The Happy Gambler

This week just flew…. maybe because this was an insanely busy week. That’s mostly a good thing.

I’m at work now- sipping my morning coffee waiting for the weekend to start. I’m relaxed today- in my new short hair, hints of summer in the air, my grandmother’s watch, comfortable Friday shoes- Fridays can never be too bad anyway.

it started out with a kiss…, originally uploaded by jpghouse.

We have a Halloween party invitation this weekend and have plans for meeting up an ex-colleague- but so far I’m not sure which one to choose… or if I’m choosing either. The party would be full of strangers from Crazy’s work and everywhere else… and the ex-colleague is new in town and lonely….

Oh well, next week will be a short one with the Melbourne Cup holiday on Tuesday. That reminds me that I must do some serious betting… or, at least, get one of those fancy headwears- a small black and white one, may be? Yes, I must!

Sadly, I have no clue about horses- which one should I bet for? Suggestions, anyone?

Shiuli

Life was simpler then.

When ‘hartals’ meant ‘no school’; and heavy rain meant ‘rainy day holidays’. Rain was ‘fun’ by default- walking barefoot on the grass under that ‘Shiuli’ tree during school ‘tiffin time’, picking up the fallen white and orange from the grass, making beautiful garlands, pretending we were fairies in an enchanted garden.

God’s own…, originally uploaded by Devdatta Bhattacharya.

I always thought Shiuli was a beautiful flower. It’s been a while since I last saw one. I miss it sometimes. I miss the freshness, the newness. It’s amazing how fresh a handful of Shiuli always looks.

Life is not as simple now. Now, fun trips mean planning for them- packing bags, calling the cat boarding, filling out leave forms, making lists….

Life is still good- with shared laughters, cute purring kittens, pulling your leg, new hairstyles and rude jokes at your expense- or mine… but sometimes, on a sunny day like this one- I wish I had some time for the beach- for the deep blue water with white foams and the light blue sky with white fluffy clouds, or for the white and orange flowers I used to love and still do, and that life was as simple as it was before…

… a long long time ago.

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Celebration

My parents were Muslims; or ‘parent’ rather- as I am not sure if my dad has a religion. If not an atheist, he might be an agnostic who is still looking for answers; much like I am, but to me it does seem most likely to me that God does not exist, I guess that makes me more of an atheist than an agnostic.

Megalomania, originally uploaded by Ehtesham.

My mum, though, is a practicing Muslim; when I say ‘practicing’, I mean she says her prayers five times a day and fasts through the Arabic month of Ramadan. She is a Muslim; and to her- yesterday was significant. It was Eid yesterday. It is the most prominent Muslim festival of the lunar year. ‘Eid’ means happiness in Arabic and it does make her very happy.

When I was younger- I used to hate hate hate Eid. It made me socialize with people I did not care about, and say my prayers and praises to a God I did not believe in. That God (or any other Abrahamic God, for the matter) has never been mine. In me the concept of God never sank in- how can you be omnipotent and merciful, and then expect the humans to keep ‘praising’ you all the time? Egomaniac? Yea, that sounds more like it. Megalomaniac control freak? Absolutely! One thing is for sure, even if God exists- he does not deserve to be praised. Also, look around- I have to say that he is doing a rather poor job for someone who is omnipotent.

I thought it was simple enough, but apparently it’s not.

I refused God long time back. Social obligation, though, is a different story altogether. I know- you don’t have to be a Muslim, to celebrate Eid; just like you don’t have to be a Christian to celebrate Christmas. But it hurts my heart to be not able to have control over my choices. I NEED to have a choice to reject or accept religious festivities, just like any cultural one. Eids, thus, continued to be pure torture when I was back home.

Being free from religion in my mind was not enough. I left my country partly to be free from social obligations; so that I am not dragged to the milads, so that I am not made to praise a God when I see a beautiful art rather than the human to painted it. I would like to thank the doctor who saved my life than the God… so that I am not made to bow down and say that things will happen if it is indeed the will of God.

As I was saying- yesterday was Eid. As far as I was concerned, it was just another day for me- a lazy Sunday eating left-overs and chatting over cups of tea and coffee with Crazy and a friend who is staying over at ours. We celebrated too, not Eid- but the freedom to have control over our weekend on an Eid day.

We realize it has been a long walk to this supposedly small personal freedom.

… and it’s priceless.

Lost and (not) Found

Freedom, originally uploaded by Freyja*.

I was lost one day; years back. I locked myself up in the bedroom- turned all the lights off and stared at the darkness. My brain was thinking clearly, my eyes weren’t crying, my ears were not listening… my eyes were tired. I was lost, yes, and I have not been found ever since.

It was- like many other times- a craving for silence; some call it ‘depression’, I don’t. I can’t say I don’t like it, I am still lost in the ways of this world.

And that empty feeling? I call it ‘longing’. I think that sums it up more accurately; as it’s a longing for freedom, from expectations, from social pressure, from norms and stereotypes, from those religious doctrines. It’s a longing for flying away high… with no chains tied to my ankles. It’s a longing to be truly free. I guess I’m just tired.

For a moment I was envious; envious of the fellow earthlings who seem so much at sync with expectations of this world- steady job, big house, family, kids, cars, career. I thought about it a little more and then I wasn’t envious anymore. I couldn’t; I know I do not want to pay the price in nickels and dimes in my ‘freedom currency’.

I know I don’t want those things- not enough anyway- those are not a parameter of ‘success’ for me- that is why I am ‘me’ and they are ‘them’, that is why I was always a misfit everywhere. That is also why they thought I was so fascinating until they needed me to be ‘fixed’ to be able to cope with me. That is why I need to be anonymous when I want to express myself.

That is why I do not tell you who I am- unless you are ‘me’ in some ways.

You asked me why I ran away?

Well… It was important for me to lose the way, in order to find myself again.

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Wishful

Fantasy land…, originally uploaded by lollah( je veux mon 50!!!).

I have not changed much in all these years.

I still enjoy my solitude and I sometimes wish that I’d meet you over drinks some day and pick up from where we had left all those years back- I guess I still think of you as my ‘friend’. I’m still just as shy and ‘private’, but I wish you’d respect that and accept me with all my follies.

It is a quite a big thing to ask, it seems.

I still feel a little ‘empty’ sometimes and I wonder what life has to offer to me next. I still wonder if life will ever get any different or if I’ll keep on living it every day exactly the same as the other. I still don’t know what I want out of life… I still want all the things apparently impossible and I still don’t believe that they are.

I still wish I could break free… from myself and everything else. I still believe that I was born with a heart of a bird… and despite all the pain it causes me- I don’t really want to change it. Contrarily, I’d listen to it more if only I could.

I still feel ‘broken’ sometimes and I probably am, too; my back still hurts. I keep hoping that it’s fixable. The physio asks me to see him two days a week- and I do…. I want it to get fixed so much! I’m tired of the pain because it chains me down ever so often.

I am still keeping my eyes on the distant horizon waiting for the new day to come…. I still want to break free, I just don’t know how to. I still wish I could fly…. I wish that the chains tying me down were not so heavy…..

I still have my wings even though I know they are broken. I keep them even though I know I may never get a chance to get them fixed; they remind me of the person I want to be. I wish- though- that someday I will be able to fix them and set myself free.

But most of all, I keep wishing that I am fixable.

Colours

umbrellas, originally uploaded by bazkeogh.

If the world was black and white- absence of light would have been dark, absence of happiness would have been sadness, and absence of contentedness would have been discontent. If you were not near me, you would have been far and unreachable. Worse yet, if you were not ‘good’- you would have been ‘bad’.

I appreciate the greys… all the different tones of it… and the colours the sunlight generates with angles, tangents and light waves. I appreciate how it is not always black or white and I relate to many other colours even when my most favourite one is White.

I appreciate that not having a direct light can be anything from semi-dark, semi-light to dark; absence of happiness can mean ‘not happy’, which is not necessarily sad; and when I don’t feel content, I am not necessarily discontented.

I’m happy that despite the million of miles between you and me, I still have a way to reach you- your hand, your heart and your soul- in that way you are never far, despite the miles and kilometres. In the same token you may be far far away from me, even when you are right beside me… You can be lonely in a room full of people; you can be ‘not lonely’ with no one around you and only yourself for company. You can have several unfulfilled dreams and yet- life may seem bright and happy; and you may have realized many of your dreams and yet life may seem to have halted and depressing.

I am thankful that there are so many levels between the angel and the devil- and that I am none of the two; and so are you not. I like the imperfections in me, because those help to define me to myself and you; they make me appreciate you, too- because you love me despite the imperfections. I think you rock! I love you, too.

I appreciate ‘Black’s and ‘White’s, because they make me appreciate the ‘greys’ and ‘reds’ and ‘oranges’. I like it that there are so many colours. It makes me realize that my life is worth living despite its imperfections.

Rain: here and there

Raindition, originally uploaded by Ehtesham.

It’s been a rainy few days, on and off and on- sunny- rainy- windy- rainy- sunny- rainy- in that order.

I love rain.

I come from a place with a lot of rain, lots and lots: monsoon rain, summer rain, autumn rain- crazy rain with thunders, mellow rain with dark clouds- rain going on for days and days; small poodles on the road, slippery roadsides, rain washed roads

I love them all. There are a very few things in the world that makes me as happy as rain does.

It does not rain like that in Melbourne. Melbourne rains are brief- if you see it raining- give it 10 minutes and chances are that it’ll stop by then. The drops are much softer and smaller- unlike Dhaka rain where it takes only a few seconds to fill out a glass if you stand with it in rain- fat strong big drops of rain that can drench you in just a few seconds.

I miss Dhaka rain. I’m the ‘crazy rain girl’; I like those unruly, uncivilized rains. More unruly and uncivilized they are, the better I find them. They are like my valium, they calm me.

I miss my rain smell; I miss my green rain-washed palm trees. I miss Dhaka rain in all its glory.

It rained in Melbourne the last few days. I watched it plenty sitting in front of the window, coffee mug in my palms. It was pretty, I’m glad it rained. I really am.

But it made me miss my Dhaka rain even more.

She

She sat opposite of me in the train… dressed in formals- much like I was, straight hair pulled back in a ponytail, reading a book. She was just another girl in the train of (I thought) Indian origin and we did not even look at each other twice.

Then her phone rang and she started speaking- in a low voice that did not hide the thrill in her voice- it must have been someone special, perhaps a call from the home that she has left behind. This happens every day. Every day in the train someone or the other speaks over the telephone- what’s so special about this one?

Well… she spoke my language. There is a strange kind of freedom if you are ‘brown’ but not Indian- not every ‘brown’ person you meet speak your language and usually if you overhear a native language in a public transport- it would be Hindi, not Bangla. We automatically assume all the other browns are Indians, mainly because they are more in number here than we are. Maybe she assumed the same about me.

I did not mean to pry, but I did- I could not help it. It felt so good hearing a stranger speaking my language. I’ve been out of Dhaka for so long that it has not happened for a very long time. She must’ve thought I did not understand her language, just as I had assumed at the first glance that she doesn’t understand mine.

She spoke of Dhaka, of the puppy she left behind and misses dearly, of the roses on her window tub, of her mum who was sick. She was speaking the language that I think in, dream in, reason with myself in- the language I am most fluent in, the language closest to my heart.

And I realized how we are not prepared for the small things and how capable they are of making us happy- sometimes sad, too… it’s been such a long time I have not heard a ‘stranger’ speaking in Bangla… MY Bangla!

It did warm my heart a bit.