Unspoken Saga (Part-1)

HB Rita

March 2021

Art & Literature

Only extraordinary and lionhearted people can write autobiographies. I do not have this ability. I am an ordinary person who hardly knows how to cry.

Much like arts and flowers. As Irish poet and playwright Oscar Wilde said, ‘A work of art is useless as a flower is useless’. He was trying to make that any art is purposeless because its purpose is only to create an artistic idea on its own. Art has value because we give it value, and we provide it with value because of what it does to us. Art is a reflection of an artist, and we are the reflection of an Art in some way. Though, it does not affect anyone’s actions in any way.

Flowers bloom only for themselves. They are blooming for their own pleasure. We enjoy, get a happy moment by watching it. Our relationship with flowers is only to see, to feel. Flowers or arts affect us; don’t move us.

Writing an autobiography is an adventure, an impossible task. It is doubtful that any particular person has been able to express himself or herself through biography fully. Who wants to expose their hidden confidential information or crimes in public? Everyone who has written an autobiography has tactfully concealed the ultimate truth. And I am very ordinary in that sense, so I cannot make such an adventure.

In search of truth, we analyze the verses of many wise poets and writers in various ways. We have concluded only with consciousness and ideas. But we often fail to find any specific meaning in the voice of a poets’ creation. Only a poet can say the underlying purpose of his or her speech!

Sometimes I scribble by pulling my notebook. What I write might not be understandable by itself or myself! Maybe it is just my feeling or the thought of my unconscious mind. I am not usually the one who handles pointing out various aspects of life in a single line with a pen, like poets! I am very ordinary. Ordinary people are like cheap prose; they are failing to create metaphors in poetic verse.

Sometimes, I pull out the notebook and try to write love poems. I feel very obnoxious! I struggle to understand what love is! I think I do not know the definition of love. What I know is the poetic scene of literary is confused by the wrong grammar. But again, when my favorite poet added a line in his poetry as, ‘Without you mean Forest without love, a sky without clouds and a world without air and light’, then I cry! Again, I cry without a valid reason!

This is who I am doesn’t know the love words, but the love word makes me cry.

A Bengali famous poet Samresh Majumdar spoke about nine doors in eight compartments! He is a wise man, and his analysis is extensive! I cannot contain the language of his knowledge. I believe that those nine doors are in one of my cells! And death seems inevitable because those doors are closed!

Sometimes, I think the sunlight has not touched my body for a long time! Nobody wakes me up at midnight for a long time. I did not say desperately to someone; Hey! Make me sleep.

I will never have the courage to tell the truth. So nowadays, I feel more dishonest. I think I’m hiding my-self with great cunning! I go to sleep with hunger; I cannot talk about it! Holding the crack under the ribs in pain, cannot show anyone! I wake up with desire and thirst in the middle of the night, and I cannot tell anybody! I can’t say I’m human either. I also have the right to curb physical and mental hunger. I can’t say anything. My customs, my culture, my duty have bound me all the way! I live with so much hypocrisy! Why this compulsive obligation? Family, society, superstition, bigotry, and blind faith have locked us in a box. I’m not saying we’re here; I’m talking about myself.

Lately, I think a few small insects are eating my brain. I feel that I am losing my patience and faith that genetically threw to me many years ago. I let them eat my brain with satisfaction. Let no one die of hunger! Let the thirst of everyone in the world be quenched.

Hunger is a terrible biological need or so-called reactive mind and physical emotion, making everything in the world incoherent and false. Hunger destroys the subtle sense of human benevolence. The pain of hunger destroys the human mind. Since civilization’s creation, people have constantly struggled to satisfy hunger, sometimes with their own-self, sometimes with nature. We don’t talk about desire even when we are drowning in the unbearable pain of hunger. We are an extensive camouflage.

I am not a famous person. I am a very ordinary person. All the materials to be human exist in me, Hands, feet, eyes, mouth, feelings, emotions, anger, violence, hatred, greed, conscience all together, I am a human. If it is said that this is not the interpretation of the word human, no one will be considered as a human being without the addition of something nobler, humanity and moral qualities; then, the question arises, why didn’t our Creator send us with only the material to be “human”? Why did he give us greed, violence, arrogance, anger, desire, demand? Why, however, the greed for power awakens, we are overwhelmed by the pain of losing?  Why can’t we tolerate others?

We, humans, are both moral and immoral by nature because we are human beings. We are greedy and jealous of people because we are human beings. We feel the pain of neighbors and tears up, again in need; we don’t forget to hurt others because we are human beings.

There are no tears, no jealousy in the eyes of the angels! They are above the human race. We are not.

to be continue…