the monsoon strums brittle chords on the corrugated iron sheet that covers my balcony.

it’s sunday, i tell myself. you’re home. before 9 pm, despite an iftar.

no way, whispers back a part of my brain, the part that adores schedules and routines, that prefers order among chaos, that likes to take jumbled up numbers and pictures and seek out neat patterns. the obsessive-compulsive cortex, as i like to call it.

and when this part of my brain senses a disruption to a regular routine, or something impeding a perfect sense of order, it starts sending out ominous signals to the rest of my body. did i remember to bring home the laptop from the office? did i lock the front door after coming in to the house? did i turn off the faucet? a world of uncertainties and unsteadies emerge from the mere act of being home before 9 pm.

on a sunday?

and why is my brain insistent that something is out of balance? it’s because, this afternoon, i submitted the final draft of a report that marks the formal end of my efforts to get a masters degree. of course, there are still a few more headaches – thesis defense and all that fun stuff – but the worst is over. i. am. done.

two years and 72 exams ago, this moment in time seemed like it was a lifetime away. and now it’s here, and i am finally free.

the question is, what do i do with this freedom?

What matters…

…is that I didn’t give up writing, but that I still think about writing here, extensively.

A thousand unfinished drafts fester on some device or the other, forgotten and incomplete. Each the essence of an idea, initiated but forgotten. In the midst of them all lie stories without a second chapter, political analyses without a clear answer, jokes without a punchline. And so they are fated to remain, unclaimed and incomplete.

Who’s to blame this time? Work, studies, family? Or the constant procrastination that is a hallmark of my life? Maybe a combination?

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about creativity – what nourishes it, and what saps it. It’s been years since I wrote a single song – the act of picking up a guitar for that purpose somehow transforms into a few lonely strums, and even if I find a pattern I like it is confined to the nether realms of my brain, quickly forgotten. Even recording doesn’t help.

Perhaps creativity is contingent on a particular state of mind. One that is limited in quantity and is easily exhausted by the day long work grind – “Make it more concise,” they tell me. “Sharper, stronger, more succinct, more powerful…” Or maybe it withers after carving through yet another set of PowerPoint slides, trying to figure out how to convert a wall of text into a simple yet powerful graphic. Or maybe it diminishes without practice, or due to stress, or because of the effort it takes to navigate through the increasingly dense urban jungle. Or maybe it perishes on the altar of responsibility – that bewitching ambrosia that is more addictive than any narcotic known to man.

As you may have heard, Violet Smoke is no more. Careers and family have transported each of us to distant corners of the world, and Skype is no substitute for the pleasure of sitting together, face to face, playing a few chords and seeing where we go from there. I’ve been trying out a few new bands – but that drive to create, to entertain, to lose myself in the music I create, and to make music that is fundamentally about me – all that is gone.

And so I look back fondly upon a time, just five years ago, when we were at our most creative and most prolific. We would churn out songs by the dozen, and somehow we knew just what words would fit the song. We weren’t afraid to try new things – adjusting songs recorded with instruments to an intimate stage ensemble is no easy task. Yet we were always in sync, knowing just when to transition into the next verse or chorus.

My writing followed a similar trajectory, it seems. Prolific at first, propelling me to some uncertain renown, and then disappearing just as quickly. It wasn’t writer’s block – it was a tap shutting off, with not even a drip remaining behind.

I might not have control over other band members, but I do have control over my writing. After all, it isn’t only a few words to me – it is catharsis. And so today, the dawn of the Bengali year 1419, I think it is time to brush off those frayed neurons, uncover that dormant creativity, and let loose once again.

No more drafts hidden away in the dingy dark corners of the internet.


what is this, this torrent of emotions, this flood of things left unsaid, that are fighting to make it to the surface, to pour out all at once in a stream of consciousness, no specific joint thought but rather a series of sentences – spoken, heard, felt – all flowing over one another, racing to get out there as fast as they can?

what is this, this series of words left unsaid, feelings left unfelt, emotions left untended, feelings ignored at random and at will as time passes by, just because right now isn’t convenient and later seems indeterminately comforting?

where am i, then, if not lost? drowning? adrift? in the midst of all of these realizations, echoes, memories, feelings, words, emotions, desires, angers, sadnesses and resentments?


december begins every year with an impending sense of doom, primarily because the first day of the month is my birthday. there are the usual concerns about aging, the usual wistful longings for a youth rapidly passing by, and a sense of sadness at all that i could have accomplished within the past year that was left undone. this is accompanied by this unspeakable yet haunting worry of what if: what if this is the last year, this is the last minute, the last second, the last breath? what if there is no more beyond this year, no more existence, no more happiness, no more sadness, no more emotion, no more moments, no more memories and no more feelings?

in recent years, this has been followed by a tumult of worry, because i can feel my body getting older. this human shell, this body – it’s nothing but an endless series of cycles – sleep, digestion, bloodflow, excretion, reproduction. yet if just one of this multitude of cycles gets disrupted, i can increasingly feel it echoing through my body, disrupting every other cycle in turn. when i was younger, these disruptions meant nothing – i could just as easily recover easily from a night without sleep, a day rolled in to night in to another day, with just one good night’s sleep.

sleep is no longer the savings account with no minimum balance that it once was – it is now a credit account, with a minimum balance of eight hours, the lack of which means an intense yet difficult struggle to catch up with lost hours at every opportunity. at the end of the week, the body simply refuses to get out of bed at a reasonable hour, as if the extra ten minutes between snooze alarms would equal several hours of lost sleep.

and it isn’t just sleep anymore. i constantly feel less healthy, get sick much more often, and coughs, colds and fevers don’t seem to want to go away. i eat less, feel exhausted most times, and climbing even a flight of stairs results now in the resurgence of pain in the knees.

am i growing older or aging, i ask myself. am i all right, or is there something wrong? am i supposed to feel sick and tired of always being sick and tired?


then, last year, on my birthday, i got the news that i had been dreading for almost eight months. i heard it come from my sister’s lips, heard it repeated by a doctor, and then heard both voices echo in my head for hours on end. in just two weeks, it was all over. and, fittingly, i was the only one there when it ended. and there are memories of those last few moments that keep flooding in to my head without pause. sometimes when i close my eyes, or when i’m alone with my thoughts, i see the body lying on the bed, trying to take a last breath. i hear the voice of the on-duty doctor softly yet urgently calling out, “sir.” i see the eyes flutter open once, take a look at the world, and then go blank.

within the next ten minutes, the body, surrounded by most of the family, was hooked up to a ventilator in the middle of an intensive care unit full of surprised yet anxious patients. i remember tears crawling down my sister’s cheeks as she tried to remember the most appropriate prayer to say. i remember the disappointed and hurt look on my brother’s face, and the sadness gripping my uncle like a demon come to tear away his soul. the sound of the orderly pounding on the body’s chest with half-hearted attempts at last minute cpr, trying to tease even an ounce of life into a body that was already turning blue and cold.

yet, beneath these images and memories are others which i do not let surface. memories of the final conversation i had with him, when he angrily told me to leave the room because he couldn’t sleep in my presence. memories of what i felt exactly at the moment he last opened his eyes, this futile yet bitter anger at him for not letting me stay, not letting me save his life. memories of what it felt like at the graveyard that night, when i watched his body be covered with soil – the utter helplessness, the utter sense of abandonment, the uncertainty of a future without his guidance and guardianship. memories of the last time i touched his skin, and how cold it felt beneath my fingers. memories of the bitter taste of the tears i had cried throughout that whole day. memories of being back in a house without the only other person i had shared it with for a long five years.


two weeks ago, it was the first anniversary of that fateful day. and in the midst of the memories, i didn’t let myself be overtaken by these memories. on one hand, i had just returned from a trip that represented the collapse of everything i had worked towards for just over six years, with the impending closure of a program that i had built from scratch, that i had refined over time, and that i had built in to one of the most innovative and yet potentially effective development projects in the history of the country. i had made it this far because i had been given the opportunity to innovate, and because those in charge believed just as much as i did in the power and potential of what i had been working on.

and then, in one fell swoop, they were gone, and so was the program, deemed to be replaceable and wasteful by someone who did not understand what i wanted to do, and had never considered how an approach different from her own could be effective. and so, the program, the team, the clients, the trust, the relationships i had built over six long years, all of it had been sentenced to death, with an imminent execution date. for most of those six years, this had been my life – my main passion, my main motivation, my love and my dedication. i had invested so much time, some of it unpaid even, in getting it to the point where it was, and now the ax had fallen. i had invested my entire creative process into the program, neglecting my blog, my music, my reading and my social life just to get the program to where it had been. but all that was over. it was time, yet again, to say goodbye to something else i’ve loved but had to lose.

and this time, the goodbye is even longer, the final gasping breaths much longer in duration, than what happened a year ago. perhaps a sudden death – a last long look at the world and then farewell – is much easier to tolerate.

in addition to the pain of losing my project, i didn’t have time to reminisce on memories either. the next week was finals week, for which i was grotesquely unprepared, and studying for seven courses is no laughing matter, especially since i hadn’t bothered to glance through the textbooks even once during the past two months. added to that was the awful sense of humor of one particular professor who issued the decree that i would have to submit, before the examinations, a 70 page hand-written assignment, on top of producing two original research papers for consideration for other courses. my immediate future, it seemed, consisted of over a week of constant all-nighters – a prospect i was not looking forward to, and one i could not even begin to relish.

and so i just didn’t have time to reminisce about these memories, to think about those long-buried emotions, to grieve for the loss i had suffered a year ago. i just had to put it all aside for a while, hoping to resume thinking about them when i was under less work and academic pressure.

but that’s the funny thing about memories, you see – you can’t just choose to think about them later. ever since my birthday at the beginning of the month, i’d been experiencing flashes of memories from a year before – not just the sights, sounds and smells of his final moments, but also memories of how i felt back then – the damned emotions i hadn’t allowed to come to the surface in months.

but i couldn’t predict when they’d come – they’d appear at times when i was alone, standing on the verandah soaking in the cool of the evening over a cigarette. they’d pop out of nowhere in the middle of studying particularly complicated chapters, or when i was sitting in my car staring out at interminable traffic jams. they’d emerge from the depths in the moments just before i fell asleep, in that hazy last stage of consciousness where it all seemed so real, like i was living those moments all over again.

and i just did not know what to do with these rapidly resurfacing memories. i didn’t have the time or the mental capacity to process them logically, and so i kept pushing them off until i could actually make the time.


the first death anniversary is generally the one most people remember, and so there are generally a host of events held on the occasion. for abbu, it hasn’t been any different, just grander in scale. there are several occasions planned in his memory, and so far i’ve only been able to make it to one of them. tomorrow morning is the launch of his autobiography – i remember seeing him staying up late at night for weeks on end looking through freshly typed page after page of what became the manuscript, trying to find the smallest typo or error to correct. but more than that i remember his final days in the hospital, when he instructed me to make sure that the book gets published one way or the other. and i feel sorry for not personally being able to make it happen, but instead somebody else had to take the initiative to make it happen.

the entire family is here, with all the attendant problems that that entails. since they arrived, the house has been whipped into a frenzy of all this remembering, and attempts to honor his memory. everyone is trying to honor him and his contributions in the best way they know how. everyone is trying to capture and preserve their memories of him – a documentary has even been produced to represent his life. but i really don’t know how to do any of this for myself.

abbu was many things to many people, but to me he was a father. we did not have the happiest or closest of relationships, and much of that is my own fault, but i knew he loved me and cared for me no matter what. i have many memories of him – some of which i remember, many of which i don’t and whose only proof are long-forgotten pictures in some album or the other. i might have had the shortest amount of time with him, but i do have some memories. is there a way for me to preserve some of these along with everybody else?

but i hesitate. i haven’t been asked to participate in the documentary or write anything in the booklet being produced for tomorrow, and i haven’t volunteered. i haven’t volunteered mainly because i keep thinking of those days in 1999, after we returned to dhaka after ammu passed away. i remember how my brother brought everyone together – abbu, the sisters, his wife, the aunts, and even my six year old niece – and recorded their memories of ammu on audiotape. i remember how everyone was included in this exercise the last time but me. and that’s when i learned that maybe my memories aren’t important enough for my family to want to preserve.

and so, here i am, one year later, trying to dredge up memories of abbu and preserve them in my own way. it’s funny what the mind chooses to remember and what it chooses to forget. much of the memories i have of him aren’t happy ones, but instead of moments when he hurt me most with things he said or things he did. but then there are some memories that i keep, deep down inside, which remind me of the kind of person he truly was. the time in grade 3 when he came to my classroom to talk to my teachers about other students who bullied me because of my skin color. the time he substituted for my mother at a mother’s day event at my elementary school, even though he was extremely busy. the times when he took me alone to our village home, where i saw him touch the lives of countless people in his own small way. the time when he sat at the back of my sister’s holud, crying loudly and visibly because my mother wasn’t there to witness that special moment for herself. the time when he would call me on my cell if i was late coming back home from work, to see if i was okay. the way he would knock on my door every day after i got home from work to ask if i was hungry and if i was okay. the times when i was sick, and he would rush a doctor over to the house to get a blood sample for tests. the times he took me to buy a pet dog, or brought one home as a surprise. and his last birthday, just four months before he was gone, when i took him against his wishes for dinner with the rest of the family at westin – he didn’t want to go that far because he was worried of feeling worse – but i remember how much he enjoyed the experience, once he got there, and how happy he was. his last eid ul azha, just a few days after the doctor had given us the bad news, when he was overjoyed to see that faraz had come to visit him, but was disheartened that he could not sit up and play with him.

and, seething below it all, those memories of his final moments, and how it felt when i knew he was gone and that, despite our arguments and disagreements, i would miss him tremendously.


this time, when my brother and his family first came to town, i told myself that i should be much more open and communicative with him. let bygones be bygones, i told myself – maybe he needs a brother too, and is willing to make the effort as well. but i was quickly proved wrong. his greetings and felicitations still feel like they are coming from a distant acquaintance, not immediate family. i’ve tried my best, but i haven’t yet been able to have a full conversation with him on anything. at the dinner table, if my sister-in-law is present, the conversation quickly degenerates into a conversation between her and me, while my brother converses with my wife. and those are real conservations, the kind i yearn to have with him: the ones he has with t, where he listens to what she has to say, and responds to whatever she says, and then listens to her response. every time i’ve tried to do that, tried to make my own point in the discussion and hoped for a response, i haven’t gotten one – the best i can hope for is a smile as he moves on to another topic, as if i hadn’t really said anything at all. when he’s around, i have this overwhelming sense that i am but a miniscule and irrelevant creature in his universe, or, more commonly, that i am but an outsider in this family, and my wife is the younger sibling he has always wanted and finally found. and now that he’s found her, i am inconsequential in the grand scheme of things in his universe.

and so i’ve withdrawn back in to myself once again. some things just aren’t worth the effort, and i’m a fool to try to bring about a change where none is possible.


some days this month began well – i woke up refreshed from a good night’s sleep. most days, i don’t get much sleep at night, because those quiet moments just when my eyes are about to shut are when all these things come flooding in to my brain – the uncertainty of my position at work, the pressure i am under academically, how i’ve lost a brother that i really needed, how i wish i had a family that loved and respected me, and, above all, those memories of fifteen brief days a year before, especially the final moments of that fateful fifteenth day. and so i lay awake every night, tossing and turning, trying to fight back against these worries, these insecurities, these sadnesses, and praying that their combined weight pressing down on my prone form in bed does not crush me to death, and that i awake to see another dawn.

the mornings start off well – and then i am either at work, reminded of the loss of the fruits of my hard work throughout my entire career and the instability and insecurity of the position i am currently in, or i am at home, and reminded almost instantly how insignificant my existence really is to the members of the family that i have been taught to love, respect, obey and hold on to tightly.

the best part of the day remains the night, just before i am ready to go to sleep. sitting on the bed, i listen to my wife breathing softly as she sleeps, while i focus work, academics or just plain relax. and those brief moments of silence, calm and peace are so important and valuable that they somehow get me through the next day in one peace, until i can be back in the same position again.

i don’t really have the option of talking to anyone any of this – mainly because the complex raft of emotions, feelings, stress and pain means that i don’t know where to begin, and how to make any of this make sense to someone else. also partly because the years of silence i’ve endured silently have made me feel like i’ve lost my voice – i don’t know if i could put any of this into spoken words so that i could explain to anyone just how helpless, sad, lonely and lost i feel throughout the day.


this december has been perhaps the worst of all those that i’ve experienced thus far. but there are still three days left. the academic pressure is gone now, the situation at work is slowly degrading to a stressful but still an uncomfortable yet bearable status quo, and my disappointment in my family seems almost tolerable, especially since they are only here for a few more days.with the academic pressure gone,  i should now be able to get sufficient rest, and if not, there’s always trusty old dormicum. i still don’t know what to do with those snippets of memories from one year ago that randomly pop up in my perception, but i might just now have the time and the mental capacity to process them and grieve properly for the first time this month.

so here’s to a more stable three days, and a much happier 2011.


we drive. the endless flow of traffic lights flicker across our faces, red, then green again.

a never-ending series of dazzling yellow headlights flow over us from passing cars. the car, bathed red in the glow of the taillights of the car ahead of us.

on her finger, the ring i just bought her. engagement ring? wedding ring? dating ring? friendship ring? the myriad possible meanings of the ring seem to flicker within the green stones. the silver band glows red, green, then red again.

don’t break me again. please.

our fingers, entangled infinitely in one another. i feel beads of moisture beginning to form on her palm. i know it’s only seconds before she feels them too, pulls her hand away with the excuse of sweaty palms.

our fingers intertwine tighter and tighter. on the radio, some anonymous crooner sings some song about love and loss, from a playlist i thought would be apropos to get her to forgive me.

outside, the air is still. the night is calm, punctuated only by the oncoming whoosh of a passing vehicle, or some lonely driver leaning on his horn. the darkness is infinite, only penetrated by the dim glare of a distant car.

“how can i ever trust you again? what’s the guarantee you won’t hurt me again?”

there are many answers i could give, many things i could say. but i’ve said them all before. ruined the meaning of each with hideous acts. so many promises i could make, but each of them broken into tiny pieces. so many dreams i could weave, but each one i’ve ended with vicious nightmares.

her hair falls softly across her face. i reach over to brush them away from her mouth. lean over slowly to kiss her, but at the last second she moves her face away. i’m left with just her cheek, and the bitter taste of a lonely tear winding its way down the side of her face.

unlike everyone else, when she cries, the tears stream down the side of her face. not by her nose, to pool over her trembling lips, but down the side, where they drip off into the oblivion of her shoulders. when she cries, she rarely makes a noise, but her shivers give it all away.

“i don’t know if i can ever trust you again. you’ve broken me into a million pieces, and i don’t think they can be put back together again.”

i grip her hand tighter, and she reciprocates slowly. the sensation sends shivers of hope down my spine. i kiss away her tears. she rests her head on my shoulder. one kiss for her forehead, one kiss for her nose.

she looks up, kisses me on the lips. soft. tentative. subtle.

i kiss her back. more forcefully. more hopefully.

she pulls away and stares out her window.

“give me time.”

and so we drive. the endless flow of traffic lights flicker across our faces, red, then green again.


the fazr azaan cuts through the quiet dawn morning, and silences the band playing on a neighbor’s rooftop. they’ve been going at it all night long – the remains of a gaye holud/bachelor party somewhere in the neighborhood. i imagine a whole silent city of bloodshot eyes in the morning, silently cursing the intent revelry that’s kept everyone else up all night.

but i’m not up late because of the music. my almost hermetically sealed windows and the sound of the air conditioner have drowned them out quite well. i’m up late again – or is it early in the morning? – immersed in something else.

someone else.

my mind still resonates with her final murmurs and sighs as sleep envelopes her. i remember i didn’t wish her a good night, but she was already asleep before i could. but there are bigger things for me to worry about.

for as long as i can remember, it’s been my second nature to critically deconstruct everything i say and do, usually before i do it. but this time, i haven’t given myself the opportunity. and that makes me worry; after a near eternity of guarding my emotions so closely, i’m finally letting them take full rein and lead me on. but that scares me – what if i end up getting hurt again? after a lifetime of unrequited affection, what if this ends up following the same road? what if i end up doing something completely stupid and thereby lose the one person in a long time who’s managed to inspire and excite me enough to let my guard down long enough to actually feel alive, for once?

worrying about everything is possibly my quintessential characteristic. but right now, i can’t seem to concentrate on even these concerns. the promise of a brand new day and the prospect of hearing her voice again eclipse everything else.

the soft plucking of a guitar mixes with the final notes of the azaan. a soft imperceptible rain falls and distorts the flickering decorative lights from the wedding house. dhaka’s in the grips of another very late post-monsoon depression, and the light slowly coming off the eastern horizon reveals a sky scarred with clouds.

but, as the band strikes up again, i think that, this time, i’m going to be all right.

on writing

the lamest excuse i could possibly come up with for not writing more on this blog would be the most truthful one: really bad time management. i could have come up with something more original and even slightly more exciting, like a tremendously active social life, or a blooming love affair, or even a sudden influx of new best friends, but none of those would be truthful. seeing that i haven’t written any new fiction in over a year, if truth were to desert my writing as well, that would leave me with absolutely nothing to write about.

but no. the excuse for my continued absence would have to be my lack of effective time management skills. or rather, given the amount of time management i’m already engaged in – balancing work, classes and the band – dedicating time for writing seems to have fallen through the cracks. despite an intention to poach a good friend’s own practice of writing at least 1000 words a day, i haven’t been able to live up to it yet. it seems that, once my time is split between classes, work and the band, the remainder is dedicated to a free-for-all assortment of other activities: shaving, for example, or spending time with the family. writing falls into this list. however, it’s mostly always at the bottom of the priority list, given that watching movies or reading books provides more convenient and enjoyable distraction.

in the meantime, my short story acid somehow got published in the eid special of the new age, an english language daily. [i realize, of course, that linking to the published story here effectively destroys the last shreds of anonymity that this blog had, but i’m certain that if anyone still reads this blog today, they already know me.] i’ve had mixed feelings about the publication. first, i’m not certain how they got their hands on it – i don’t consciously remember submitting it for consideration. second, given that it’s my first publication, i’m of course quite excited. but finally, i’m not certain if i wanted it published in the form it is in currently. as part of my procrastination about writing new stuff, i keep telling myself that first i’ll revise all the old stories, but i never get around to that either. and i’m certain that most of them need revision.

except club rio, of course. even if i wanted to change that story around, the only message i ever wanted to get across through it is covered in the first few lines, whereas the rest is just an afterthought. but others, like the night it rained, definitely need a lot of work on my part.

but now that something has finally been published, i feel it’s about time i started writing again. for the past few days, i’ve been dreaming up a new story, again set in bangladesh, and, like acid, concerned with a burning issue. although i haven’t started work on it, i plan to do so shortly.

in the meantime, the response from the elders on the publication of acid has been, to say the least, very interesting. my father told me, “the plot was good, the writing was good, the ending was good, but you didn’t need to put sex into it!” as that was the first time i ever heard him use the dreaded s-word, i consider it a huge achievement. a professor also called it “very mature writing”, which actually means, i presume, that it constitutes reading material for the very mature. and all this fuss about something that may or may not have happened! for god’s sake, they were only lying in bed together and kissing, not explicitly naked, and at one point they “finished” doing something. that doesn’t mean they had sex! it could have been a billion different things – thumb-wrestling, for one. and several other things that escape my mind at this moment. but no, the perverted minds of humans automatically assume that they were making babies! god.

one last thing before we close for today. i’ve tried out a variety of writing styles – from the onion to maddox to even any random political blog you come across. but none of that is me. so, henceforth, i’m going to be writing in my own style about things that interest me, just to see how it comes out. if you’re still reading a year from now, i’m sure you deserve an award.

come to think of it, if i’m still writing a year from now, i deserve an award.

crush me

if one particular young lady only knew how her smile affects mere mortals like me, she’d probably never smile again.

yes, as strange as it may seem, after three years i think i’m finally interested in someone.

too bad i’m too much of a wuss to actually make a move. rather, let me rephrase. too bad i’m too much of an economist that i must conduct a detailed cost-benefit analysis before i make a move.


an evening with violet smoke 3?

i highly doubt anyone still visits this site anymore. don’t worry, i don’t blame you. part of my new take on life is to write at least 1000 words a day, on absolutely anything, so get ready to start reading loads of crap here (thanks for the idea, prufrock!)

anyway, if any of you are in town and are interested, my band violet smoke will be performing again at kozmo lounge on the evening of june 15. do stop by, have a banana frappe, and enjoy some music.

see you there!