch out........
love,
sharmee
If you ask me what about Dhaka University I have enjoyed the most, I will probably say it is my illegal stays at Rokeya Hall. The hall authority tries their best to prevent illegal aliens (like me) even from entering into that land of gold. There is a three-fold security system; at the main gate, at the road leading to the dormitories and then at the gate of the dormitories. But hey we are bahadur bangalis; tougher than toughest immigration laws couldn’t prevent us from entering into the US and many other countries, what big deal is Rokeya Hall? Our Bengali brethren have set great examples of walking across deserts or swimming across oceans to reach to their coveted places – countries like Poland or Cyprus. Some have even tried to fly clinging onto the tyre or the propeller of the airplane to go to Dubai or Abu Dhabi. When we want to go somewhere, we GO there. It would have been a great disgrace if we failed to enter the hall. It really involved very little effort compared to the enormous travels our brothers have undertaken.
I could talk about the 101-ways-of-sneaking-in, but if that becomes public knowledge, the authorities will try to mend the loopholes and many illegal aliens like me will be deprived of the exquisite pleasure of that life. It is public interest that I am safeguarding. If you really want to know about it, I will give you some tips in private; tips that were given to me by a senior student (in private, of course).
[to be continued]
We are in a dire need for a hero. I have been searching one for myself for long. An article some Fridays back in the Star Weekend Magazine has reinforced that search to a great extent. I am firm and resolute. I will not sit still now until I find a hero. Not necessarily tall, dark and handsome; nor essentially bold, young and restless— he will only have to possess the passion/ splendor worth a hero . I am ready to discount heavily for the wanted one. If I can only discover the slightest glint of unadulterated heroism, I am ready to idolize him/ her for the rest of my life. Hence begins my quest for the hero of all seasons. Someone whose greatness will make him rise above the ordinary.
But heroes are extremely scarce; on top of that, you can never be satisfied with one hero these days, commented my best friend. It is the age of diversity, dude! Pluralism is the only mantra. Take the face of Michelangelo’s David, place it over the body of Brad Pitt, add the courage of Achilles and the compassion of Gautam Buddha, dress him in a fashionable summer suit from Armani’s; and for the premium twist, endow him with the wit of Mark Twain and the intelligence of Stephen Hawkins! Shake it well and serve it cool. Priceless, isn’t it? For everything else there is Master Card. Don’t forget to hand him that, too. As long as poverty doesn’t find its way to the museum, a poor hero might just fail to make a heroic impression.
See, what television has done to these people? However, I will not let my cynic friend (or anyone else, for that matter) daunt my determination. My search is still on.
My all time search companion Google has just disappointed me highly. The first item in the result is some Hercules Offshore Inc. Then there is a gateway to UK universities, one film, and a lot of other sites for a hip TV show called Heroes… mind you my reader… it is HEROES …Plural…
Classical heroes will not be a good choice. The out and out un-heroic setting of Bangladesh today won’t be a favorable ground for them to perform heroically. Achilles will have to constantly guard his ornamented shield from muggers. However, protecting it from them won’t be sufficient. The newly aware income tax people won’t let him be at peace. He will be charged for having gold shields without proper license, or riding horses without proper training. The newly alert police department might also get him by his heels and cast him behind bars for failing to show a plausible source of income. “My mother carved it for me” won’t be, as far as I think, a credible explanation. It could be different if it was his mother-in-law. Everybody in this country knows how behind every great riches exist the blessings of (one or more) great and generous parents-in-law. Achilles, adieu….you are not my hero.
Let’s now see, ladies and gentleman, if a screen hero can salvage us. I have quite a few choices. Let’s weigh them one by one. I hate spiders ... so spider-man is out. Don’t even ask me to consider Super-man; see, he cannot even hide his obnoxious underwear. Batman is not smart enough and X-men are not good enough. I was thinking of considering Mr. Harry Potter, but a friend told me how thinking about an underaged hero can really get me the label of a pedophile. Bourne has forgotten his identity, Neo has lost his world, Don is dead and Bond is out of circulation. Screen heroes are no good. So, Out! Out! you brief candle…
Now, as I turn to pick a hero out of the political leaders, the disappointment is even more intense. There cannot be any debate about the incompetence of our own Hasina-Khaleda. They are corrupt, selfish, phony and merely self-serving leaders. But these adjectives can be used unequivocally about other political leaders. Take for example George Bush or John Howard or Than Shew or Osama Bin Laden. Kofi Anan failed to maintain world-peace, so did Ghali, so will Ban Ki- moon. They cannot be my hero. They are not good enough. Or is it that I am too hard to please? I don’t think so. I just don't want to settle for less. After allI I am in search of a true hero.
It is an impossible search. I cannot idolize anybody. I don’t have any great footsteps to follow. Is true heroism really impossible in our times?
The Hero is DEAD. Long live the Hero.
When we were preparing for Australasian Intervarsity Debating Championships [or Australs, for short] back in July 2004, I was quite confident in my abilities. I told our teacher, Meher Nigar June, like a self-confident pompous jerk “Ma'am don’t worry; I am a fast learner.”
She was not happy. the conversation that followed was something like this--
MNJ: fast-learner? I see. But you should rather say you are a hard-worker.
Me: Yes Ma’am. I am that too. [just imagine whatta pompous lying jerk I was]
MNJ: oh, well…
I haven't learnt a great deal from life. But the things I did manage to learn came a little too late. so late, that they were of little significance. It is like the NTV people learning to use the Oxygen cylinder after the entire building had been burnt down and all the films and documents were totally destroyed. An opportunity to apply the skill ofcontrolling fire is of little value now. But there could be a “next time”... who knows? Had they learnt it earlier from numerous garment-factory- fiery-tragedies, the price could have been less. NTV folks must be real “boka” too.
Ma says I took a very long time to learn to read. When my siblings could spell considerably long and complex polysyllabic words like “[e for] elephant” or “[t for television]”, I was stuck at the first letter of the alphabet; all I could do was to modestly spell a-p-p-l-e = apple. After I went to school, my parents found to their dismay that I was fast at learning to swear, fight and do all other kinds of evil deeds but still slow with studies.
It was probably the time when I had emerged as an accomplished popstar. During the Tiffin break, I would go running to different senior students [mostly girls], give a smile and ask them to buy me a Jhalmuri or Amra worth 1 taka. I was considerate enough not to put my 10-11 year old patrons through too much financial hurdles by asking for a 2 taka candy-floss or a 5 taka ice-cream. As time went by and my fame grew, I started to sing half-correct songs in absolutely incorrect melody or recite a newly learnt nursery rhyme with vigorous body movements to a larger audience. Many more patrons were now eager to see me dancing and singing; and then pay for my Jhalmuri. My brother, who was then in class 1, discovered my performance-spree at some point and reported to Ma about it. My artistic endeavors were banned.
The two lessons learnt were: 1. [from the secondary source: Ma] It was not respectable for a singer-dancer to perform everywhere. 2. [from the primary source] My smile had the potential to get me some of the things I wanted.
Then, there is the peeing extravaganza. By public demand, it can also be titled as the national pastime activity jointly with the previous one. I will not elaborate it any further. But if you are a Bangladeshi, you know what I am talking about. It will be infinitely difficult to find a wall in Dhaka that has not been adequately showered by the natural springs. For us, “All the world’s a lavatory… And all menmerely pee-ers." This is how Dhaka works. We are bahadur bangalees; we are crude, so? What’s the big deal?
We are shameless in these aforementioned (and some more) cases… but don’t you think that we lack shame altogether. We get absolutely tongue-tied with shame and embarrassment whenever it is “Love” that we are dealing with.
Love. Yes... whenever we see people in love, we, the bangalees are disturbed. We say this and that... we criticize and comment. Lovers are a forbidden race here in this pseudo conservative Islamic state. But still young men and women all over Bangladesh fall in love. Like everywhere else, they make promises and break them; they share moments of delight or pangs of separation. But public display of affection is an absolute no-no.
So where do the lovers go?
Next came the fast food places with fancy and ambitious names like Pizza Corner, Pizza Place, Pizza Palace and Pizza Howdy. Lovers went there and found out that they sold everything but pizzas . They sell small kababs inside small buns and call them Burgers; they also sell big kababs inside a big buns; and call them Hotdogs. . The prices were high but privacy was low. Moreover, those places were heavily lighted. Some places with dim lights like Big Bite (no pun intended) and some with affordable price like Arabian Fast Food managed to retain their places in the lovers’ lists; others were soon closed down.
Then came many lounges and many cafes. The lounge sofas would always be occupied by snooty teenage wanna-bees and the cafes were all appropriated by all those arty pretentious bores. Lovers would always feel out-of-place in their company. We, the bangalees (both snooty and arty), frowned at them… got irritated at their small signs of affection. You know, We don’t like to see public display of affection. Pissing in public is acceptable to us but kissing in public is absolutely intolerable. We are bahadur Bangalees; we are hypocrites. so? whats the big deal?
Not-so-rich lovers from the northern part of the city, however, have come up with a unique solution. Garments workers, motor mechanics, domestic helps and rickshaw pullers are now redefining the dating culture. They take a bus up to the Mohakhali fly-over and meet their beloved there. Then, together, they walk up to the middle of the bridge holding each others hands. Then standing by the railing, they do their small love-talks. Buses carrying bahadur bangalees discharge diesel smoke at them; Speeding cars of unsatisfied rich lovers whoosh past them. They remain oblivious to the surrounding....the traffic, dust and smoke. From the temporarily elevated level, the dirty old Dhaka resonates of love and hope for them. We the Bahadur Bangalees curse them from our caves. Chi Chi, What has the desh become?? No lojja… No shorom…. All these people holding hands on the flyover. It is prohibited to even walk on a flyover abroad. Chi chi… There is no niyom in this desh.
new faces always remind me of old times...
i wont lie to you about it; but sometimes in the faces of my students, I see faces of my friends... companions... acquaintances ... it is weird. but anybody who is in the teaching profession will probably agree with me.
university never changes... there's always one or two nerds asking pertinent but sharp questions about this or that...trying to trap the teacher....only the smarter teachers can keep their 'superiority platform' intact (yes, yes i am one of them) at the face of those arrowing queries. Still you can never dislike these kids who make you feel the need for self-improvement every day. And of course, there are the beauty queens ... whenever they open their mouth to speak (which happens rarely) there is a pin-drop silence in the class.. everybody looks at them (or at their mouths to be specific...lipstick and all that).. many hearts palpitate fast as they slowly ask a very ordinary question in an epic fashion. “didn’t I just explain it?” the teacher smiles, while the nerds frown. The class goes on. Then there are the rock-stars; boys and girls -- smart and witty, cool and in-control -- without whom the class is never a fun. And there is the rest of the student populace... who shine dimly and half-dimly in the class. However, it’s not altogether unusual when a rather dim one flashes out like the Halley’s Comet and outshines everyone else.
the first class of a new semester usually begins with “getting-to-know-each-other” type questions… I ask them about their schools, colleges, hobbies and so on… and then I ask them to ask me questions some of the first questions I get are something like this:
madam, are you married?
“No.”, I say, “happy?”
“Yes”, they say, with a chuckle spreading from ear to ear. (didn’t I just sound Eliotic?)
Another FAQ is why did you choose to take up teaching? Now that’s what makes me think. In my very brief three-semester teaching career, I had to answer it several times. Half-heartedly speaking, I gave them half- witty or rather half-honest answers. After all, who wants to engage into a “why” discourse in an Eng-101 class? As I am digging deep into the question today, I wouldn’t mind finding the answer to the big WHY?
My friends in the university are a great influence. Tuhi and some other girls always thought I would be terrific teacher. Once in a summer afternoon I taught them poetry (adrienne rich) basking in the lavish Rokeya Hall lawn … now I realize that they read so little themselves that it was extremely difficult for me not to have sounded intellectual. My friend Moushum also thought I could be a good teacher; but in addition to that, she also knew about my infinite indolence and of course, my near-zero time sense. Moushum never thought I could fit into a 9 to 5 work schedule. cheers dosto! I also think alike… great minds do so.
Had we but world enough and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state;
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity;
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now, therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped pow'r.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
Dear Rain:
Stop whining…. there is no use of it anymore.
Yes I know how I loved you for a long time… yes I remember how I have run out of my house again and again to feel your touch on my face…yes, I admit that I felt drums beating in my veins when I came close to you… yes, I confess that you have poured in so much happiness into my soul that I no longer sought it anywhere else. I remember how you have loved me softly in many occasions and how sometimes you have grown wild and came whip-lashing on me…. yes, you have given me those rare moments of magic when sheer physical pains metamorphosed into frenzied ecstasies…
When you came to me, I always held you close… I had you all over me…I drowned myself into your passionate embrace… but I could never hold you back. I have agreed to all your playfulness, didn’t I? But I could never make you stay.
Baby, I need you but I won’t want you anymore. I will never ask you to stay or to make a promise of returning to me... There is always someone who loves you more…there is always someone who needs you more. Do I not know that? I am closing my windows on you. Yes, my love, I disown you tonight. I am liberating you from me, your unbearably possessive lover. I will only be a voyeur (and not a victim anymore) of your spectacle. I will be watching you from a distance, but only with an artistic detachment.
Yours,
Sharmee
As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.
And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
"Love has no ending.
"I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,
"I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.
"The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world."
But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
"O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.
"In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.
"In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.
"Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.
"O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.
"The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.
"Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.
"O look, look in the mirror?
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.
"O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart."
It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.
Lives Not LivedI was a bad student in school... in fact ( if I avoid the euphemisms),I was an awful student. Inever reached to the top ten.. no, not even top twenty... not even top thirty!!I made my highest achievement in school whenI was in class VII; I was 58th. Iused tobe proud thatI had at least made it to the top sixties. My childhood friend Tilat never made it this high after class III... and it is a truth universally acknowledged that it is much tougher to be 58th in class VII than to be 1st or 2nd in class III.
The first timeI flunked my math and science courses whenI was in class V... Maa couldn’t believe it (her daughter?! her daughter?! ). She was so embarrassed that she decided to go to Rajshahi to bury her shame... she did that. My mama went to get my report card and my teachers severely complained to him about my misdeeds, mishaps and missed classes!I prayed hard to mother earth to open up and swallow me in.... but alas... she was indifferent; she didn't understand the emergency! Too busy to hear the prayers of a 10-year-old. however her decision wasn't that bad; after all, where would this 25 year old blogger come from if mother earth had embraced her that day... life has her strange ways to dictate us.
I have suddenly rediscovered my SSC mark-sheet today. That’s the reason whyI am writing this drivel about school today.I remembered that i got 4 letters (more than 80%)in SSC but couldn’t think which subjectsI achieved those distinctions in.I discovered thatI got letters in Science (!), Maths (!!), Agricultural Science (!!!) and Religion (!!!!).... can you belive it?I cannott make even tiny calculations without calculators (thank god Samsung mobile phones have them), cant stand reading even science-fiction; and i got letters in maths and science! if you know me even for a week, you would know that the only muslim thing about me is my last name... and i got distinctions in Islamiat... ah selukas! what a strange world!
Some more feathers were added to my distinction glories after my HSC. From standing 58th out of a class of 200 students, I stood 16th in the Dhaka Board out of almost two hundred thousand students. So many doors of possibilities werewide open. I could have been a mathematician or a woman moulana or a shrimp-specialist or at least an entomologist…. I could not be any of those. Instead I ended up eventually as a student of English literature (where I topped the class, imagine that); and now I am a university teacher, something I never dreamt of becoming.
There is a famous “road” poem by Robert Frost where you always get to choose from two roads “diverged in a yellow wood”… the traveler stands “and look[s] down one as far as [one] could / To where it bent in the undergrowth”. He thinks and ponders; evaluates and reevaluates... and then takes the “different” one, the one he claims to be “less traveled by”.
But if you ask me… it all bullshit!
You never have any choice. Life chains you .. punches you on the face... handcuffs you and takes you to gallows. when (the hell) do you have time to ponder and choose between roads? Robert Frost had time. ... you dont. all you have is a drab and colorless one way. you cant even look back. there are crashes and bangs; speeding faces and fading music. your memory blots out every time you try recollect whether there was any other way or not. there was no other way...there is none!
enjoy your r.i.d.e.
As Things Fell Apart
Days of Laughter and Forgetting
My mind was crammed with these thoughts and other memory bubbles when I spotted out one of my teachers in cyberspace. A mail from a young and hyperactive teacher was waiting in my Yahoo mailbox with an earnest call to submit memoirs, reminiscences or reflections for the next issue of the Alumni News. I, not yet fully an alumnus and never a writer (not in the most liberal terms), immediately decided to answer his call. I decided to write about my very fresh memories from the English Department. Teachers, said my best friend, have strange ways to make you work. I could not fully agree because the person who made us work the most in the department was Shushilda, our office assistant.
Let’s suppose you don’t know the location of the English Department. You climb up the stairs to the first floor of the Arts building; you look right and left and then take the less crowded corridor. You wonder why the corridor is so empty until you come to a department office. If you see that the students are all lined up (no overtaking please!) in front of the secretary’s table waiting to get their jobs done while listening to great secrets of physical fitness, Bingo! You have come to the right place. Meet Shushilda (popularly abbreviated from Shushil Dada); anybody who has studied in the English department after 80’s has at least one story about him. Most of us have more!
During the last six years, I had to line up several times in the department office for Shushilda’s mercy. I too, who is universally regarded as an impatient listener, had to listen to his “fitness” monologues or stories about his unrequited puppy loves. I was at the end of a long trail the first day I went for my BA admission when some smart-alecky fresher asked him “Who is the new chairman, Mama?” if only Shushilda was the mythological Medusa, we all would end up as stone-sculptures decorating various corners of the campus. “Am I your Mama?” Pause 20 seconds. “Why did you call me Mama?” Another 20 seconds. “Here, give me a tight thappor but don’t call me Mama.” Angry and disappointed, Shushilda left keeping the long trail of would-be English students plunged into deep perplexity. When he came back after some twenty minutes, we already knew that keeping the queue straight was highly important, calling Mama was a great offence and the current chairman was Professor Niaz Zaman. Some of the peace-loving students actually started calling Shushilda “Sir” to avoid further problems. The queue this time was much longer and incredibly straight.
It was not long before I started being seen sauntering across the corridors of the Arts Building or singing passionately in the lush green lawns of TSC or simply enjoying the breathtaking view of Krishnachura from the top-floor of the International Hall. This was the time when I became friendly with a rather mediocre girl; all my other friends were highly disappointed. I enjoyed with her the mornings of the Probhat-feri and the evenings of Lalon songs at the famous Bokultola of the Charukola Institute. She introduced me to the exciting world of university debating, which later became my prime passion. Together with her, I represented Rokeya Hall for the first time in an inter-hall debating championship. My debating career took off from there which eventually took me to various national and international tournaments across the globe.
Our days of laughter and forgetting will come to an official end in some days. The old familiar faces of the corridors have already been silently distributed amongst different private universities or in various telephone companies across Dhaka. I am all ready to go to the next alumni get-together: no, not to sing “Yesterday Once More” as a miming member of a 25-member chorus or as a volunteering flower-girl, but for the first time as a true alumnus. Meanwhile, I must thank my hyperactive teacher for getting me into the shoes of an almost-writer.
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