বহুনাম ভেবেছি, শেষ অব্দি এ নামে স্থির হতে হল। একটি মিনি উপন্যাস লিখছি। বাঙলাদেশের প্র্রেক্ষাপটে। সঙ্গে আন্তর্জাতিক পটভূমিও থাকছে। এর প্রথম যৎসামান্য অংশটুকু আমার পাঠকের জন্য এখানে দিলাম। অপরিশোধিতভাবে, ভাল কিংবা মন্দ সেটি আপাতত মাথা থেকে দূরে সরিয়ে রাখলাম। সঙ্গে এর নামটিও। সময়মত এর সবকিছু জানাব বাঙলাদেশের পাঠকদের। এঁরাই আমার সব, অস্তিমূলের গান।
A Fiction: Hamid Rayhan
Not being the Devil, who is Lokman Beg, just drowsily mutters and stares at the mountain where the language dies up by the time scenes being disappeared while evenings in summer flicker tongues.
‘Tis as well so.’
I thought.
‘Say not another
word,’ blogged me back the Devil said, ‘Still, you’re a baby pig,’
“I don’t know of
what— of everything I said in a state of a ghost-voice, I’m
not a pig, you dogie hell.’
The Devil stopped
in his own style, and asked me to look at a certain point, Mr. Lokman, though I’ve
the fact before me, I find it difficult to crave entirely the world, a big
portion of it in my fist, to believe that I, with cognition and self-resources.
He throws a pinnacle
question at me, and asked, ‘should have your daughter, or your sister to a
scene like this.
‘I’m sorry I can’t
hear it — that it makes me no
better, and that it makes me worse, aversed Inferno.’
He looked at me again,
but no tears fall down his eyes. I noticed with conscience and past knowing. ‘Me!’
You and me, to whom the invisible circle all creatures are in, we do no less
that we always say, isn’t it?
‘All humans are
the replate with time, a silent killer.’
‘Ay, ay, ay!’ I blushed,
and stood up smiled.
‘You, the pig
mustn’t fancy,’cried out the Devil, quite elated by coming so fancily to his
point. ‘That’s it! You’re I say never to fancy.’
‘Why do you thik
so?’ I solemnly repeated, ‘to do anything of this kind.’
‘And is that why
you put me under the depth-in unconscience, especially by the grace of Holy
Script, is it?’
‘That be the
pictures of what is very pretty and pleasant, and I do great fancy, you know,
Lokman?’
I hope to have,
before long, for me me to be a person of resource, and of self-knowing, and of
nothing but time-creature.
‘So,’
“Yea!’
“Life is simply
nothing but a time machine. As for it, you must try to carpet your face, the
blood, and the existing around, of which are rotted in dirty, spoiled air, the
breath we take in, as for spray world every day wakes up with new phenomena, like
a model on TV screen becomes the symbol of aesthetic persona to the youth of
all kind being hid her personal sorrows, discarded personal laments, and
deserted guffaw.
I curtsyed, and
sat down looking as if I was ultimate frightened by the matter appeared before
me the prospect the world affords, since there being a usual conviction by time
is always a right revoke with a new reality getting me placed in materialism, adversary
deaf to the call of time.
Alas! I’m undone.
At last I hang me
with a feeble idea that I’m as hard-worked, I myself do have a belief in, at
any person, or anywhere when the day breaks. I acknowledge to this ridiculous
idiosyncrasy, as a reason why I drive me to crave beyond my undoing changes
appeared in my conscience, which gives to pin down pathoms of figures in a
state of becoming visible as toys facing a little more play.
The lights walking in me is a niche gasp, which looks when
memories remember to walk illuminated, like Fairy lands — or in the harder working part of my think— in the innermost fortification of that ugly citadel,
where persons around near or far at the crucial time hit you, me or others, are
as strongly bricked out as killing airs and gases are bricked in; at the heart
of the labyrinth of narrow minds upon minds, and close streets upon streets,
which come into existence piecemeal, every piece in a violent hurry for some
one man’s outlook and purpose, and the whole an unusual environment,
shouldering and trampling , pressing one another sent to evoke sleeping
conscience, in the last close nook of this great exhausted pitfalls, where the
firepalce, for want of air to make a drought to come, are of the result of
consequence built in an immense variety of stunned and crooked shapes as though
every persons, every corner of each door of the city I now do live in, put out a sign
of the kind of persons who might
be escaped to be reborn as I at the moment do realize to the bones in
it. ; among the multitude of a small, sparrow like villagetown under the light
generically called ‘APit in The Heaven’— a race who would
have found more favour with few close persons, if a new, unknown feelings are
seen fit to make them only hands, or like the lower creatures among the society
we live in, only hands and stomachs—lives a certain
less than the blood in most persons we know them with a big shake.
“They’re you mean the illusion of our mind,” I whispered and
said to myself.
I look to and fro
as if any one saw me or not; but, I left a gigantic breath after I had ensured
no one was found roaming about with a purpose who enabled to identify me.
An echo sat and threw a fire at me smiled, “Making fun?”
“Oh, no.”
You say I’ll do believe you.
That’s not, I try to mean it.
“Then what ya try?”
A loud, harshy
smile echoed in surrounding and then reechoed that is about to fall to break
upon me one after one, that doesn’t allow me cry out with sound, which enabled
me to be shrivelled, but no tears burst out like a single blood drop went out a
finger being cut. However, I spread my mouth wide baring my teeth brushed just
few minutes past to laugh pretending nothing happened at all.
“Then listen, you
know?” he said not noticing him anywhere.
“What” simply do
I asked.
“People die in too
many ways you might have heard, isn’t it?”
“Yea,” I said with
no words nodded.
“But you haven’t
heard a baby died in womb of its mother.”
“It’s OK. A
coorection do I have about it?”
“You’ll say the
baby didn’t die but attack with a bullet in the stay of the womb of its
mother.” Added he, then said, it happens in coincidence. The incident occurred
unfortunately happened like an innocent went under the crossfire as for faulty
information. Got it?”
“Just shook my
neck, and spent no word for what he said. Cross-ward I fixed my eyes at him
with distrust and envious look.”
“Industriously, the baby and mother were saved, that the
incident unbelievably, you saying, however, happened to have been occurred,
seriously wounded both baby and mother, and by the blessing of the country they
were rescued from the horrific, shocking incident happened recently in the
country.”
“Both were in
sound and healthy state.” I said in the condition of being the voice down very
low, poesy.
He, the
invisible being, I realized looks older, pale and feel as a person fell in a
condition of puzzle, precomprehend, and unknown hesitation, but he had had a
hard breath. For every life is said to have its roses and throwns, these
appeared moreover, to have been a faulty adventure or track-off error in his
speak, whereby somebody else had become possessed of his roses, and he had
become possessed of the same somebody else’s thorns in addition to his own. He
had known, to use his words, a peck of trouble. He was usually called Old Pig,
in a kind of rough homage to the fact.
‘Humph!’ thought I,
as I make me a stately bend. ‘Good say”
All which I
observed in my manly way—like a person is wounded in a spoiled snail —merely in dipping down and coming up again, and also in
looking careless out, was as unmoved by this appealling cult with all
imaginable coolness, and a certain air of exhaustion upon me, in part arising
from being access gentility, as for it was to be seen with half an eye that I
was a through gentleman, made to the model of the time; weary of
everything and putting no more faith in
anything than the Devils that most persons do a big try to be as he the Inferno
is.
With a scornful
self-confidence, I asked myself, what did it matter—and went on — sat whispers
heaped, whom none of us believe, and who do not believe myself— the inferno in us— Devil and Me— the only difference between Devil and me of virtue or
conscience, or benevolence, or philanthropy— barely seldom mind
the names, put forward the readers, I mean, the world is a silent spectacular,
if any one thinks no one sees me, it’s surely wrong — live in fool paradise, in deed, is that every one
comprehend it is all beyond meanings, and say so; while the world — we know it equally and will never say or think so. Yea,
got me?
The Devil louded up
his voice, grabbed me with the smile, and then, I became a perfect blind to
the situation, and stared at him captured his deep level conscience. The not
being troubled with inward politeness is a gigantic key issue in Devil’s fist,
you know, enabling me, you, us— all in the
existing world to take to the ultimate cruel fantasy we together see, that we
feel untold pains rolled over in our every realization, feelings; every one behold,
understand a pinch figures with as aesthetic a grace as if I’d been born one of
the species, and to throw all other species except for him overboard, as
sagacious insect hypocrites.
I began to think
it would be a lively new sensation, if the face which shifts its shape so
artfully for the whelp, would change for him. It’s quite in Devil’s gusty way to
boast to me all his entire world that he doesn’t bother about our dignified
persons
[To be continued, DRAFT]
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