In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Connect the Dots.”
“Connect the dots” – today’s daily post, open up the nearest book, find the third line of page 82 (why page 82? I dont know and dont wanna know, its fun and fine 🙂 ), use that in your blog! wonderful! The line in my book was, “He installed himself at the coffee table, tried to hypnotise himself into thinking about Alexander” – Oh come on! Alexander is great to know, to write about, but at this time, I am not interested to write anything about Alexander !
Come to the fourth line (pardon me the daily post 🙂 ). “Remove yourself from this lounge. Remove all contemporary figures from your mind, like bedraggled, unshaven clandestine passengers from a private train” (then Alexander came again, skip him!) Now, that’s my mood now! All day I was thinking about my diary, old old diary, my dream diary (will write about it sometime) and this and that.. Was afraid to open the ancient bag full of cards, letters, dolls, hand made things, photos…let it remain there, will open other day…
Then opened the nearest one, one with my writing pieces, sketches. It was the time of writing with pen, drawing with pencils..No smart phones, tabs, laptops…Not a century ago (I am not that old!) . Diaries are like dams, when open one sluice gate, laughter comes out, another gate, tears, another, anger, despair, dreams… A memory flood all along!
Today, what I found out, the girl to write her grieves, seventeen years, studying in 12th grade, searching herself, finding nowhere in the jungle of people..some bad people, very bad people around…but can’t tell anyone about… no one understands her…consoling herself…Today, I am confidant, understand others, and sometimes they as well..at the age of twenty six (or five?), no matter what comes, eager to see through the wall, if its too dense, trying to climb it…Only one similar thing, still searching thyself, and will love to search it all the way…
Here’s the only one writing in English, all others are in Bangla, don’t wanna translate them (its too weary thing to do now!) ..Its long, but the seventeen years old girl, probably she was trying to pour all her despair in the blank pages, not to show this to anyone, no matter what it becomes because it was the diary, which she had all herself!
” Once a maiden of seventeen years
asked herself, with her wet black eyes-
was I expected by all?
was I called from a deepest desire?
was I the flower of one’s love and hope?
was I an unexpected, a sin?
a mistake? or the reality of an accident?
if I am not a sin, a curse
why are they blaming themselves for my birth?
for my existence in the earth?
stood by her, wet mind through, said-
“Why are you blaming yourself for your birth
you are my part, came from my heart,
no matter it to me, that who you are
born from what, to who, and where
you are my pride, my love, my dare
you are my honour, my daughter, my care.
who are your parents; listen my child,
earth is your mother, who saves from the wild,
she’s given you the birth, the food
the shelter, the eternal love of good.
father of you, is the sky so large
given you the roof, where you can merge
yourself. so you are the part of thy.
don’t cry, don’t feel sorry for your birth
as, you are the daughter, of the sky and earth.
no sin, can touch you, oh my son,
your father will protect you by his sun.
your mother will give you space to lie,
we will save you until you die.”