গল্পের রাজত্বে বসবাস করছি আপাতত Translated by Nush Islam Blue eyes So far I have only collected twenty pairs of eyes. It hasn’t even filled up half of the basket. Maybe another twenty pairs or so will somehow be enough to fill it up. But the real problem is its really rare to find blue eyes in this country, nearly impossible. Even when one is found, quite difficult to get hold of one. After all who is going to give up their eyes so willingly? Everyone loves their eyes excessively. I am not really fond of my eyes that much. Mine are grey. Parvin doesn’t like grey eyes. She loves blue eyes. Deep as the ocean, soft like the sky, that blue eyes. I am always looking out for those eyes. I am always with a piece of rope, a torch and sharp surgical knife. It was raining that night, pitch dark. I found some one. - STOP That man looks frighten. - Brother, I don’t have anything on me. He obviously thought I am just an ordinary hoodlum. - You do. You have blue eyes. - WHAT? - I need those blue eyes. My precious Parvin adores blue eyes. - No! My eyes aren’t blue. Trust me! The man screamed with such sadness in his tone! Unfortunately I didn’t have the luxury to care for his screaming. So I pushed him down, Sat on his chest, pressing him down on he ground. Pulled his eyes out with the shiny sharp knife. Blood spurted out from the sockets. Stored the eyes in a formalin filled bottle. Returned home and realized my mistakes. How could I! Those are grey eyes. Not blue. How could I make such a terrible mistake? I took someone’s eyes for nothing. What choices have I got now apart from repenting? ALAS! (Octavio Paz – blue book) REASON WHY POET LOST/LEFT THE JOB AGAIN!! Whole office is air-conditioned. Even for a cigarette he had to go out. He caught a cold within three days of working there. Although, he doesn’t really have much work to do. Maybe proof reading some articles, playing a little online game, but he was quite satisfied with the job. It actually surprised everyone that he is actually holding on to this and finally actually working! He probably would have. But there was a small problem, a really minor issue, such a little problem that it’s impossible to even believe it. Truth was, there was a waste land on the way to work. How did this place emerge in such posh and busy area of the metropolis, he kept thinking about that for nine days. The more he thought the more nonsense started to accumulate in his head. Even that probably wouldn’t have mattered but what put the final nail down on that was the public toilet ground. There was a misspelled notice on the wall , “DO NOT OORINATE HERE. IF YOU DO 10 TK FINE.” And everyone kept urinating there with mighty force in the direction of that notice board. He just had to tolerate viewing that scene everyday or he had to take the detour to avoid this. But as its impossible to take the detour every morning it was also quite impossible to tolerate the odour of waste and public urinate mixed together. So he questioned himself. Why should I work on such a place where there are only two ways to reach, one a rounaboutway and other is a nightmarish odour filled route. Eventually so he left the job. He obviously didn’t have a choice. Me and the butterfly On one side of the glass it’s me and on the other side it’s the butterfly. It’s very rare to come across such vibrant butterflies in Dhaka city. Red, blue, purple, black all the colours are illuminating like a kaleidoscope on its little body. Its wings, body everywhere such beauty its just impossible to describe the intoxicating awe-inspiring work of art. I am sure even many prominent designers would be captivated with the composition and combinations. One side of the high rise building is made of glasses. On the road outside cars and other motors are passing in a monotonous rhythm. Nest to the side walks jarool and krishnachura trees are playing with the wind and mocking the air with its red – purple colour explosion. The only thing visible within sight is that radhachoora tree and the crow’s nest on its branch. I Can’t see any eggs or baby crows. Only can see dried up straws of the big shaggy nest. Well this is my seventh job. I heard seven is a lucky number so maybe that means I probably am going to hold on to this job. Infect I have to. Cause by now I have acquired quite a reputation for changing too many jobs. But I am helpless. How can I put up with so much just for some money end of the month. I am already feeling slight revulsion with this job within only 10 days. I feel like a prisoner in this air-conditioned glass cube. I think the butterfly is trying to break through the glass walls and be inside this room. I squash my nose on the glass, butterfly fluttered a little bit further away only to return and sit on top of my nose. Its than decided I have to let the butterfly in. I just have to break the glass wall. So I took the paperweight in my hands . . . FACE OF A PROCESSION Mili introduced us, “ her name is Ruma. She is studying anthropology.” I have seen her just a moment earlier at the very front row of the procession. I questioned her, “why are you missing classes to join protests.” - Because Ratan is dead. - So what? Why do you have to miss classes for meetings and protests whenever someone gets killed? What kind of politics is that?” - This is not a matter of politics sir! If someone bits me up to death. Wouldn’t you protest? Her question stunned me! - Actually this protesting stuff is not good. I mean so many people screaming, there are hubbub everywhere. - She pronounced in a stern manner – well these are not like going to movies for your entertainment. No one joins a procession for fun. Although I do enjoy processions. Alright sir. Good bye! Ruma storms out. You shouldn’t have spoken to her like that. She is a nice girl, a very active worker. Suddenly there was a sound of a shooting. Mili pulls me down. “LIE DOWN. THERE ARE SHOOTOUTS.” Like it started, the firing stopped suddenly. There were a crowd in front of the cafeteria. Mili runs to the crowd only to return ruffled. - They fired. Ruma got shot and spot dead. What are you saying? We are going to start a procession with her corpse. They are probably going to try stop us but we are going to go ahead. I have to go. Mili wait. I am coming with you. Yes of course I am going to join the protest marching. Firmness in my voice surprises even my own self! PRIMAL BEING - Sasha isn’t there any humans here? - You can always call me a human. - You are just a robot. They made you. - I can cry, I can laugh, and I can love. - That’s true. Talking to you does feel like talking to a real human. How was that possible Sasha? - They used to think humans have to have perfection. So they started to make themselves flawless! At first they stopped eating, than they started to detach from all emotions. They thought emotions are obstacle to human progress. - What’s their intention? - To LEARN. Apparently success to human race is in learning. - And how did you come to know all this? - Because two thousand years back they created us with real human emotions and feelings! - We can laugh, can sing, we have hunger, we are happy just to catch sight of the moon shining. - Sasha, I think you, Robots are much more human like than present human kinds. - I am glad to hear you say that. - Sasha you adore homosapiens, don’t you? - Of course! - Do you think humans are still humans? - That’s a food for thought. - I thought about this Sasha. We need to do something. - What do you want to do? - Truth is you are the real being, so human race will exist only if you do? - OK - And what one has to do for others to survive? - Remain alive. - I think you are right. Let’s make a plan. Wait let me close the door. No one can anything behind the closed doors…