There was a seminar today at Bon Bhaban, the Forest Department headquarters in Agargaon, on updating the Red Data List of Bangladesh’s plants and on controlling alien plants in some of the country’s protected areas. I was there, but how I came to have an invitation is a long story in itself. If I started on it I would have to go back three days earlier, so I will leave it out. People already complain that my posts run too long and are hard to get through. It is not that I do it on purpose; one thing leads to another and before I know it the post has grown. And a story cannot really be told in pieces, it feels disjointed even to me.

Anyway, enough of this preamble. Let me pull today’s memories out of my head one by one.

From Rampura to Agargaon

I woke up to hear that Siam would not be able to come to the programme, which put me in a bit of a low mood. Hoping he would at least make it to the real project, I set off for the TV Centre at Rampura. Samrat bhai, Robin bhai, Fahad bhai and I were to meet there and go on to Agargaon together. The programme was in the Hoimonti Auditorium at Bon Bhaban. Chatting with the older brothers, with the Uber windows down and the breeze off Hatirjheel in our faces, we reached on time.

It was good to see quite a few of our department’s teachers there. And the sir whose class was scheduled for today was at the programme too; I cannot tell you how happy that made me. After a while everyone took their seats and we were told that there might not be room for all, so those of us not on the Red Data List side should go down to the Korobi Conference Hall. That was when I understood that after the opening session the seminar would split in two, and nobody could be in both. Nothing to be done, so down we went.

Projectors in the Korobi Hall and the network back home

In the Korobi Hall my first thought was that the country really has gone digital. The arrangement was not bad at all: three projectors facing three ways across the hall, and everything happening upstairs was being shown live over Zoom. It went well at first, but soon the sound system started acting up. The variety of strange noises it produced cannot be described to anyone who was not in the room. Then the sound was fixed and a new problem began. Network unstable, the screen kept saying, stopping and starting.

During the pandemic, when I was at our village home taking classes on Zoom, I lost count of how many times I got disconnected in a one-hour class. It used to leave me very frustrated. Today all those months of frustration came to an end. If a government building with every modern facility cannot keep a broadband connection steady between an upstairs room and a downstairs one, then what was there for me to feel bad about, sitting in a village?

We were rescued from all this when an official came and said, those of you down here, come on up, there are a few scattered seats left. I was up in one jump and ran to the Hoimonti Auditorium on the first floor. There I found the Forest Minister along with the Deputy Minister, the head of the National Herbarium and many others. The opening session began. Several of them spoke on various matters, describing the present state of the country and discussing what kind of plans there might be for the future. Time passed before we knew it and that part of the programme was over.

The real programme and a five-hundred-taka surprise

At the tea break we picked up our snacks and went back to the Korobi Conference Hall. Now the real programme began. Which plants are invasive, on what basis they can be identified as harmful, which plants are alien and how they can be recognised: I learnt a lot. One professor said something that surprised me. The people who first brought in eucalyptus (Eucalyptus camaldulensis) and akashmoni (Acacia auriculiformis) as useful trees and encouraged everyone to plant them are the same people now urging us not to plant them. So you cannot say the moment a new plant goes into the ground if it will do good or harm; that only shows some time later. And another thing: a plant that is useful in another country may not be useful in ours.

Something else struck me. I assume the best plant scientists in the country were at this seminar, but there seemed to be a lack of communication among them. Perhaps there are only one or two seminars like this a year, and those two and a half or three hours are the only time they come together. Several issues were left without any resolution; the time ran out and the questions stayed unsettled. Who knows when they will be decided. Then again, I could be wrong.

Anyway, professors from one university after another presented their valuable ideas. In the middle of it a funny thing happened. I saw a register being passed from hand to hand, coming our way. A list of who was present, I thought. When it came closer my eyes popped. Next to the names there was a column for money. Fahad bhai was flipping back through the earlier pages to see what people had paid. Everyone had put down 500 taka. Robin bhai did the same. I asked the official sitting in front of us and he said the same thing. What could I do; I wrote my name and 500 taka and passed it on, working out in my head that I had just paid 500 taka to attend a seminar. I felt a little regret too; had I known beforehand I might not have come. Then I thought, money goes in so many directions, let this go for a seminar as informative and well run as this one.

A little later an official went round handing an envelope to each of us. What a surprise that was. I pulled out what looked like a slip of paper and it was a crisp 500-taka note. I laughed until I could not stop.

The lunch bag and a bilimbi tree

We did not have to sit much longer. The seminar ended soon after and the lunch bags arrived. I opened mine and found the bowls of food arranged like a stage set. The sight took me straight back to meals at our department. Only Allah knows how much longer the department will stay closed. After a long time I finished lunch sitting with the older brothers, chatting away. All I could think was how long it had been since we all ate lunch sitting on the grass at Zahir’s canteen.

After a short rest it was time to say goodbye to Bon Bhaban. We were strolling out through the gate when a bilimbi tree (Averrhoa bilimbi) caught my eye. Being a small person I could not reach the fruit. Dipon helped me pick a few. Then Robin bhai and Dipon went off in two directions, and Fahad bhai, Samrat bhai and I set out to find a CNG home.

The hunt for an empty CNG

The three of us stood in front of the IDB Bhaban and there was not a CNG to be had. After waiting a while we crossed the road to the other side. Every one we had seen on this side was full; not one was empty. We waited there too, and then Samrat bhai said, let’s take a rickshaw to Farmgate, we will find a CNG there. On the way to Farmgate we saw so many CNGs that for some reason we got down at Bijoy Sarani. That was a foolish move. Countless CNGs went past and not one was empty. We stood there a while longer and, seeing no other way, started walking. Through mud and water we walked to the link road just before Farmgate. The same story again: no empty CNG anywhere.

This time Samrat bhai simply sat down. He called an Uber and the first one cancelled; a second accepted and then, for whatever reason, cancelled too. Suddenly he spotted an empty CNG and shouted. As we reached it another empty one pulled up right there, which seemed a piece of luck. The first driver asked too much, so bhai refused and let him go, counting on the second. When we told the second one where we were going he said he would not go, and left. We would even have paid what the first one had asked, but he did not look back. Gone was gone. We were completely deflated. In the end a CNG was somehow managed and we got home.

It was a good day, and it will stay with me. Finally, my thanks to Jashim Uddin sir. It is because he gave us the chance to attend such a fine seminar that I learnt so much today.

A few weeks later we set off for Rema-Kalenga. Those days have their own story in the Days in Rema-Kalenga series.

At any other time I would probably have attached a few conditions to the job, but I could see he really had no time. I felt a little sorry for the poor fellow, so I said fine, make me a list of what you need. He first handed me a long list of books, then said he did not need all of them now, just this one, this one and this one, three books in all. And if I went to a particular shop in Nilkhet I would find all three there, no need to hunt around. For anyone who does not know it, Nilkhet is the book market right beside the university, a maze of small shops where students buy new, second-hand and photocopied textbooks.

The first Falguni trip

The next day I went to campus meaning to go on to Nilkhet, but I spent so long wandering around the whole campus that I was a little late getting there. Falguni is one of the university buses that take students home at the end of the day, and if I did not finish everything quickly I would miss its first trip. So I hurried to the shop Zaman had named. It was not as big as I had expected. Anyway, the moment I walked in, the man sitting in the shop said, how are you? No class today?

From those words alone I realised the man knew Zaman. He had probably been buying his books from him for a good while. But what was I to do now? Should I tell him, you have probably taken me for Zaman, but I am not him, I am his twin brother, he is in EEE, the electrical engineering department, and I am in Botany, he had no time to come and buy his books so I have come instead, and so on and so on? There was no time for all that; any delay and I would miss Falguni. Besides, the moment he realised I was a stranger he would ask a higher price. So without another word I said, yes bhai, no class today, I am on holiday.

Well, deal with that now

The man climbed upstairs, hunted around and brought down one book. Handing it over, he said, take this one bhai, and the second book you asked for, I sent thirty copies of that to your department the day before yesterday. Call your CR Avijit, and if more copies are needed I will send them over to your department. The CR is the class representative, the student who handles this kind of business for the whole class. Well, deal with that now. What was I supposed to do? I called Zaman, but he cut the call. A message came: he was in class, it would end in a while.

There was nothing for it. I would go home later and tell Zaman the whole thing so that he could pass it on to his CR. But that was not possible right then, so I tried to sidestep the matter a little. I said, all right bhai, I will let him know, and I will tell you how many copies are needed. With that I asked for his mobile number. I thought to myself, I got away with that one by a whisker. But this was only the beginning.

The moment I asked for another book he said, bhai, your senior Rafi, you know him, last year they took this book instead of the third one. And he put another book in front of me. Then he said, bhai, this one is needed every other year, meaning if you take it this year you do not need it next year, and the year after that everyone in your department takes it. So should I send it for copying, bhai? Just give your CR a quick call to confirm how many copies are needed and I will send it for copying today itself, and it will reach your department by tomorrow or the day after.

This time there was no chance at all of saying something and wriggling out of it. He had me cornered with call him, confirm it, call him, confirm it, until I did not know what to say. What could I do? It’s all fate.

Don’t you need any botany books?

I told him, bhai, I am not who you think I am. Zaman is my twin brother, he had no time, so I have come to buy his books. The man heard me out and said, oh, all right bhai. I had been bracing myself for a scolding, but no. He said, bhai, don’t you need any botany books yourself? Hearing that, I thought, so this is what they call a businessman’s strategy. Anyway, I asked how much it all came to, paid up and set off quickly towards campus.

But then came the single most frustrating thing that can happen to a student who lives off campus. From a distance I could see Falguni pulling away, and from where I stood there was no point running and no point shouting. Still, I did what everyone does and jogged after it a little, hoping it would get caught in a jam. But my luck being what it is, I came home by local bus.

That night I told Zaman the whole story. Later I found out that the man had indeed charged me more than the usual price for the book. We have a saying in Bangla about losing the mango and the sack along with it, which is what happens when you lose not only what you went for but what you had to begin with. At the end of the day, that was me exactly.

A hunch of my own

For a long time I had a hunch, nothing more than my own private guess with no proof behind it, that the real number of infected people was higher than the figure shown on television. Along with that I used to think that if a much bigger number suddenly appeared in front of everyone, people might panic and sink into deep worry. Worry alone is enough to make a healthy person ill, and what it would do to someone who actually has the virus I would rather not say.

That is how I thought right up until Eid. Then, suddenly, just before Eid, everything was opened up on a limited scale. While I was still trying to understand why such a decision had been taken, I saw that transport was running again as well.

All sorts of explanations went through my head. It may well have been done with us in mind. Everyone knows that even if nothing were opened, people would quietly open their shops and go home to their villages anyway, each in his own way. What the imam said before the Eid prayer was much the same thing. It is not that the chance of catching corona has gone down, he said, but no matter how many times you forbid them, Bengalis will pray the Eid prayer, so permission had to be given so that at least people could pray safely, following a few rules. Or it could be none of these and something else entirely. What is really going on is hard to tell.

Everyone is heading back

Before I could begin a fresh round of speculation after Eid, I am now hearing that the general holiday will not be extended beyond 15 June and that everything will run as normal. Today, page after page of the newspapers says the same thing: the crowds heading for Dhaka are growing, everyone is going back. But why? Only today I saw that the number of cases has risen again. One headline online said the highest number of tests so far had found the highest number of cases so far, 2,523 in a single day.

Is it right to lift the lockdown like this? I do not know what the people at the top of the country are thinking when they take these decisions. Perhaps they can see something that I cannot. But villager or city dweller, apart from a handful of people in this country, nobody looks as if they know that the infection rate is not falling day by day but still rising.

What I saw at the crossroads

What worries me is that while the number of cases keeps going up, the lockdown has lost every bit of the effect it had at the beginning, and what little is left keeps shrinking by the day. Yesterday I had to go out to the bazaar for something unavoidable, and when I reached the crossroads I found the road buzzing. In all the time I stood there, the only thing I did not see was a bus. Everything else was running as usual, without a single precaution against corona.

Among all those people, apart from one or two, nobody had a mask on and nobody was keeping any distance. And their reasoning is lovely. They say nobody here has tested positive so far, so there is nothing to worry about. Fair enough, but they do not want to understand that not detected yet does not mean it will never be detected. And by the time one patient is identified, how many people will have caught it from him? Is anyone keeping count?

So what do I do now?

So was everything I have been thinking all this time wrong? Perhaps the number on television was right all along. Perhaps I am the only one spending his days afraid of corona.

I simply cannot work out what to do. If educational institutions reopen, do I fall in step with everyone around me, admit that all my thinking was wrong, and go back to Dhaka? Or do I hold on to my own judgement, stay in the village until Eid-ul-Adha, and return to Dhaka after that? I am still looking for the answer.

This is entirely a personal post about personal thoughts, not a social or political issue.

A month of groceries

This happened only a few days ago, around the 13th or 14th of March. I suddenly realised that the situation in the country was not good because of the coronavirus, and that a state of emergency could be declared any day, shutting everything down. So I thought I had better buy the essentials before any announcement came. If I did not buy now, prices would double and triple the moment it was announced, and some things might not be available at all.

So after talking it over at home, on the 15th I bought about a month’s worth of everything: fish and meat, oil and lentils, onions and garlic, eggs, salt and sugar, soap, Dettol, vegetables, the lot. If they would not let us leave the house, fine. No problem, at least one month was secure.

The announcement came the next day

The very next day, the 16th, it was announced that all educational institutions would close for a while. Wonderful, I was delighted. That afternoon it suddenly occurred to me that this was the chance to go and visit my village home. It was a completely spur-of-the-moment decision: I would go to the village, and that same night I was off to Rajshahi. I stayed there a few days and then went on to the village, and the day after I arrived came the next announcement. The army was being deployed on the roads, and ordinary public transport was suspended until 4 April.

My groceries in Dhaka, me in the village

Now the whole country is shut. And my carefully planned stock of food is sitting in Dhaka. Here I am in the village, nervously going to the shop to buy this and that, and eating as I go. Every now and then I scold myself: why on earth did I come to the village?

That is the end of the story. The lesson? I told you that at the very beginning.

Yesterday Sujon called and asked me to come to campus today. No reason, just to wander around. Exams were over, it was a holiday, and I was not doing much at home anyway, so I got up in the morning and set off for campus. I had barely arrived when Sujon called. I had assumed he was already on campus, but he said he had just woken up and was on his way, could I wait a little.

I called Rasif. He was out too, and it would take him a while to get there. What could I do? I went to the garden, wandered around a little, took some photos and walked over to the hall, the student residence. Rasif had arrived, so the two of us went for tea. A little later Sujon turned up as well.

Setting off without a plan

So now what? Wandering around was fine, but where? There was no plan at all. Rasif said, let’s go to the garden, we have not been there in ages. Sujon wanted to go too, so I did not argue, and we went to the garden a second time. We drifted about and chatted for a good while, and somewhere in the chatting I blurted out, let’s go to Ramna. Ramna Park and Suhrawardy Udyan are the two big parks right beside the university, so if we went through Suhrawardy Udyan we could take in both. And with that we set off.

We walked all the way to Suhrawardy Udyan. I cannot describe how good it felt. No pressure on the mind, no hurry. Three friends walking along with easy minds, talking, and what could be better than that.

On the way in we saw a crowd of people waiting to see the Independence Museum. I had never been, so I suggested we go in, and it turned out Rasif had never been either, which made it easier. Look at the state of me: this museum is right next to campus, and I had got through two whole years and stepped into my third without ever finding the time to visit. Anyone who heard that would laugh out loud.

The museum under the ground

Anyway, in we went. The whole thing is below ground, every room of it. Newspaper reports from 1971 onwards, along with some of the memorable events of that time, are presented beautifully here. But what I liked most was the artificial waterfall. That alone was worth the visit.

By the time we came out it was half past one. It was clear that Ramna was not going to happen today. We turned back towards the hall.

A tree-naming contest by the roadside

On the way back Sujon suddenly called out, nageshwar tree. That is the Ceylon ironwood. Rasif heard him and said, Mesua ferrea. Just to have some fun, I added the synonym, Mesua nagassarium. Then I thought, why not start a tree identification contest right here? They would get to know a few new trees, and the ones they already knew would get a bit of revision.

So, to push things that way, I asked, who knows this tree? Both of them did, but Rasif gave the scientific name and went a step ahead of Sujon. For the next tree Sujon answered before Rasif could, and pulled ahead. The one after that they got together. It was a close fight all the way.

By the time we got back we had learned the names and scientific names of a good number of roadside trees. It worked out well: we had our wander, and some study along with it. The funny thing is, we do so much with plants in the lab, but how many of us can recognise those same plants when we meet them outside?

A little further on we noticed a rope tied to a tree like a swing. Rasif ran to it first and Sujon followed, and the two of them took turns trying, with great effort, to get a swing out of it. I was sure one of them would snap the rope and land with a thud, because it did not look very strong. But watching the two of them turn into children, that worry seemed very small. Luckily they finished their swinging in one piece.

A feast at Mamun Biryani House

We might have stayed a while longer, but Sujon had some urgent work, so we got back to the hall as fast as we could. I had imagined we would all go and eat together, but when we got there Beni Amin was already sitting with his food, Mominur had his plate in hand and said he had eaten, and when I asked Hasibur outside, he had eaten too. If only we had come back a little earlier. No matter, it did not happen today, another day inshaAllah.

After a short rest we went out to eat. The plan was to go somewhere far off, but our hunger shrank the distance as far as it could, right down to Mamun Biryani House. The three of us went and ate well, Sujon’s treat, and ate until we were thoroughly satisfied. We ate so much that walking back was out of the question.

We just sat there until our bodies finally gave some sign of being willing to walk, then somehow dragged ourselves up and headed for the hall. On the way we saw a game on at Shahidullah Hall and went over. Sujon and I came back, and Rasif stayed on there.

Sujon lay down as soon as we got into the hall. When I asked, he said he was not going home. And I caught my 5:10 university bus and went home.

It was a lovely day. I want more days like this to come back into our lives. Next time, inshaAllah, we will go to Ramna Park. Very soon.

The funny thing is that most of the important posts in the Bangladesh Association of Plant Taxonomists, from president to secretary to treasurer, are held by respected teachers from our own department. Today was the association’s annual conference. Researchers and professors from different universities and colleges had come with their work. One by one they presented their research, and after each presentation there was time for anyone in the room to ask questions about it.

When the book’s authors are in the room

The first presenter was a professor. Early in his talk he cited the Encyclopedia of Flora and Fauna of Bangladesh and put up some information from it, and our teachers immediately pointed out that it was not correct. He was a little unsettled, which is only natural. Here was a man quoting a book, and two of the authors of that very book were sitting in front of him, pointing out his mistake. Who would not be shaken? Tahmina ma’am, who was chairing the session from the front, said that any questions could be asked once the presentation was over.

As soon as he finished, the questions started again. In his presentation he had described panichitki (Phyllanthus reticulatus, the black honey shrub) as an aquatic plant. Sir asked how it could possibly be an aquatic plant when it grows on land. There was some discussion, and the point was settled: it grows on land. We just sat there, amazed at the depth of our teachers’ knowledge. It is hard even to imagine how much they know.

Question after question

We were only listening quietly and being amazed. Professors from other universities gave their presentations one after another, and the questions from our teachers made them think hard. The thing I liked most was something our teachers said: this is the age of the internet, so if anyone runs into a problem, all they need to do is get in touch, and the problem is gone. Now and then senior students from our own department presented too, and the teachers questioned them just as thoroughly. Being from the same department earned nobody any favours. What I liked even more was that it was our teachers who then offered the solutions to those problems.

When the department turns into a restaurant

And I cannot finish without praising the food. Nothing compares to the food our department serves. Someone once put it as “the department turning into a restaurant”, and today I understood exactly what they meant. What I ate today was beyond anything I could have imagined. It was a day I will remember for a long time.

Poor trees. What a hard life they have. They are all dying slowly. I grew up surrounded by trees and I studied botany, so maybe I feel for them a bit more than most people do, and maybe that’s why I couldn’t stand seeing them like that. I sat back in my seat with my eyes closed for a while. The man next to me kept dozing off and falling against me, which annoyed me, so I got up. Home wasn’t far anyway, and I thought I might get there sooner on foot. As soon as I left my seat, the people standing in the aisle started pushing to get it. I squeezed through the crowd and got off. Looking at the crowd on the footpath, it seemed lots of people had done the same thing, telling themselves home was just up ahead. I joined the line and walked along behind the person in front of me, like ants.

A childhood vegetable on the footpath

As I walked I glanced at the little roadside stalls, like I do every day. One had fish, one had clothes, one had electronics, and some had vegetables. You won’t find them at other times of the day, but because everyone walks home in a line like this at this hour, that’s when the stalls set up. Business doesn’t seem bad either. I sometimes pick up a good vegetable for home myself. The funny part is that when someone stops to buy something, the three or four people behind them bump into each other and get stuck. It turns into a small traffic jam of its own. Then it slowly clears, gets stuck somewhere else, and bit by bit I make it home.

But today I stopped short at one stall before I got home. The seller had a wild vegetable I had eaten as a child, back when I lived in the village. It was so long ago that I couldn’t even remember what it tasted like. I bought about a kilo and was about to leave when I thought, if I don’t find out where he got this, I won’t sleep tonight. When I asked, he said he had never sold it before and today was the first time. The person who gave it to him had picked it from the woods near his home, and you can’t always find it. I didn’t bother him any more and quietly went on my way.

The ones we are losing

Wild vegetables like this one are slowly disappearing from our lives. They resist disease better, they survive almost anywhere, and they can take drought and floods. And still they grow uncared for and ignored, because sadly their yield is low. To be fair, their yield isn’t really low. It’s normal. But since high-yield hybrid varieties came onto the market, these get compared with them, labelled ‘low-yield, poor-quality wild vegetables’, and nobody grows them any more. So they are disappearing. Meanwhile the high-yield hybrids are good at one thing, yield, and nothing else, so they need a lot more care. They can’t handle bad weather. When pests, drought or floods come, they don’t survive, and then there’s a food shortage.

At university I used to joke with my friends that these wild vegetables were like the students who really understand what they study, go deep into it, help out with everything around them and throw themselves into extracurricular activities, but whose yield is low, meaning their results are average or a little above. The ones with the highest yield, the CGPA 4.00 crowd, spent four years studying and nothing else. That’s all they had to show for it. There are exceptions, of course, people who are the best at everything. As the saying goes, those who cook can also do their hair. I wasn’t in either group myself. I scraped through four years somehow, so I really enjoyed teasing them with this. Today some of them are abroad for higher studies, some are deep in research, and most of the rest are like me, getting through life with a small job. With those old adda sessions coming back to me, I got a bit nostalgic. One step, then another, and before I knew it I was at my front door.

When I got home I handed the wild vegetable to my wife and asked her to cook it. She got a little heated. “You always bring home the stuff nobody sells at the market! I’m not cooking this grass.” Then at dinner the two of us happily ate that same wild vegetable. I was about to say something when she beat me to it. “Don’t bother, I know. I’ve kept the seeds. Tomorrow you can plant them in the pots on the roof. Oh, your office is closed tomorrow, so you can do it yourself. The soil is ready in the right-hand corner of the roof. And while you’re up there, check whether the wild kakrol you brought home last time is ready to eat. If it is, pick some and take a few to the landlord.” Before going to sleep I did what I always do and lay in bed writing about the day in my diary, but I didn’t get very far. In the end I gave in to my age and fell asleep.

The morning bus

I knew in my heart that the buses wouldn’t actually leave campus that early. I know how everyone is by now. Still, you never know, so I got there on time. I had barely arrived when Sujon called and we talked for a bit. In front of the department there were only a few people and no sign of the rest. I put Shamim to work calling the others to find out where they were and to remind them what time it was.

We finally left for Bhawal a little before 8, the whole botany department in four buses. There was a bit of traffic, but our bus moved along nicely to the beat of the music. Breakfast was good: two slices of bread, a sweet, a boiled egg and an apple. At first I felt a little awkward because our teachers were sitting in the front seats, but the whole way they were right there with us. Whatever the boys and girls got up to, they didn’t say much. The rows of palash and debkanchan flowers along the road kept me staring out of the window. Around 10:30 we reached Champa without any trouble. One of our buses was already waiting outside because the gate wouldn’t open. The gate staff won’t open it without word from above. Our teachers sorted that out, and all our buses drove in together onto the narrow roads of that famous sal forest. Along the road there were signboards about different animals, their current status and how many of them live here. I was a bit surprised that there were only animals on them and not a single plant.

We all got off the buses in front of the resort. Juniors, seniors, the most senior of all, everyone standing together in one place. That’s the real fun of a picnic.

A boat, an auto and a Java cassia

The weather looked like it was turning, and we even got a little rain, but by Allah’s grace it cleared up. Our teachers told us Champa is the best resort there, the VVIP one, and it felt great that they had booked it for us. When they finished talking, everyone scattered wherever they liked. I went straight to the pond and got into a boat. I called Rasif, but he had his own plans and didn’t come. A few of us went out on the boat together. Seeing red water lilies in the pond was a real joy. That alone can turn a boat ride into something special.

I had just got off the boat and was wondering what to do next when a man said, “Bhai, ride my auto. I’ll show you the whole area.” He asked for a lot of money at first, so we said no, but he kept at it. “Who knows when you’ll come again? How will you understand the place if you don’t see it?” In the end he won. Hasibur, Nafis, Tarikul, Jafirul, Jubayer and I went off together. There was a small zoo and a watchtower, and he took us to both. On the way back a flower suddenly caught my eye, one I had been looking for for a long time. I went closer. Yes, that was it, a Java cassia. I never thought I’d find one here.

The three-legged race

We went back to the resort. Our teachers called us for lunch. If you ask me, the food was better than what you’d get in a really good restaurant. We ate till we were full, rested a bit, and then the cultural programme began. Our senior brothers and sisters had organised all kinds of games. The three-legged race. I liked the name. Two people tie one leg each together, so the pair has three legs, and then you run. I was just telling Konok that he and I should run together when Zaman bhai said, “You and I should run. I’ve got a lot of experience in this game.” And thanks to Zaman bhai, we actually came first. The games ended with a prize-giving, and that was the end of the official programme there.

Then it was time to go back. Everyone got on their own bus, and soon all the buses were slowly moving again. Like last time, I didn’t go all the way back to campus with the others. I got off halfway and headed home.

That was the whole day’s fun.

I have a question

Suddenly a rickshaw puller parked his rickshaw to one side, came over to us and said, “I have a question.” We said, “Go ahead, what is it?” I thought he probably couldn’t find some department, or wanted to know where to get water nearby, something like that. That’s what strangers usually ask. But his question left me a little stunned. At first I didn’t understand any of it. I said, “Could you say that again?” Even after he repeated it I didn’t get it, though I could tell he was asking a maths problem. “Bhai, one more time,” I said. This time he and everyone else told me the question together. If 100 taka earns 50 taka in compound interest over 5 years, how much do you need to put in to earn 50 taka in 1 year? Everyone was frowning. They were all working it out in their heads, so I started too. Then I blurted out, “It’s not that hard. 50 taka in 5 years means 10 taka in 1 year, so…”

Hang on… compound interest? Oh, then you can’t do it like that. The sum wasn’t as easy as I thought. There were formulas for it, n, r, p, something to the power of something, a whole mess. And I seemed to have forgotten all of it. What now? I couldn’t do it! I looked at the others and could see they were in the same boat. We did this stuff ages ago. How are you supposed to remember it out of nowhere? Shahidul asked the rickshaw puller, “Bhai, what will you do with the answer? Are you teaching someone?” He said, “Yes, I have two children. One is in class five and one is in class three.” “Oh, I see. Where’s your home?” “Gaibandha.” He teaches in Gaibandha? That sounded a bit strange. He’s here all day and teaches in Gaibandha? We were still struggling with that when he said, “Bhai, I have another question.” “Sure, go on.”

Where does an adjective go?

“Where does an adjective go? Before the verb or after?” Until then we had been busy with the sum, but this question changed the mood in an instant. He didn’t sound like a rickshaw puller at all.

Rasif said, “There’s compound interest in class five? We did that in a much higher class. That’s a class nine question.”

Shamim asked, “Bhai, are you a reporter? Are you doing some kind of survey?” He said, “No, bhai, I was just asking.” I noticed Konok shift and sit up differently. Their suspicion made me suspicious too, and I wanted to know who this man really was. I asked, “Bhai, how far did you study?” “Class four,” he said, and our suspicion only grew. Someone who studied up to class four teaches a class five child? Isn’t that funny? If Shamim was right and he was a reporter, there would be a camera somewhere. We started looking around him for one. We looked for a long time and couldn’t see anything. So was he really a rickshaw puller? His clothes were like any rickshaw puller’s, nothing different that I could see. No, something wasn’t right, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Someone asked again, “Bhai, where did you get this sum? Did someone give it to you?” This time the answer was a little different. “Bhai, I have to pay money back in instalments, so it would help to understand how the thing works.” Shamim kept signalling to me to check for a camera. I couldn’t see one.

Everything looked normal. Only his shirt pocket was bulging a little, but not enough to hold a camera, and it didn’t look like he had a mobile phone either. Anyway, we had to give him some kind of answer. What should we say? Or should we just tell him we were stressed about an exam and he should come back later?

In the end Shamim told him that hardly anyone in our science faculty could do these sums easily, because we don’t really need them and haven’t practised them for years. People preparing for the BCS exam remember them because they have to, but that’s a different matter. The day we need sums like this, a bit of practice and we’ll manage. He listened to all of it and then pulled us back into his English question. “These sheets are all in English, so you must know the English rules.” By sheets he meant the one in Rasif’s hand. He had even noticed that! Sharp eyes. I hesitated a little and said, “An adjective goes before a noun.” Then he started giving all sorts of examples and asking which word was the noun, which was the verb and which was the adjective. We were amazed. Wow!

How could someone who studied up to class four speak English so well? I’m not sure even we could put it like that. We had to say something again, and again Shamim came to the rescue. “Bhai, everything we study is in English, that’s true, but we don’t go around working out which word is a verb and which is a noun. What we use is everyday language. Everyone knows ‘I eat rice’ is the English for ami bhat khai. We don’t learn the rules.” He tried to trip us up again. “Is that so? Then what is ‘this is my rickshaw’ in English?” Then he kept firing questions and Shamim kept answering. I go to Nilkhet? I come back from Nilkhet? I eat rice after cooking? And so on. Even after getting all the answers, he asked, “Which department are you in?” When we said botany, he asked, “What is a plant?” Strange. What is a plant, is that even a question? Every tree and bush around us is a plant. There was a bidyapata plant growing in a corner by the chemistry building. Shamim pointed to it and said, “This is a plant too. Have you heard of mushrooms? They come under botany as well.” I was even more surprised when he asked, “So what’s the subject next to this, zoology? Then what’s an animal? Are cows and goats animals?” We said everything living that isn’t a plant is an animal, fish and insects too. By then there was no doubt left that an ordinary rickshaw puller who studied up to class four couldn’t know all this. A little later he said, “Who are they?” I leaned out and saw some foreigners. He finished with us, took his rickshaw over to them and said, “Have a nice day…”

Then he looked back at us, gave us a mysterious smile that left us with a thousand questions, and rode away on his rickshaw.

Who was he really?

We were left with just one question. Who was he really?

Shamim said some reporters come in disguises like this and cleverly collect information. A disguise isn’t hard to put together. You can rent a rickshaw in Nilkhet for a hundred and fifty taka. In a disguise like that, ask someone a question out of the blue and they might get even the things they know wrong. They use exactly that, make prank videos, and maybe that’s how videos like ‘I am GPA 5’ end up in their collection. Really, instead of answering their questions, we should be the ones asking them, and getting the facts right about them. Rasif said, “Let the exam finish, then I’ll go after him with a camera. How far can he have gone? If he’s not at Curzon Hall he’ll be at Kola Bhaban. I’ll catch him there.”

Oh… the exam! I had completely forgotten. We had spent all that time talking to him. There wasn’t much time left, so we all went back to our own sheets and notebooks, on a mission to pass the exam.

Not all battles are equal, though. Some are battles people never even imagine. Today, at the cultural afternoon held by SOJJA (Shomajer Jonno Jagoron), I saw what a real battle of life looks like. I met some new drishtijoyi students there. They can’t properly see this beautiful world. We call them visually impaired, but Main bhai lovingly calls them drishtijoyi, those who have conquered sight, because they had to overcome their sight to be here today. Calling them impaired would make them smaller.

Anyway, every now and then I get caught up in the world of rich and poor, powerful and nameless. Alhamdulillah, whenever that happens, Allah puts me in exactly the right place. After spending some time with these students I thought, what a childish life I live, and what childish things I want from it! I have everything, but because I don’t value any of it, it feels like I have nothing. I heard many of their stories and about the difficulties they face. They don’t want much. Just a good time with everyone and an ordinary life. I had a lovely time with them. One thing they said stayed with me. SOJJA is the only organisation that thinks only about them and plans everything around them. Even if they skip every other event, they never miss a SOJJA event. They always try to be there.

Hearing that made me happy. Personally I’ve been part of many organisations, and still am, but SOJJA is the only one where I always feel good and come away with a kind of peace I don’t find anywhere else. I’m proud to be a member of the SOJJA family, and I’ll always be grateful to it. I hope this family goes a long, long way.