I did not think that Motiur would call me up; he was the employee of the office I had managed for about a year some years ago, and I had built such a rapport with the staff that many shared with me their personal stories. His call came out of the blue and I was for a moment wondering what favor he was going to ask me. I thought it was a courtesy call just to keep tap of the people who have some say in his job, and that is what he too mentioned that he just wanted to keep in touch with me, though i hardly visit his office. But what he said surprised me on several fronts. He is a young Muslim, who is struggling alone both within and without. In the office, he finds himself helpless like all the others, but now has decided to show that being helpless is not going to help anyone, and has volunteered to be the public relations officer to tie the loose ends.
I had a lot of regards for this young man, who had a flair for writing lyrics, and in one of the modern Bengali songs album that i coordinated to produce, he contributed lyrics for four songs, with my ideas given flesh and blood. He was happy to get an opportunity to explore this field of lyricism and was happy about it. He was a creative person who did not want to waste his life in useless, worthless thinking and talk. But the circumstances did not much favor him, and he was often downcast because he would think one and something else would happen to him, and so he would be chased from pillar to post often. He did not want to get married, because he thought to feed another mouth, and yet another in the later years, might become a herculean task for him, but he could not avoid compulsion from the family.
But while talking to me, he said that he was trying to accept all that life offers him with open heart; including the fact that his wife had ran away from the house they were living in with their daughter, threatening to commit suicide by jumping from the train. I could not believe this would happen to him. The issue is silly though. He wanted to repair the small house, where he had been a tenant for several years, and at the death of the owner has come to own the house. He took his benefits from the Provident Fund and decided to repair the house; but his wife wished him to get a refrigerator and a micro-oven. He could not compromise, and that resulted in his wife running away.
Just one of his phrases caught my attention - that was the cruel laughter of fate! He does not believe in fate, but sometimes could not help but console himself that what is destined for him would happen, whether he likes it or not. Life is cruel, often it is so. What can we do when bad things happen to good people? Or when good things happen to bad people? Is there any place where we can complain and get justice? Unfortunately it is the same story with each one of us. In my mother tongue, there is a proverb which says, there is a door-step to every house; each of us have our own stories of confronting the bitter realities of life. It gets filled with riddles for which we have no clue, not to talk about the solution. We find ourselves going in circles!
Today I would like to pause for a while and think of the hundreds of Motiurs I come in touch with each day; I would like to look at their faces, and read the stories that their faces betray. I will not have any answer to them, may not even a sympathetic word, or a pat of approval. In such circumstances, even my silent presence with them can be a great source of consolation. If they are able to get a feeling that in this battle with life, they are not alone, then they will get enough strength and courage to face the tempests that may sweep through their lives. Often I find myself in situations, where I am just helpless, and cannot look up for help from any known quarters. Let me in those moments look up to the endless skies and feel the millions of stars giving me company, whispering in my ears that they too had not much option than be what they are!
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