I feel lucky being born in a low income country, in a middle class family where both the high hills and well of despair has always been under my fingertips. I could explore more than I could imagine for this one single cause – my birth. If I were born in a high-off European country would I ever understand suffering the way I did – though I never experienced it. Or if I were per say were born in a poor family – though my family would be considered one if I were born in those western countries – then would I be able to get the touch of luxury, the way I got. For this one single birth status I could certainly emancipate where success and money takes people – what education, knowledge, good varsity and money does.
I feel extremely lucky for certain choices I made along the way. I loved reading, knowing and observing. In my adolescent days while I had been just growing up I passed time looking at things for hours. I stared at the river – water kept flowing before my eyes, boats passed on, people shouted, laborers worked. I roamed around the streets and looked at people. I started spending time in the library. I went through books – at random. I read romance, slice of life, history, philosophy. I wondered at questions of science – where, why, how. I delved into religion- because it was particularly fascinating. Thousands of religions and zillions of stories. Thoughts sparked in me – pushed me further. Myths and miracles came from across the world and at moments I lost control over myself. For moments everything felt so good. I felt so great being myself. Honestly, I feel great now, I should feel great always. Why shouldn’t I? I was born and raised in a happy family. I was taken care of and provided for – whatever the cause might be. I have never suffered like the way thousands are suffering at my age here at home and abroad. When I do visit any slum or places where low waged people live, sometimes I do realize how lucky I am. I feel so proud of myself that I do barely blame the incidents and people around me. Bad things happen to me also but maybe I am afraid to stir them – or maybe bold enough to ignore them.
What do I believe in, you may ask. I believe in that river Bhoirab – the river flows across Jashore, my home town. The river is going on – mass industrialization, pollution, erosion – forever. I believe in going on and the experience of going on. I believe in that starry night – the one I saw above the sky of my alma mater. The stars are faraway past staring at us with its leftover glory – some even died and lost in the spacetime matrix yet they are standing still with its stories in my eyes.
I believe in that chestnut tree – that I named “widow” which stands beside our football field and changes with seasons. When winter leaves it gets all green leaves and as rain droplets are falling on it as I write this – the widow is in its fullness standing with pride. She gets sad and skinny in winter though – who is always happy anyway? I love her in winter more than I love her in her full – this part of myself seems unexplainable to me.
I do seem to fall for weakness and imperfections. Or maybe I never got the taste of perfection.
