My experience is that people live without dreams. Survival is said to be his instinct to survive. Nature, like all other creatures, gives man this innate instinct for survival. Animals. Primitive. Genuine. Rude But like all animals, this instinct saves billions of people. Me too.
Never in my life has anything been done by thinking and planning. I have to live, so I did. I have to, so I did.
But life did not exempt me from the test. Tests every day, tests every day. School-college exams, job exams- nothing compared to this exam. I still wonder how I could get good results in school-college exams by laughing and playing. There was no coaching, there was no private reading, there was not always a chance to get all the books, there was no electricity so there was no chance to wake up at night - but how could there be good results! That too is the instinct of survival. If you want to live, you have to be able to.
Although it may seem unbelievable to readers now, it is true that I never dreamed of becoming a writer. Writing a few verses does not mean being a writer. All Bengalis who know how to read and write do such work. Azgar Ali made me a writer. That too with ten years of continuous examination.
I am talking about that test.
Early nineties. Going from Rajshahi to Natore. Bus jam is stuck at Binodpur Gate of Rajshahi University. In Binodpur, fish, meat, vegetables and raw materials markets were set up on both sides of the road. Especially in the morning. There is a large crowd of fish-loving people as all the fresh fish brought from the canals and beels can be found there. Especially on holiday mornings. The bus is stuck in a traffic jam. And through the window of the bus my eyes are fixed on the face of an old man in his sixties. He is wearing an old vest with sleeveless handloom, lungi. Towel on left shoulder. Construction work is going on on both sides of the road. So half a piece of brick on the street is not a very rare one. The old man is sitting on such a brick. Dali made with a bamboo spoon in front of him. Zero. And a few one taka and two taka notes in hand. Probably came from a nearby village to sell vegetables or seasonal fruits. Since Dali is now zero, it is conceivable that his things are sold out. The old man counted the notes in his hand very carefully. Counted one by one. When counting money, a kind of extra attention and self-satisfaction appears in the eyes of the people. The impression of that extra attention on the old man's face too. Unbeknownst to him, his head tilted a lot towards the money notes to bring the hazy eyes closer while counting the money. A little shiny on all faces. After counting the money, the head straightened. Looking straight ahead. But I don't think he sees anything. Remember doing calculations. The sale is over. This time he has to buy it. The list of things to buy is being welded in your mind once again. I don't know what's on his shopping list. Maybe you have to buy kerosene, any clothes or necessities of your wife or daughter-in-law, betel nut, jellies or any toy made by grandchildren, maybe even rice pulses. Along with that, there may be some left over from the grocer of the neighborhood, which is to be repaid after returning from the market today. But the next step in looking at the notes in his hand and calculating in his mind is that this money is not enough for his immediate tasks at this time. What more new wrinkles are being added on the old man's wrinkled face! His chest must be twisting. And seeing him in that condition, my chest also started twisting. I am amazed at my own mental state. Did that old man get into my chest? Or did I get into the old man's chest? Meanwhile, the road was jammed. The wheels of our bus have also started rolling. I look out the window at the old man with anxious eyes. I want to absorb her appearance as soon as I see her, all her movements, all the new folding marks on the wrinkles on her face.
He never met the old man again. Not to be. But I can never forget that old man's face. And not being able to forget this is as much a worry as it is a pain. Thought. Because I have to see the faces of so many types of people every day. It is not that the number of needy people in this country is rare. I have seen more touching scenes than that. I see it all the time. I have seen so many people fall short of the definition of humanity in one fell swoop. If you live in this country, you have to see how much more. Then why is that old man's face holding me like that? Why is he attacking me in my sleep? Why is he presenting himself in front of me even in my happy moments? The situation is such that even though the canopy of the fun-filled obsessive light of my lover's closet is leaking, he sometimes starts peeking. I can't look at my lover's face. I become aware of complaints. But he doesn't go. Standing in a corner of the mind is an uncomfortable appearance like a small piece of flesh stuck between the teeth. Why is this happening? Do I have to seek the help of a psychiatrist in the end!
Suddenly the answer is found. One unspoken truth is discovered. At one point I was startled and noticed that the old man's face was reminding me again and again of my father, my father's. As a child, I have been watching my father to swallow the inconsistency of need in that way. I have seen him constantly counting the coins he has accumulated and earned, unprepared for his inadequacy compared to the necessary expenses of the world. Saw sometimes looking at the uncertain future with a bored look. I have seen that sometimes it is completely broken. In fact, we do not make any effort to understand the feelings of our family head because of our inhuman tendency not to see the daily reality, to live in it and not to notice it in a humane way. So we do not consider his inconsistency as an unforgivable crime. The face of another helpless man reminded me of my father's helpless, sometimes sasamera-infested face since I reached the age of learning to see with intelligence. There was a bit of self-loathing! That impossible shameful self-realization puzzled me - I had never looked at my father with a human eye before! I have only considered him as an instrument of earning and our sustenance! He had no end to our needs. I have always made demands after demands from him. And whenever he failed to meet our demands, the failure that was constant, we, the family members, sometimes tormented him with silent gossip, sometimes silent anger, sometimes loud words. The fact that the pain of disability burns him far more than we do, never came to our notice.
After that, the old man's face sometimes pauses to increase my heartburn. But he never matched at once. The father's face has always been in front of me, to remind me.
A decade later. I am working in Dinajpur district. Joining a job without any plan is only to sustain the family and one's own life. The test was here too. I have never lived in a village before. Intimately involved with this job was to pass the first village living test. But that job became a turning point in my life. Jobs have given me the opportunity to interact with people at the grassroots level. I stay with them six days a week. I took the Titumir Express train from Parbatipur to Natore on Thursday afternoon. I went to work on the same train on Saturday morning. People read books and magazines on the train. I used to read too. But now is not the time to read books. I see people. I talk to people everywhere. After all, the passenger in the next seat, whenever I think of a different person, I add a story to it. In this way the acquaintance became closer with the hawkers, with the blackers, with the checkers, with the people of the railway police, with the regular beggars of the train, with the railway women. As soon as two educated people walk together, they inevitably tell the story of BNP-Awami League in the name of politics. I also have a keen interest in politics. But I am not willing to talk or debate about BNP-Awami League. I have no expectations of them. Because the way they run the state, I have understood the character of running the state by that time. That is why there is frustration but it seems unreasonable. This is what they will do. What is there to discuss and criticize? It is necessary to remove them and bring another people-oriented party to power. The embryos of that group are also missing in the country. Knowing our education, making editorial columns in newspapers, gentlemen who think of themselves as intellectuals think that the problem will be solved only if BNP is replaced by Awami League and Awami League is replaced by BNP. I don't think so. I don't think there is any time to think. So my conversation with educated gentlemen does not freeze. When I fall into such a story, I wrap myself up.
At that time I saw the people of the paddy field. As soon as the paddy harvesting season comes, these people go out in groups and make their villages manless. Manga in their own area. No work resources. And they know what work is called field work. They went out in groups in search of that job. Moved to Natore-Rajshahi-Kushtia. Crowds line the line to sell their labor - mock nan bahe! Mui has come to harvest paddy.
I have to meet people like this for a few weeks. I got acquainted with Chabaruddi, Alekali, Makber Hossain, Dost Mohammad. One of them is Azgar Ali. I met Azgar Ali on the way back. He had been harvesting paddy for a month and was returning home with wages. The seat on the train was a little far from my place. But I was shocked to see his face once more like ten years ago. That old man of Binodpur! One hundred, fifty, ten, twenty rupees notes are being counted in the same manner. Then he raised his head and calculated. The account book is not able to reconcile the amount of income with the expenditure sector. As a result, they are getting more and more bored every time they count money. More emptiness is filling the cloudy eyes.
Then two weeks of continuous chest twisting, tears, insomnia gave birth to the story - 'Azgar Ali's accounting'.
After writing the story, I thought I would be released this time. The way maternity is released after abortion, the way a prisoner is released after a judge-directed imprisonment, just as the release after a long indefinite wait frees the long-awaited, I will be released this time too.
But Azgar Ali does not release me.
He appears to me occasionally. Appears in reality, appears in imagination, also appears in nightmares.
Because the number of Azgar Ali is at least twelve crores out of sixteen crores. I also have to test them every day.
