time of my life

Power and morals don’t go well together. One look at
Bangladesh’s pre elections landscape proves the point. Macbeth lacked ethically adequate object for  human ambition, says Stephen Greenblatt, in Jadavpur.  These are not his words. He is quoting Bill Clinton in his pre-Monica days when the President had decided to recite Macbeth’s soliloquy in response to Greenblatt’s discussion with him. Clinton had not stopped there; he had continued to quote and court Macbeth from his memory of his junior school:
 

“If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well
It were done quickly:”

 

With elections and pre elections deeply flawed, what best can one do but resort to the nol-wallahs and use power to the best that we can…as soon as possible? Bangladesh is rejoicing today, celebrating the caretaker under emergency. How best can we cared for by the uniform in action is yet to be seen. How well can the interest of democracy be protected is yet to be discovered. Whether Divinity will hedge Authority is yet to be examined. The authority currently seems to be on a binge to attack, arrest and acquire. Dhaka streets, blessed by emergency and cursed by lack of democracy are experiencing a few uneducated guesses on the boon that this state carries. The second round of advisers is beginning to speak up. How and why they had been brought to the centre stage is yet a mystery. The nol-wallahs and the outsiders have played their part well. In the name of democracy, they have injected new faces into the system and have given the people of the land a fresh hope. The Chief Adviser sounded honest, straight, ambitious and timeless. Good for us, the hopelessly limited 5 year-ists. However, referring to Almer’s commentary in New Age dated 20^th Jan, Yours Truly would also like to echo his spirit:

 May the new round of magicians not stretch their power of dreams beyond the prescribed limit set by the Democracy or else…“Bangladeshis, countrymen and lovers” will also celebrate the death of the Caesars:There is tears for his love; joy for his fortune; honor for his valor; and death for his ambition.   

I was surprised to see the queue in Dhaka. Coming back from the City of Joy to the City of Elections, I was tempted to add yet another tag for the town: City of Post Hajj pilgrims. The shaved heads were all around, their rubber sandals huffed and puffed along the arrival lounge, the immigration seemed light years away and I was, where I was supposed to be …behind them all and rocked in the line and into an anaesthetized state of im/post/sans-patience by the sheer divinity and strength of their organs. Mind you, I am a Muslim who has performed Hajj once and has done Umrah twice in my life. Mind you, too…that nothing has changed in my life after that. I still indulge, still complain and still fight my various battles. I failed to wear the Hijab and I failed to keep away from the company of men. Therefore, Hajj does what it’s supposed to do: giving one an opportunity to do away with the dirt, if only one desires so. For transgressors like me, well….it provides a temporary refuge and a semi precious feeling of an apparent purity that helps the inner eye to take another look at life and morals. “Borishaler Hajigon, Ak Hon”- Hajjis from Barisal, gather here and go to belt 5 where we will be collecting our luggage and heading off for our home town… The megaphone defied all the sound system of the airport, drowned all of us making us, the current ‘non hajis’ feel terribly inadequate. The authoritative voice also inspired the mesmerized hajis to push the other travelers and make a dash for the immigration counters in a desperate bid to save…as if the last 10 minutes of their lives. I was part of their queue, therefore at one point, when I was conscious, I asked them if, what Islam taught was being practiced. Simply put, I told them that they were being intolerant, which was contrary to their spirit of hajj. Furious and offended, one of them gave me the nastiest possible look and told me that I was crossing my line and if I knew enough about the extent of hardship they have had to bear during their pilgrimage. To his disappointment and dissatisfaction, I responded in the affirmative and briefed him of my Hajj history. A young, pleasant looking Haji, an Oxford graduate looked amused and attempted a conversation with me on politics. At the end of our dialogue, I was convinced that Islam has done him good and he does wear its spirit well. Wish there were more of his type, lesser of mine and none from the ‘Borishaler Haji’ clan around in this world.. where a piece of head cloth would not stir controversy, where Nobel winners wouldn’t throw scarves away just to make a point, where women actually wouldn’t feel comfortable peeping through tiny perforated holes, where the atar smelling mullahs who do the least justice to humanity would fade away into the horizon, never to return again to either haunt or halt history.

Blogging’s best done when I’m lacking oxygen, meaning when I’m yawning. Too tired to edit, too fatigued to think before I write. Therefore blogs brag of my unplugged entity out in the run. I specifically choose ‘run’ as an ending word as it’s always easy to match the “un” words after that. Bun,sun,fun, even gun. I always opt for rhyme when Reason has taken a hike. Picking up an unfinished blog to complete is yet another challenge. But I am picking up my pieces now and blogging when I am way past the moment, way past the hour and way past faces that haunt me, keep me company, and show their colors when drunk. And even if they haven’t run away from me, I have. I have managed to bag a speeding ticket specially handed down by 2006. Therefore, though I bear a blemish I was stepping into a yet another phase.

New year’s over rated, mummy…my daughter says. No one needs to know who one’s partying with, none needs to realize who’s hugging who and at what point. The only thing that matters is that we are all merry…merry and without regrets. The new beginning seems to be gulping memories down with a bad wine. Tastes bad, but feels good. After all, who wants to know if 2002 was a bad year from French vin?

 I spent 31^st of December in
Goa, at a remote, modest resort right by the beaches of Benaulim. La Trattoria was far from being any coffee haunt that I have ever been to. The bathrooms were hostile with measly toiletries with budget reminders. But even the smelly station did not repulse me enough. The sleepers failed to make my back ache worse. The smell of boiled eggs and fart was unable to make me shy away from my focus: a Goan year ending frenzy.

But something else had happened mid way. Saddam had randomly died in the meantime. Random. Sudden. Right before the Beast of the New Year could take charge. Don’t have to think much to be random these days. I breathe, sleep, eat better when I am randomly random. I often wonder if that’s the key to being creative, or rather if being creative and being meaningful have the same alliance and rewards. The perspectives to Saddam’s execution have varied from ‘justice served’ to ‘what a martyr!’ Hopeless and hapless in the middle of a journey, I had asked my kids, one by one if they thought Saddam’s death looked ok enough. My 14 year old, Tanisha, thanks to the very Markini way of thinking, confirmed my fears and said: YES and wasted no time in reminding me that Saddam had killed millions. Wamiq, my 21 year old sounded careful and blurted out her approval of the punishment, but thanks to the lineage of her mum’s sensitive heart, soon sided with the ‘sectarian wrath’ theory. However, her summary was sympathetic but drastic as she went on with her own list of who she would kill if she were ever threatened. Navid, my 24 year old was confused as handing out a verdict would mean siding with papacamp or mammacamp. Needless to add, he refuses camping. Therefore, he moved his head from right to left, from papa to mamma to his siblings and then settled carefully with a South Indian nod which meant anything from an emphatic YES to an absolute NO.But with all that, I realized that wombs don’t make a difference. I have indeed given birth to separate minds which rationalize separately.

Meanwhile, I had settled down with the waves of the Arjuna beach doctoring my patchy heart. Jazz and the lovely food with stray dogs interrupting the scene were failing to put a dent on my spirit. However, the ‘spirit’ that I proudly refer to and kept coming back to at the beach was not so much leaning towards a happy strain. It was one of an acceptance of violence in the region, and of failed dreams. It’s one of shok that should lead poet-painters to shloka someday. I hope.