When all the ways were blocked and I was bouncing ,bouncing ,bouncing back , desperately trying to find an escape ,it was the question of life or death.

If I couldn't escape , I was sure to die.

I sensed the cruelty of the conspiracy in the air...

Kill him but no bloodshed.
Kill him but no hasty action.
Let him starve and die...

Or ...

Surrender ...

But Socrates had never surrendered.
I was bouncing ,bouncing , bouncing back , desperately trying to find an exit ,so I couldn't surrender. Besides , the university dean who wanted me arrest, the publisher who ensured my success and the great J.B. Shaw who made the artist starve his wife were guiding my way.
My strong determination, will power and great expectation were at war.
I was sure to find a leakage. I was sure of my victory.

My head was bleeding from the repeated bounce. Fear of death was threatening.
At last...

One heart slightly opened the door and let me escape. (Most probably without knowing how dangerous I was to their belief )

Family again !
Father, mother,
Sister again !

Love again !

And I was secured !
Oh the village , my beloved village again !
Though I reached the village all empty , I had a dream secret in my heart.
I was dreaming. And my dream was made by famous people -
a university dean , a publisher and the great J.B. Shaw.
I was a million dollar man.

My home coming was silenced by the sad inside feeling.

Looking up at my face father remained silent.

'okay '
I read his silent message.

'You've grown thinner '
Mother looked a little worried. And that was all. I entered my room. My little sister was not at home and no kids followed me this time.
Why ?

I wondered.

Storms were blowing over the cups at the tea stall. Fishy whispers were travelling from ears to ears in the village. The village , my beloved village knew who I was. Every atom. But the same village looked at me differently this time as if I was a stranger , criminal ,sinner.
And there was silent hatred in the eyes. All these happened because of the whispers that travelled from Dhaka and settled in the village like an ominous octopus.
'He has gone mad '
'English study makes him mad '

too much education is bad '
'You see '
'He has converted into christian '
'an athiest '
'Write against Islam'
'Like Salman Rushdie'
'Like Toslima Nasreen '
'How dare ! born of a muslim family'
'Oh the poor parents !'
Though my parents sheltered me , I know , there was not that warmth as before.
The river of love was not flowing as before.
Religion was blinding their hearts and blocking the way.

Next day I was adjusting with this new situation.

Cooling down.

Cooling down after that sudden escape from the death trap in Dhaka.
Cooling down at the place where my umbilical cord had been buried.

The tensed feeling that shocked me when I met my parents , was melting away to loving ,comfortable ,usual and easy flow.

Everything turned normal.
Mother became mother again.
Father became father again.
Sister became sister again.
Three things worked like soothing balm.

I lay on my mother's lap and explained my views. She understood but

warned me not to share with others.

I showed my book that made them a little proud though they couldn't read.

I was expecting a reply from Penguin India.

Another six months to suffer and I must have the contract.
Million dollar contract.
So I was a million dollar man.
Mother was looking at me foolishly. Her eyes wanted to glow in hope but unrealistic doubt shook her voice,
"If they say 'no'..."
But they couldn't say no. I assured mother. Famous publishers in Dhaka advised me to send the scripts. They were sure of my success.
"still , giving up job was not wise " mother confirmed "we are suffering "
She looked as if she was the wisest philosopher.

Two note books were gifted in the afternoon.
Two note books attached with love ,dream and pride.

My little sister started to believe I was a writer. At least considered me as so.
The million dollar dream had just played the trick. Tremendously influenced her , no doubt.
I felt a little hesitant to express my thanks and joy. In the coming days , I must finish, at least , two novels. Just to make her happy.

The problem was I was not habituated to writing with pens for a long

time but I decided to write. (I had to sell my computer for paying house rent and hotel due back in Dhaka )
Without my computer I was literally inactive. I couldn't write. And I didn't write for many days.
My little sister pushed me into the track again. I started working on 'The Shoe Mender '
I started but left on the half way. I just couldn't think. And so I couldn't write. Anything.
Something was blocking my thought channel. Was seductive medicine secretly mixed with my drinking water or tea ?
I was not sure but I doubted. Someone wanted me inactive blocking my thought channels. Perhaps. Perhaps not. I was just growing a psycho.
At the advance of the night, after eating supper , I would feel drowsy and fall asleep. Every night. Why I didn't know.

I tried hard to keep me up but nothing would work. My two lids would gradually be heavy and I would drowse to sleep.
I became a thoughtless dummy.
Though two small note books stirred my inside ,another important event made me an intensifier.
I intensified my father's belief.
To remove his fear.

To drive his mind into a heavenly state.
Deception played the catalyst. I really didn't want to break my father's heart or his old belief. Because he was old enough to die any time.
Old men fear the hell.
Father came back from mosque just after saying his asr prayer. White topi on his head. Rosary in his hand. Fingers were moving past the beads. Engrossed in silent repeatation of the holy words.
Father slowly came near me.
I looked up from 'The Old Curiosity Shop ' by Dickens.
"They say you write against Islam "
I wrote the assuring short note.
"No, I don't. I just write the truth."
Father read the note silently. A huge smile spread over his face.
"I know , I know. You can't do that. They are wrong. " He put the note in his pocket and left me.
I began to wonder who were they talking to father?
The mosque goers, villagers ,neighbors and the friends.
Two years back, he could believe them. But at this moment he couldn't believe. After getting the gift from me, and that was the holy koran with Bangla meaning ,father just couldn't believe them. Besides , he knew I had read the koran. So I couldn't write against Islam.

I gifted the koran to intensify his belief , to remove his fear. The fear that he was suffering from ,was the fear of hell. I wanted him to die fearless. I wanted him to know the koranic principles and apply them in his old days.
As I couldn't give him proper food, care and medicine, I deceived him. I deceived him to drive his mind from the pain and suffering to the spiritual divinity where he could remain happy.
I was playing with his mind. Driving him far ,far away from his worldly pains and suffering.
I was deceiving him but he couldn't feel. He couldn't feel because he

trusted me so much . He did what I asked him to do.

Two cooling down and adjusting days went by. I was still at home , taking preparation for my next move.
To make all the whispers that travelled from Dhaka real ,I decided to feign madness.

My shaven head (Some christian and buddhist often do ),would perfectly match my purpose, I knew. At that time my conscious mind and senses were working furiously. So I decided to harness.
I focused my mind to a point in the sky from where I could only watch and observe but I couldn't feel ,couldn't listen , couldn't understand .
I couldn't speak and react. (except with my family members )
Next morning , I emerged from the cocoon. To sense the outer world.
Fixing my eyes at distant blank ,I started walking fast as if I was extremely busy.
Walking on the village read ,busy...busy ...busy...

I simply started to avoid all shouting that were coming from the villagers who had seen me for the first time after so many years, though they had heard of my madness and whispers.
All the shouters' enthusiastic voice subsided as they found no response. They looked at each other foolishly. Silent messages passed from eyes to eyes , confirming my madness.
Their heads nodded confirming all the whispers.
And I kept walking fast ,proving them correct.

"Friend !"
a had been dear voice from the shop at the bridge shouted, but I hastened my speed.
When I reached the crossing ,two school days friends blocked my ways.
"When have you come ?"
"We heard many things but didn't believe "
My eyes blinked and looked at them blankly.
I hadn't seen them in my whole life I proved.
"It's me."
"It's me"
They insisted proving they were friends.
I hoisted no response signal and squeezed past them leaving them completely foolish. I speedily encircled the village market for nothing.
Then I entered the tea stall. Another school days friend, the tea seller, was busy making tea. I took a seat at the corner and kept sitting. My eyes were empty ,looking and yet not looking. And I was silent.

But my mind flashed back to the school day when we were chasing the tea seller and he was trying madly to escape. Suddenly his lungi(we used to put on lungi then) got caught in the bench while he was running. In his struggle to get escape , he left the lungi caught and ran naked in to the nearby banana orchard.
While he was running , his penis was swinging like horses'. We laughed

out loud .We took the lungi to him but he was furious.
He started to punch because all the girls had seen him and giggled.
The tea seller left the school forever.
The tea seller saw me and came to me with a broad smile. (Most probably he was aware of the gossip but didn't believe like my two other school friends )
"When have you come ?"
I felt the warmth of friendship but I couldn't response. Only my eyes blinked several times

"He has gone completely mad "the big mustache relayed to the tea seller. "he can't hear, he can't speak "
But the tea seller was not affected. His broad smile broadened.
"He is acting .I know him. Once he made us call in a doctor but actually he was acting. He made us fool. "
The tea seller pushed me.
"Stop acting "
he kept pulling and pushing but I was rolling the glass on the table and was thinking 'what would be the reaction if I throw and break.'
Then decided not to.
The tea seller broad smile suddenly shortened and vanished when he realized I was not acting. Genuine worry shadowed his face.
He set me free and started to share with others.
"What we thought and what he has become, "his voice was wet with emotion.
"He was the first boy of our class. He should be the most successful man

but he has become nothing - the bloody poet. So many times we requested him to stop this but no ... He wouldn't listen. Ah his poetry made him mad and beggar. "
Then the tea seller with his watery eyes made a cup of tea and set on the table to see his mad friend drink.
The tea remained there without touch and turned cold.
I stood up. I must go.

I came to the street. The street that leads to the garbage of nonsense ,to the beautiful beach with vast peaceful knowledge on the front , has always fascinated me.

The run was up, saying almost noon. Eid craze was in the air. People were coming to the roots.

The rickshaw pullers, the van pullers and the shopkeepers were curious while I was walking on.

I was the target of curiosity but my mind was reverberating 'poet and beggar '.
'poet and beggar '
'poet and beggar'
'poet and beggar '


The poet whose smile was as beautiful as god's and who went to school to beat his teacher brother with a long bamboo stick because he had not been served food, flashed through my mind.
Seeing the poet so wild I rushed out of the class room and went straight to him.
The poet looked at me with a strange wonder in his eyes and threw the

stick.
He gave the smile of god and held my hand.
I followed him spellbound.
I followed him to the river bank where he spread his note book and started writing poems.
With that heavenly smile he asked me to copy.

I copied the hair, forehead, eyes, nose, lips, chin, neck, breasts, belly, blue button, waist, bum and the smile with dream and emotion.
I copied the beautiful naked figure of the poet's beloved who was sitting on the stone steps, submerged upto the waist, head rested on the left hand and the right hand stretching to catch the moon.
The water of the pond was still and ripple less. Her beauty was exposed to the silence.
"Beauty "the poet was exuberant and proud "perfect beauty, better than Mona Lisa."
So the poet's beloved was nothing but a nymph, half woman and half fish.
The fish part was submerged in the cool water.
The boatmen were rowing the boat, white swans were crossing gently, the soothing breeze was blowing soothingly and the sun was playing hard on the three top while the poet introduced me with the womanly beauty. (half part only )

I was speechless.

I didn't know then that his beloved would kill him brutally three days later and the poet would never write another poem describing her beauty.
The beauty of the beloved that lives in the poet's heart.

There was a real Jolpori living beside the poet's house. She was beautiful. She was rich. Her four dashing brothers guarded her beauty. And she had a vast pond with stone steps where she used to bathe in the moon. Like the poet's beloved 'Jolpori 'who was only half woman.

That day the poet was walking alone. As usual. His dirty cloth bag (all his poems, his clothes and rice wrapped in banana leaf were in it ) was hanging from his shoulder. His long crisp hair was flying in the air. His two broken jaws were exposing his long yellow teeth (not brushed for days ). His eyes set deep in his pockets were wild in some excitement.
The poet was walking silently lost in his thoughts .
The road was remote and lonely.

Four dashing brothers in two motor bikes encircled the poet like a violent furious storm - cruel and brutal.
"son of a bitch, have you written this ?"the big brother thundered.
The poet was surprised to see it was his poem 'Jolpori' and was about to snatch it.
"I've lost it. I've lost it. Where have you found ?
"The son of bitch insulted our sister ,our family"
The poet could not say anything more because hockey sticks were hammering him like the black smiths'.
"The beggar ,you know our status ?
"

you dare to insult our family "
"Break his hands "

"break his mouth"
"Kill him "
The poet who was a weak man , fell down on the ground with the first blow on his head.Soon his legs and hands were broken. Warm blood was flowing down from wounds.
When the four dashing brothers left, the poet was vomiting blood.
Before breathing his last, the poet was able to draw a bloody heart with his blood.

People fear the poet and his poems because poems have destructive power.
Savages in Africa hunt foxes with long brutal s sticks. They beat them until they die.
The poet was hunted by four dashing brothers who actually protected the status and dignity. They were savage because their blood demanded so.

When I heard, in reaction ,I burnt all my books and left home. I wandered about mourning the poet. The poet whose smile was as beautiful as god's ,the poet who showed me the womanly beauty, the poet who drew a heart, the symbol of love ,with his blood before his death, hit open the spring of sorrow.

I kept walking and the spring of sorrow kept flowing inside me.

Then, all on a sudden ,I came across the friend to whom I travelled two hundred kilometers in the cold winter night but left in the morning without saying anything though my pocket was empty.

The manager friend said ,"hi "and stretch his hand to shake but my shoulder shrugged invisibly and my mind took a violent twist that helped me walk past him with easy, usual steps ,my mad crazy steps.
Memory ,bloody memory of the past flashed back again.

Truth is beauty
Beauty is truth
That is all
You need to know on earth.

Once in the summer midnight, the manager recited to me. So I thought he was the most sensible man to share with. I showed and gifted him the "New World "where I proved that the koran is not a divine book.

With a broad smile he received and thanked me. There was real praise in his voice.

The next time we met, he looked at me coldly.
"How dare you write against Islam ?"
My eyes blinked, was that my logical friend ?
He threatened "Mollahs will chop you up to pieces. Stop it. "
"Give the script back " I demanded.
"No"
"Why? "
"I've burnt it "
"oh no !" my heart broke.

You are insulting Islam. No Muslim will bear it. "
Then the whisper spread 'transgressor , enemy to Islam.'
I was totally shocked but happy. Happy because I became sure of my power. It was dangerous so they fear.
The famous university teacher feared.
The renowned daily news paper 'The Daily Star 'feared.
Publishers feared.

Crossing the shop that offers me sweet betel every time I come to the village ,I came to the great banyan tree. A sense of security traveled through my vein. Yes ,I had always felt security coming to this giant tree. It had always embraced me like my old grandfather ensuring security ,confidence and a feeling of greatness inside me. I had always wondered at its greatness and wanted to become one.
I sat on the wall encircling the tree and dangled my legs. The river was kissing my feet. Across the river was the mosque and union council. Bathing time.
I dove deep into this bliss of solitude and fused with nature with her tree , river ,sky ,air and soundless sound.
Everything changes - nature ,love ,age ...
The wall that I was sitting on was not here before, the erosion that was going to fell the tree was not before and the river was not kissing the roots before.
The bridge over there had taken the place of the ferry boat that was here before. The shop that offers me betel was here before. Villagers gathered at the roots of this banyan tree before. And the shop was the

only shop.
Three band radio used to broadcast B.B.C. Bangla ,voice of America and radio Tehran. The whole village used flock together and listen spellbound. This was the place where marble ,caroms and cards were played. This was the place where youngster smoked secretly and talked secret talk. Love talk Cine talk sports talk Politics
This was the place where the black dwarf who liked to threatened with his dagger  was awarded garland of shoes because he had brought disgrace to the whole village. You couldn't do whatever you liked.
There was a game of bet between the dwarf and his friends. If the dwarf could encircle the shop seven times naked ,he could win 100 taka.
The dwarf took the challenge ,became naked and encircled the shop seven times. While he was encircling the shop naked like a marching solder ,everyone present applauded and burst out in laughter. The dwarf won the bet and so 100 taka. News spread like flames.
In the afternoon the village chieftains called in an emergency meeting and the verdict was declared. 200 taka penalty for marching naked in broad day light.
Marching the whole village putting on the garland of shoes. The drum beat cheered the procession.
This was the place where the young jumbo lay and found his penis tied to the branch with a piece of thin rope when he woke up in the morning. This was the place where red ants were set free at the penis area unfolding the lungi,and the same jumbo cried ,jumped and rubbed his penis madly.
This was the place where the leecher whose head turned stadium ,was

tied to the roots with cow rope, hands backwards. The woman with long veil, and whose face couldn't be seen , was also tied to another root.
They were caught red handed while they were about to make love secretly. The leecher  was the son of the village Imam. So the punishment was not severe.The border of the stadium was shaved and he went through hundred times up and down holding ears.
The woman was the wife of a fisherman. So she was lashed hundred times. And her hair was shaved. And she was divorced.

I saw the man whose heart was stirred by the news of my madness ,whose face printed worry ,and who was biting the corner of his mustache ,coming towards me.

I whispered to my soft heart ,"stone ". And immediately it turned into stone. A statue. My name was called affectionately but there was no response. I felt his closeness behind me. Some silent moments elapsed. Probably he was confused what to say. Finally his sweet voice managed to say "What happened to you ,brother ? Tell me. "

But could I tell him anything ?Definitely not. So there was no response again but my eyes blinked and I was walking with him on the Tangi station fifteen years ago when we were students.

It was almost evening and we were walking along the rail line. We walked for a few minutes. Brother looked nervous and there was sweat beads on his forehead. We were walking silently.
We took a turn on the left to a narrow track on the ground. After another ten minutes the track led us to a slum in front of

the gozari jungle.

There stood a woman clad in comparatively clean blue sari. A seven or eight years old girl was holding the woman's hand. Brother went straight to the woman and handed over the packet that he was carrying in his bag.

The woman took the packet silently. Then brother held the girl in his arms and started kissing madly.
"You are a princess , you know. Never neglect study. "
then abruptly he turned.
"Let's go. "
I had to follow. I was so mesmerized with brother's strange behavior from the afternoon ,the woman's and the girl's that I couldn't ask anything.
The woman was silent and didn't say anything. Strange.
The girl was silent too. We quickly left the slum and came back to the rail line. Suddenly my mind started working and putting up questions .
Who were the woman and the girl ?
What was in the packet ?
Why brother kept everything secret to me ?
I was searching answer but I couldn't ask as brother was more than ten years senior to me. I remained silent. I knew brother was going to reveal the secret to me soon. And I was right. Brother understood my mind, lit a cigarette and began ,
"I know you are curious."He took a deep puff."The woman is my wife "
"what !" I was not expecting this.
"yes. Though I didn't marry her. "
"then"?

"I consider her"
"oh ,and the girl ?"
"My daughter "
I had to halt. My eyes were widened in wonder.
"how ?"
"well ,I won't hide anything today. " he began. But you must keep it secret. "
I nodded my head obediently.
"Nine years ago. "brother began,
" I was the student of Bangla college and was living in a mess in Sheora para. And she was the Bua(cook)."
He paused and threw the butt.
"It was around noon and on one was in the mess except me. I was busy with my exam preparation and didn't go to college. Bua was wiring the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught sight of her bare cleavage. What happened to me I couldn't say. I kept staring and she became aware. My mind had already gone mad. So when she started to cover her breasts , I went to her and held her in my arms.
"sir " she protested. But she looked beautiful and I was hot.
Finally she submitted and I made love to her . After that almost every day. When she became pregnant ,she left the mess. Then she gave birth to my daughter. "

Suddenly a happy smile came over his face. "I decided to give her all support. When I will get job , I will move her to a better place but I can't take her to my family. She understands and she will always be my secret wife"

Next time brother went to meet his wife and daughter but found only debris and ashes.

The dirty slum was burnt down to ashes. A few days ago ,he couldn't believe ,the slum was his love. There was rhythm of life and activity. It didn't matter how small, insignificant they were ,but there they were like every living being on the earth. But now there was only ashes of sorrow and heartlessness.

None was in sight. So brother couldn't ask anything. For a few second he wondered what had happened to the slum. Then the heap of ash transformed abruptly into the powerful weapon of the destroyer ,a double edge sharp dagger ,and stabbed him through the heart. He yelled in unbearable pain 'Ah !'

He clutched his heart and dropped down to his knee.

The innocent lovely face of his daughter ,the sad face of his secret wife flashed through his mind, surge of emotion flooded his heart ,and tear drops formed in his two guilty eyes.

He kneed there silently for a long time. When the shock wave abated ,he started to realize they might be alive. He was a fool to consider them as dead.
He stood up ,lit a cigarette and turned back.

He walked quickly back to the locality. He desperately asked the first man he met,
"What happened to the slum?"
The man looked at him foolishly but couldn't say anything. So he asked the next man and then the next man and then ...

All the answers were the same. No, they didn't know anything.

Strange.

What happened to the slum dwellers ?
Where had they gone ?
How did the fire break out ?
No answer.

Strange.

So the secret wife and the daughter who was a princess ,were missing.

That night returning to his mess and to his room, brother wept silently.
Next morning he went to the slum again. And then again and again and again ...

Still the secret wife and daughter were missing.

And they remained secret in his heart forever but often brother could be seen ,especially when he was alone ,muttering "Oh my princess ,my princess !"

His mind was obsessed with their memory.

I felt the warm touch of the brother whose secret I shared on my back.

Brother patted me lovingly and his heart poured down in sweet torrent ,
"You'll be alright bro, don't worry. "

Some silent moment passed silently. Then I heard the strike of the match stick and smelt the smell of cigarette.

Some silent moment passed silently and brother kept smoking. Then I heard his inaudible soliloquy ,
"Shall I miss all dear ones ? I just can't believe little brother who could've been a university teacher if he had studied well is mad , but here he is ... What can I do ?"

Brother threw the butt into the river in disgust and turned towards my home. Was he going to have a talk with my parents ?

I didn't expect my expedition of feigning madness would turn out so eventful - from the tea seller to the poet, from the poet to the manager ,and from the manager to the brother (walking past so many way by curious eyes) and then...

My aunt whose presence would confirm my father's death ,appeared at the scene.

My aunt who had two husbands ,and who had given birth to nineteen children ,whose skin was as fair as the fairy's ,whose whose teeth were as sparkling as pearls ,and whose hair was as wavy as the water fall ,came like a silent phantom clad in cheap off white sari with olive green thin border ,to take her bath.
She squatted on her haunch and started to gurgle.
And then she saw me.
She wasn't sure who it was. To make sure she took a few steps forward. And her steps quickened as soon as she recognized me. Unwanted doubt and worry were reflecting through her eyes and face.
She came to me.
"son ,why are you sitting here like this ? Go home. "

Some awkward moments passed and my silence confirmed the whisper. Yes ,there was something wrong. I was really mad. Aunt became so sure and started to weep. Sob. Then sob turned to broken prayer,
"Oh Allah ,save him. Make him sound. He is the only son of my brother -There's none to help them except You. "
Some wise thought crossed her mind at this moment. She wanted to check out whether what she had seen was true or false. She wanted to meet my parents urgently. So she took her bath quickly and went home. From home she would go straight to her brother's home.

When aunt left and disappeared from sight, I stood up. 'Madness created, 'I thought. I took the step to my home. Confident and proud of creation. I took the step but another step invisibly took me to my aunt's house some twenty years ago when I was encircled and attacked by four crazy dogs, threatening to tear me up to pieces.

I was shouting ,screaming and threatening too but in genuine terror.
Aunt heard and rushed to the spot. When she saw me she smiled at me sweetly and asked the dogs more sweetly to stop. One sweet voice 'stop ' and four mad dogs stopped immediately like robots. I was shaking in fear but I wondered too. When aunt held my hand ,the dogs wagged their tails. I wondered again. And instantly they became my friends.

Four crazy dogs wanted to tear me up to pieces but turned friends.
Strange.

I was walking blindly as my mind was busy with aunt's thought.

Suddenly I stumbled over a projected brick bit and fell down. My forehead knocked on the hard ground ,received a cut and was bleeding. For a second I was at a loss what to do. Then I stood up ,pressing the cut with my palm but blood was trickling down my nose, my lips and my breast .

The same red blood that flows through every human veins.
I tore off some grass and started to chew to make paste ,the natural healer.

Then I saw two contrasting scenes while I was chewing grass.
On my right was the madrasha, and students were learning.

On my left was the river bank ,and farmers' kids were harvesting. Kids who had no right to go to madrasha or school were sure to work.

Two contrasting scenes were making me mad again...

I started to chew fast forgetting my pain and cut...

"To worship God or Allah ,You must know how to. "My chewing fastened. "Only education can ensure this but Allah has certified the doctrine of rich and poor ,has created discrimination and barred the poor from the access to the usual flow of modern civilization. Allah doesn't need the worship of the dirty savage poor because Allah loves the rich only ,because Allah Himself is rich.

Allah doesn't love the poor. So Allah is not a fair judge. He is not even humanitarian. His book ,the koran, glorifies discrimination and tries to give solution on the basis of old existing doctrine that the poor has right to the wealth of the rich. The rich must share.

Allah, that cannot love His subjects equally ,is not a universal Allah. This Allah is created by human mind that has failed to give economical solution to human life.

Wealth distribution is not at the hand of Allah. Wealth is reality and it has not come from so called heaven.
Man has created this discrimination and man has power to recreate, reshape on the basis of equality.

Allah has nothing to do here. So 'Allah is great ,Allah is kind, Allah blesses all ' is the weapon of the rich to shut up the poor... "

I was completely getting mad. I stopped chewing grass. At least I was not a goat. I threw the grass from my mouth ,
"thoo!"

I walked towards home, letting the blood trickle down from my forehead.

On the way I didn’t meet any one.

Strange.

Not a girl, not a boy, not a man , not a woman, not a dog. Even, the wind, it seemed stopped blowing. I kept walking towards home. My head , that was not at all a goat’s-bloody; my mind twisted to right or wrong. Who is right –

the creator of Allah, god, prophet, Jesus or modern mind?

Who is right-the mind that is fourteen hundred years old, the mind that is more than two thousand years old, the mind that is even older than that or modern mind?

My mind was twisted, violent storm was blowing inside and blood was oozing down from my forehead.

I reached home.

Mother was in the kitchen.

Father was basking at the hearth.

Little sister was at school.

None saw me. And I didn’t care. I silently went to the tube well and washed my fore head. The blood was mixing with water. The same human blood inside all. American, African, Arabian, European, Australian…black or white…every one. The same red blood runs through every

one’s heart.

When I was passing by the kitchen, I peeped through the window for a second. Mother was putting fire wood into the hearth. Father was rubbing his eyes as the smoke hit them.

His face was twisted to a sad expression. His whole body was coiled by the rope of invisible pain, which was as long as seventy years. From his birth to his basking by the hearth, for a little warmth. The warmth was missing in his whole life.

Mother was putting fire wood in the hearth. Her pain thread or rope was not as long as father’s. It started twisting from the moment she was married to him. From then, whenever she cooks, she burns her rope or thread in silent disgust. And pain.

Unhappy couple.

Strangers.

Love and hate dilemma.

Forty years living together. The carelessly woven spider web caught them together.

Love and hate together.

Forty years scapegoat life together.

Some moments were walking on the moon. The rest of the time was burning in the hell fire. Silently.

I went to my room.

The thing that I looked for was the balm. The body Healer. For all skin diseases and cuts. Very, very effective and famous to the villagers.

A soothing touch of the balm would quicken the healing of

my cut. When I applied I felt the loving touch of my father. His assurance, “it would be alright. Don’t worry.”

And there was nothing to be worried because I got the touch of the scientist. The scientist who knew how it works was none but my father.

My father who invented the balm and healed so many skin diseases and cuts was not a successful businessman at all.

He lacked the crafty business mind.

My father sold the land and invested all the money to the balm project. A small balm factory was set up. Production increased, sale increased but the factory gradually grew smaller and smaller. It grew so small that finally it became a one man factory.

My father lacked the crafty business mind. My father didn’t know how to keep his balance. He was a spendthrift. When money was in his pocket, he felt like a king.

My father dreamt to be a millionaire but his dream didn’t come true. When he dreamt, his heart expanded to touch the sky. When he dreamt, his two eyes sparkled like two shining suns. And at that time, my mother would coo the sweetest of words.

The balm, yes, the soothing balm made my father a pauper.

I put the balm on its proper place. I turned to my bed. I lay flat and then looked up.

All the medical books, novels, poetry, religious, history books were looking back at me through their dusty eyes from the self.

Yes, my pauper father was a reader. He bought and read books. Surely a funny thing that none in the village did the

way he did.

None in the village read so many books as my father did.

My scientist father couldn’t even imagine, one day his son, his only son, would kill him deliberately.

He died without even knowing the real killer.

He thought and believed it was Azrail but no, it was me, yes, it was me, his own flesh and blood, his countless kisses and care, who killed him secretly… slowly…

My killing mission started from the moment I took that historical great jump. From the peak of my career.

Why and how I must say some day, but at the moment, madness was created!

Between going out and coming back, every individual I encountered, I attested their belief and the rumor that

traveled from Dhaka, with great care.

I couldn’t believe, just one drive out would serve my purpose but it did. I had completely gone mad.

From the next day, I started staying at home almost all day.

Few words with mother, yes, no.

Father couldn’t hear so no talk. Sometimes short notes.

With little sister some small talks.

I was sound, I was sane only to my parents and to my little sister. Surely a million dollar man seldom speaks.

I was a million dollar man. Nobody knew. Only me and some renown people who showed me the way, who made my dream back in Dhaka.

My mouth was shut up. And my shutting up mouth was

another proof of my madness.

All day staying home. After noon for walk.

Every afternoon I was walking four five kilos along the village path. Alone. I was savoring the loneliness and natural beauty.

But every afternoon as soon as I reached the mosque turning, a giant would block my way.

‘As salamalaikum !’

I must pass but he would insist. Then my eyes would go red and he would hold off. Everyone knew of my madness. So he couldn’t hit me but he would spit. He would spit with all his hatred at my Christianity. I was a converted Christian. American.

The rumor spread wings.

Then the young boys and girls from way side homes, would

throw pebble at me. Children like throwing pebble at the mad.

And they chanted,

“mad! Mad! There goes the mad! Chuck him!”

And they did chuck me.

Some missed my sick eyes, some missed my rubbish head, some missed my sides and some did really hit me.

Blood and pain were not my concern. So I didn’t turn back, didn’t pause to look at the injury or didn’t rub the hit spot.

I kept walking as usual. With slow resolute pace. Hands in my jeans pockets. Eyes cast far at the distance.

I didn’t even mind because they were merely boys and girls. They didn’t know who I was really. Even, I smiled

back at their innocent faces. Invisibly. I smiled back at the friends who did really throw spatula at me,

Throw water bottle and soaked my costumes.

I didn’t mind at all. Because it was against the code. If you break the code and set a new, you’ll be insulted. I knew this.

Long ago another man knew this too. When he was breaking and setting up new code, he was being pebbled but he didn’t mind. He couldn’t mind.

History taught me the lesson. And I learnt. My heart stretched as far as the historical man walking through Arabian desert.

Our hearts fused. So I didn’t mind, couldn’t mind.

History never loved mad men. Mad men were mad because their thought levels were higher than the rest. Mad men

were the breaker and maker of the codes. Codes were welcome later or never. Codes were for making human mind a level higher than the past. Codes were for setting up historical dots.

The dot that I set was a giant dot. Shocking to many. They wouldn’t tolerate the dot setter or code maker. Because code-making or dot setting is a sinful work. You must pay for it.

My only sin was that I logically proved The Koran is not a divine book. And that was that. According to the university dean, I was Israel’s agent. I took money from them and wrote to please them. If I continue, he must have me arrest.

I was dumb founded. Bloody thoughts made me agent of Israel ! I took money for it. I couldn’t believe my own ears. Could a university dean say like that? Really?

Though he honored me offering tea., my heart swelled in pain and wonder. That day, I was grateful to the dean for certifying my power. He pushed me a level high.

Rumor spread and so I became the target of hatred.

And the hatred traveled from Dhaka to my village.

How dare I write against Islam? Koran?

My only sin was my bloody thoughts.

So when the children started throwing pebble at me, I didn’t mind. I couldn’t mind.

Dear ones who really cared for me came forward.

They prayed for my cursed soul.

They wanted to see my sense back.

Not a mad man.

Not thoughts.

Thoughts were dangerous breaking their hearts, turning over the chapter of history. Thoughts were transforming their culture, tradition and belief.

Stop thinking, you’ll be alright. They meant.

But I couldn’t stop.

And then they took strategy – whenever they would meet me, they would give me salam.

Seeking my eternal peace. Peace would come from the sky.

I was a cursed man, so Allah’s peace be on me.

When I refused to return, their concern enlarged. They look terrific. Some would like to challenge me to interrogate.

But I really didn’t believe, peace would fall from the sky.

Thousand times they said peace for me but peace wouldn’t fall on me.

Destroy the conic economic structure of the civilization, peace would fall

Father’s Death

The moment I took that horrible great jump , I deployed death to swallow my father. Death, the giant black cobra, swallowed him secretly but slowly , bit by bit.

The pain that was printed on his sad ashen face while he was being swallowed finally , was the result of my heartlessness ?
My irresponsibility?
Or his own guilty feeling of being irresponsible ?
I slowly walked away while he was being swallowed. I went to my room. I sat silently and felt nothing. I wanted to cry but found my heart as hard as stone. NO emotion welled up. My tears were as dry as dust.
Suddenly , I heard the shrill of cry. And I knew, my father's clock had slowed down to zero. Permanently.
I was waiting for that.
A woman came near me and stood afar. She came to officially inform me of my father's death.
" My poor boy !" she wiped her tears. "Your father has passed away leaving you orphan ! But you must be strong and take it easy. You've so many things to do , so many responsibilities ! Go, inform your relatives. Burial must not be delayed. "
she left to join the mourning.
But I kept sitting motionless.

Responsibility !
Oh the bloody responsibility !
What I avoided in all my life , I decided to avoid again because my father's death was as normal as my taking pee.
I logically explained.
Some bloody rituals with dead bodies! Meaningless. And I had nothing to do with it.
I remained as usual , mad , as I always had been considered.

When my father died , my empty pocket days were going on.
I had given up taking tea two years before. Even , I had given up smoking cigarette before that. So virtually I didn't need any money except for shaving. Even , that was not in a salon. I had to buy the cheapest blade 'balaka' and shave at home. So , two taka a month was more than enough for me. And that two taka I used to get from my little sister. I was grateful for that , not only for that , for my life as well, for keeping me alive.
I was empty but the shroud for the dead body must be bought.
Some one like an untie dared to come near me.
"Give money for buying the shroud. Strangers must not buy your father's shroud."
My whole body turned as hard as stone again and my eyes stared far at the distance ,at a man riding bicycle.
Untie like woman pulled me by hand.
"can you hear me? Someone must not buy your father's shroud. Can you hear me, mad ?"

My little sister came forward again to rescue.
"leave him alone. Here's the money. "
I looked at the note. It was a five hundred taka note. I wondered, from where she got it. I knew she was empty too. In the morning she wasn't able to buy fish and vegetables. Once again I became grateful to my little sister. But things were pretty bad when I refused to wash the dead body. They wanted to beat me. And they would have if it hadn't been my father's death day.

The bicycle man came directly without taking his bath and lunch. He correctly sensed the emergency of the situation.
A nice man.
When I called him (my sixth sense was probably working and guessed some problems), he was at loss to hear my father's death.
"what ! I saw him alive in the morning !"
The bicycle man looked sad and sympathetic. He silently handed over the money.
Six thousand !
"slaughter him after three days , on Tuesday. "
"okay "
He agreed and left silently.

I had finally sold the palm tree that grew up along with my father , and bore many memories.
Another destructive action.
I felt like I was the supreme boss , I could make any decision.

There was none to protest.
My little sister was crying convulsively and wouldn't know.
My mother was senseless and wouldn't know.
So it was easy. Besides , the situation demanded it.
A few days ago , I slapped my little sister because she wouldn't let me sell.
Not the palm tree.
Not the brick that was bought for making home.
My little sister turned the most adamant little bitch who wouldn't understand my problem anymore.
"I've sacrificed everything for you. My life my ornaments - everything - I'll not let you sell this time "
I grew furious and slapped her , punched her mercilessly. I could've killed her if my mother hadn't grabbed my legs and begged her life.
My father was not near. Besides , he was old and could not hear. He had partly lost his hearing power.

Three days later, my little sister agreed to sell the brick.
So, when the bicycle man came in the morning , I refused to sell the tree.
No, I couldn't destroy the memory. The bicycle man left but I kept his mobile number. In case ...

I was standing afar from the curious, sad looking crowd.
All alone.

A mad ,senseless , heartless young man.
A kafir, an athiest  and the target of many curious eyes.
Eyes that cast hatred.
Eyes that turn sad.

My father was being washed and bathed. His first bath was by someone else, most probably by his mother or gran or ...His last bath was also by someone else.
Strange.
At his first bath he was alive and could feel. Unfortunately ,at his last bath he was lifeless and couldn't feel.
Strange.
Saris (my mother's )were used to hide the bathing place.
What !
Why this secrecy ?
I wondered. Then I hated to realize that my father would be made naked. Some bloody people would watch him naked ,touch him , wash him naked.
I just couldn't imagine.
Suddenly I wanted to shout , to scream ,"stop this bloody game, you idiot . Just bury him. "
I wanted to scream but I couldn't.
Naked comes , naked goes and naked will resurrect.
Why ?
Why this funny trick ?
I was getting mad again.
Suddenly there was a whisper in the air.

"The shroud has fallen short. "
A very bad sign for the dead.
And the crowd looked scared.
"What a wretched ! What a sinner !"
They started to repent.
Suddenly I found my old confident back. I took some resolute steps. I pulled out a five hundred taka note.
"Buy the shroud again. " I ordered some uncle like man. "and keep the rest. "
Yes , I had always been careless about money.
I tipped the waiters without counting.
I gave alms without counting. Money became restless and wouldn't like to stay in my pocket.
And someone would starve back at home. Sometimes ,I myself.
And for the same reason.

It was chilly January afternoon. Rough wind was blowing. And the air was wet with mist and fog.
While everyone was shivering in spite of putting on warm clothes , I had just my usual dress on.
Blue jeans and faded ash grey T - shirt.
For the last three years I was not putting on any warm clothes. I just wanted to feel the winter.
And not putting on any warm clothes in the winter was another obvious symbol of my madness. And I had to suffer some odd look.

Anyway , I was wandering through the mourners , putting my two worthless hands in my jeans pockets. I was reflecting the whole scene with my father in the morning.
We had our breakfast and then we stood by the palm tree. Just basking in the sun. Silently.

As my father couldn't hear (I had doubt and thought that he was pretending just to avoid quarrel ), I had to write short notes and pass if I wanted to have a talk. After reading the note father would talk to me very affectionately.

In the morning I didn't pass any note. I was just playing with his hand and feeling the warmth between us. A meaningless attempt to heal the injury I had done over the years. My father used to understand me better. So he didn't mind my madness. He was just sad and helpless and worried about my future. But recently he looked very calm and quiet. Especially this morning. He looked like a saint who had mingled himself with the identity of god. He had been practicing spiritualism now a days. He concentrated so much so that often he used to forget everything around him.
He developed this special way to forget his pain.

He couldn't hear but he could speak. Suddenly he spoke very affectionately to me.
"You want to sell the palm tree ?"
He asked me softly.
I nodded my head.
"How much is the price ?"
I had to use my finger to show six.

sell it "
And then he became silent again.

The poison of my great jump was killing my father inwardly. His live cells were being destroyed. His spirit was being weakened.

Insufficient food , medicare and the frustration of being unable to give his daughter marriage were killing him slowly ...slowly ...

At first he was really curious to read my notes and tried to follow. Auto suggestions . To keep well and live long.
But gradually he lost interest. Without reading he started to keep them aside. He thought them meaningless.

I was his light to show the way out. When he found it blown out , he became afraid. He would look at me , the darkness, helplessly and foolishly.

So the sweet words and playing with his fingers wouldn't heal the injury , instead , it would fester.

Every touch of my cursed fingers (it didn't matter how much love I transmitted ) was pushing him towards the door of death.

He was not taking bath for days. His dresses (lungi and a thin wrapper - under it jumpers - one ,two ,three ,four ...) were getting dirty. And he smelt badly. Often he was seen basking by the fire (when my mother used to cook ) or in the sun. He was feeling so cold...

Mother and I decided to bathe him. To make him fresh and clean.
Mother got water ready. Lukewarm.
After returning from the madrasha (where I had been recruited as lecturer some three years ago but I was not working and would not

sell it "
And then he became silent again.

The poison of my great jump was killing my father inwardly. His live cells were being destroyed. His spirit was being weakened.

Insufficient food , medicare and the frustration of being unable to give his daughter marriage were killing him slowly ...slowly ...

At first he was really curious to read my notes and tried to follow. Auto suggestions . To keep well and live long.
But gradually he lost interest. Without reading he started to keep them aside. He thought them meaningless.

I was his light to show the way out. When he found it blown out , he became afraid. He would look at me , the darkness, helplessly and foolishly.

So the sweet words and playing with his fingers wouldn't heal the injury , instead , it would fester.

Every touch of my cursed fingers (it didn't matter how much love I transmitted ) was pushing him towards the door of death.

He was not taking bath for days. His dresses (lungi and a thin wrapper - under it jumpers - one ,two ,three ,four ...) were getting dirty. And he smelt badly. Often he was seen basking by the fire (when my mother used to cook ) or in the sun. He was feeling so cold...

Mother and I decided to bathe him. To make him fresh and clean.
Mother got water ready. Lukewarm.
After returning from the madrasha (where I had been recruited as lecturer some three years ago but I was not working and would not

work. I went there to meet a friend ) I went to my father.
He was basking in the sun.
The luke warm water was ready.
I wanted to take off his dirty clothes but he protested. No, he wouldn't take the bath.
He was feeling so cold...
I went on hard line. I became unreasonable as my father had been with me when I was a little kid and was not listening to him. Fatherly love.
I was taking off his dirty clothes in spite of his protest "I'll die , I'll die. "
My mother protested too. "don't insist "
I didn't care and father threw off his clothes in anger.

I couldn't believe my own eyes. He was just a living skeleton. I took him in my irresponsible arms. He was so light ...
I put him in the sun. He was squatting. I was cheerful. Mother was bringing water.

Suddenly, with a violent jerk , father fell down.

Immediately I dropped down to my knee. I struggled madly to pull my father into a sitting position. But he was squirming in my arms as if he had been slaughtered like a goat throwing arms and legs.

Mother rushed to the spot. She looked at me in such a way that held me responsible for my father's fall.
"If you hadn't..." she kept saying again and again. She was in a frenzy and not sure what to do. Then she ran to the room. In a second she was back with a pillow , mat and coverlet. In a second father was under the coverlet and mother was rubbing his hands and feet with mastered oil.
When I was pumping oxygen through his nose to his lungs, mother hurried to call in some neighbour. I was alone with my father and with trembling uncontrolled voice I started to give him auto suggestions putting my mouth into his ear.
" Baba, nothing has happened to you. You've just fallen down and now sleeping. Baba, we're waiting for you. Just wake up. I want to see you taking your bath. We'll bask in the sun. We'll walk on the river bank. Just wake up. Baba, you're a strong man , use your will force. Your will power is the strongest. You know you're a winner. Nothing can beat you. Baba, you cannot leave us like this making us helpless orphan. Mother is weeping. Just wake up. You've a huge responsibility to do , a long way to go - you promised me two more years. Just wake up to see you're giving your daughter marriage ... You must wake up to see my wife and son. You know you've that power. Just use your will force. Prove you can do it. Nothing is impossible ,come back. We'll do a lot of things together ..."
"What are you doing ?"
Some one asked me and I looked up.
There were a lot of people watching me. Men ,women ,children. They were really curious to see.
I stood up, a little confused.
Then suddenly I was running. Running as fast as I could. To call in a doctor. On the way something was pulling me back. My subconscious mind ?

Might be.
"Worthless running. Just go back to your father. He's dying. "

the doctor felt the pulse , measured the pressure and stood up. His face was expressionless.
"give him some milk. I'll be back in an hour, "
I knew he was leaving and wouldn't be back.

Was reciting surah was better than my auto Suggestions ?
Some one had suggested giving 'kalima' to my father's ears instead while I was giving auto Suggestion. I had looked up like a mad dog. Could I do that ?Definitely not. Giving kalima was confirming his death , giving him death certificate before his actual death. I couldn't do that because I do not believe in kalima or surah, I do not believe they are divine.

A new bed was made in the sun. More comfortable.
Just before taking him to this new bed , he was pulled up to a sitting position for a few second. Just then the strangest thing happened , the strangest thing that would haunt me for years.
My father stared at me and gave me a strange mocking smile. Just for a few second. What was the meaning of his smile ? That I was a fool to play against god ?That my auto suggestion was worthless against the will of god ?
Was it a smile to mock a kafir ?
Then I realized his conscious level working. Just couple of hours complete rest would make my father okay again. I was optimistic. He was lying flat on his back. Coverlet drawn to his neck. He was conscious trying to get back his breathing system.
Everyone was anxiously waiting. There was silence and strange expression on the faces.
Suddenly my untie (father's sister ) came and burst out in loud cry throwing her at his legs...
"Oh my dear brother ... !"

Instantly father recognized her and gave up the will power that was keeping him alive. A wave switched from life to death to reality.
At the same moment some women started to recite from the holy koran. In sad pathetic tune they made my father realized the power of god.
My auntie's cry and the recitation from the koran created an environment that made my father understand the reality and accept the death.
The act of swallow had reached the final stage.

My little sister wasn't home. She was in the school (a kinder garden school teacher , the most responsible manager who was keeping us alive with her small income.)
When she heard she was literally running back. Throwing her bag , she sat down beside father and started to rub his palm. She was yet to burst into tears that would be volcanic soon after.
Strangely enough father recognized her and a smile spread on his face. He looked happy and content and was holding her hand lovingly, confidently. Most probably he was waiting for her all this time.
Seeing this sudden thought flashed through my mind. He hadn't given up! Still there was hope !
My little sister was the dearest to him. And I wanted him come back. So I played the most brutal part. I hit his supreme conscious level. To see him bounce back. The most vicious auto suggestion anyone had ever made.
"You are a coward. You are irresponsible. You are a worthless father. Can you prove I am wrong ? come back and give your daughter marriage. "
oh ! In a second his face ashened to twisted pain.

My two irresponsible hands were in my jeans pockets ,my not to look at cursed face was turned towards the sky and my two sick eyes that always see the wrong picture were fixed at far off distance.

I was wandering through the mourners and reflecting on the scene with my father in the morning. I was indifferent to the hard reality.
Auntie (father's sister ) blocked my way suddenly.
"Get ready. Take your bath and put on fresh clothes... you must carry the coffin. " Her voice was smeared with affection and concern.
Automatically I turned into a heartless ,emotion less statue old. History flickered in my mind.
My face resembled great Copernicus.

Socrates peered through my eyes.
"Let them do whatever they like.
Let them worship sacred.
Let them love rituals
but you are ...
Copernicus
Socrates ... "

kitchen wastes are thrown into dustbin...

dead dogs are floated in the river...
king cobras are burnt...
dead human beings are buried...
It doesn't matter what you do with the waste ...
throw into the dustbin,
float in the river,
burn or bury,
You do it to keep you clean and free of stink...

Great Socrates kept peering through my eyes ...

People die every day
animals die every day ...
What happens is normal
There is nothing to be emotional
there is nothing to show your love

My auntie pushed me again.
"Do you hear me ?"
Could I really hear to aunt ?
Could Socrates hear to the king ?
Suddenly auntie realized that the statue had no power to hear. It was of no use talking to a statue. So she left
but my mother came.

And soon she left too.

Father had already been washed, bathed, clad in white shroud and put in the coffin.

Incense was burning. Sweet fragrance was spreading.
When the mourners saw me refusing to carry the coffin, their eyes fired with hatred and rage. They could burn me alive but they didn't. Instead , they left silently leaving all burial responsibility to me.
No one would carry the coffin because I wouldn't carry.
A son couldn't refuse.
It was not forgivable.
Socrates peered through my eyes and I left the coffin too.
I walked, walked, walked to the river bank avoiding "what a heartless, cruel son" whispers to my ears.
Could I really carry the weight of my dead father on my careless ,flexible, weak shoulders ?
I stood motionless leaning against the rail of the bridge.
I knew they would come. They were bound to come carrying the coffin on their shoulders.
I stood and kept waiting.

People take bath to be clean or sacred ?

Socrates peered through my eyes again.
For carrying coffin you must be sacred taking bath.
But am I not sacred without taking a bath ?
God is sacred and present every where ... everywhere in the universe...in every atom ... in the mosque , temple ,church , heart , body , waste , goo ...everything is sacred...
Do I need to take a bath ?
To be sacred or clean ?

'Hi, American dollar, any news?'
I swirled around and saw the boatman's teasing smile. His teeth were smeared red from chewing betel

I had to stop. I smiled at him as he was coming out of the tea stall.
'What have you bought?'
'Fish. Ruhit fish.'
'Let me have a look.'
The boat man peeped into my bag ,and was surprised
'How much?'
'Four hundred fifty.'
The boat man looked at me in such a way that I had to explain the reason . After so many days I earned six hundred taka ,and was going to celebrate.
'You got students?' he was surprised again. I smiled proudly.

The boatman who was only a few years senior to me was friendly. I often played with his thick bushy beard and teased for this muslim signboard though he was not genuinely honest. He never minded. He enjoyed my teasing saying that I, the athiest didnt know much of his honesty.

Yes, the boatman was religious. And he was the only man in my lonely world I had talked freely with. Though he was my blatant critic, I knew deep inside his heart he was a well wisher. I knew his heart was saying,' It doesnt matter if you go against my religion, just bring glory to the village, make us proud'

When we reached the rickshaw stand, the boatman began his trademark talk that he liked to talk with me. He would become a powerful representative of Islam to pull me back to the right track again because I had lost the true track long ago, and was going through wrong ways , because I was diffusing the nasty athiest smell in the air, because I was destroying Islam.
'Come to track. You will get everything. Tell me what you want.' The boatman began to persuade.
'You know uncle what I want' I teased his beard.'Money'
'How much do you want?' The boatman became serious. He fished out a bundle of taka from his pocket ,and held in front of my eyes tantalizingly.
'you will get lots of it. Just give up your rubbish writing and come back to track... all your problems will be solved'
'Uncle, you are great!' I spoke in such a way that he understood the message I would never give up.
'Any news from America?'
'No'
'You are dreaming.You will never get dollars. Your books will never be published'.

He began to speak so certainly as if he was watching my future.
'You are educated...' he became a soft adviser, ' you will be the happiest man in the village' ... this time his voice was moistened with love, ' you have a sister to wed away, old mother to look after, ..your father had died suffering all his life, you need to get married... just come back to track, you will get everything... job, beautiful wife, money, honor...'

I patted his back and smiled candidly for his lecture. He understood that once again his effort was a failure.
'Your life is finished' he threatened. ' American dollar has made you mad, you will remain mad. people will throw spittle at you.You will starve to die, you will rot, stink, nobody will touch you!'