In my childhood, I was very naughty and foolish

Occasionally, I narrate stories to my young students. Imagine, you borrowed 100 taka from your mother in some way, and you decided to treat yourself with your friends at a restaurant. The joy of indulging in this feast surely brings a sense of delight. However, imagine if something else happened when you stepped out of your house; imagine encountering a frail, malnourished person on the street and unconscious due to starvation. Looking at them, if a wave of empathy surged within you, suddenly, going to the restaurant with your friends and splurging on a meal might feel like a sinful act.

Suppose you decided to use that money from your pocket to rush them to the hospital in a vehicle, ensuring they receive medical care. If they recovered, and you arranged for food, and eventually helped them return home, then that money would have served another purpose. Undoubtedly, in such an act of compassion, there lies a profound sense of fulfillment, contrasting with the transient pleasure of dining out with friends.

In life's narrative, the latter holds greater significance. One is ephemeral pleasure, while the other is the sanctity of giving. Without experiencing these sacred moments of giving in life's narrative, we'd remain strangers to true fulfillment.

In my childhood, I used to listen to an Islamic song in Hindi:
Milta hae kya namaj main, sejda main jake dekhle (What is found in prayer, Is the one seen in prostration)

In the innocent, emotional, and innocent days of childhood, the person who did not recognize this prostration, that sublime joy was not felt in their life. How would they understand the significance of life and prayer?

In my childhood, I was quite mischievous, yet straightforward. Destructive or harmful tendencies were almost absent within me then, and even now. My childhood was filled with relentless playfulness, exploring every nook and cranny, reveling in the joy of wandering amidst trees, getting lost in the vastness, and reveling in the thrill of wandering far and wide. My younger brother Mamun was extraordinarily mischievous, but within his mischievous demeanor, there was often a tendency to engage in somewhat destructive activities. He would often drag me into his misfortune-laden ventures with his ominous tendencies, but at the sight of danger, I would quietly retreat, slipping away unnoticed from behind. Consequently, I would often bear the brunt of the punishment, akin to the foolish goat in the story, always being the one to get spanked. I would almost always end up being the one to receive the blows. To understand the situation better, let me provide an example. One day, Mamun informed me that in the kitchen self, over the stove, a pot of milk had been left to simmer with a dense layer of foam on top, without being stirred.

I was a simple-minded person. I said, "So, what's happened?" Mamun replied, "Let's take the pot and eat it." The milk had been left to boil with a thick layer of foam on top, so why should only the two of us eat it? That thought didn't initially occur to me. Hearing his words, the idea dawned on me, "That's right, let's take the pot and both of us can eat!"

I said, "Let's go." Mother was asleep in the bedroom. We tiptoed into the kitchen.

The kitchen self was quite long. It was almost taller than my head. Mamun grabbed the pot, so without lifting the pot, we couldn't carry it. I started climbing the rim of the pot. Mamun held me from behind and helped me up, but as I mentioned earlier, I was chubby. I couldn't bear the weight of the pot, and with a loud noise, I fell backward. I began to struggle to get up amidst the weight of the pot. The crashing sound of me hitting the pot and my intense scream broke Mamun's sleep. He ran towards the kitchen crying. Mamun was initially trying to get me out from under the pot, but as soon as mother entered the kitchen, he quickly hid behind the door and silently slipped out of the house.

Mother thought I might have been injured if I had fallen under the pot, but when she saw that I was perfectly fine and healthy, she completely relieved herself of the worry about how much I might have been hurt in the accident.

This incident marks the very first story of my life as a teacher. Hearing the story, one might find some evidence of Mamun's presence and a little more of his mischievous nature. The story is as amusing as it is painful.

I have completely forgotten the name of that teacher today, but even if I don't remember the name, his face is still etched in the canvas of my mind with lines of fear. He was incredibly strict with us. To say he was strict is an understatement. He had a strict demeanor, resembling a sickly, ill-tempered person. His face was long and stern. Remembering his words, I still see the greedy, cunning face of the cunning scholar from my childhood stories emerging. His eyes were sharp and hard. I used to hear in my childhood that people with hairy ears get angry easily. Even I have hair in my ears as I've grown older, but even today, I don't see any signs of anger within me!

His anger was truly terrifying. He would stoop over like a sick person, holding his stomach. By pressing his stomach, he would get angry and violent, and the severity of his blows would make us teenagers shrink into ourselves. The damage caused by his blows would leave severe, sharp, violent lines on our bodies. Almost every day, Sir would beat us like this.

Every day, Sir would first catch me reading. Even a minor mistake would trigger his scolding. Along with his severe beatings, my body would contort, cutting through the air with sharp, painful strokes, initiating various forms of my erratic, classical dance. While the sound of the beating continued from his mouth, I would continue performing Bharatanatyam, Kathak, or Manipuri, transforming into Odissi's mystical performance. When my part was over, Mamun's part would begin. And so the days went by.

I have already mentioned that Mamun was mischievous and his talent was fresh and innovative. One day, he unexpectedly proved it. That day, the teacher arrived as usual. The dance routine started as usual. It lasted for quite some time. Then came Mamun's turn. As usual, I saw the teacher retreating and Mamun making distorted noises with his teeth clenched, presenting his daily dance performance. Suddenly, something unexpected happened. The scene changed in an instant. I saw, not Mamun, but the teacher himself dancing. Yes, the teacher himself. He danced just like us, imitating our daily gestures. With thin black lines drawn on the white cloth inside his lungi, he twisted his body, contorted, and performed various dance moves. In a moment, it became clear. While enduring the beatings, Mamun, unable to bear it anymore, had taken revenge by clutching the teacher's stomach and starting to scold him.

After that incident, we never saw the teacher at our house again. He didn't leave; he simply disappeared himself. It was unimaginable that the end of such a powerful, authoritarian era would come so easily.

With age, as I witnessed one self-righteous ruler after another fall into foolish demise in national life, I understood that all self-righteous rulers might end up like the teacher in the end. Fools outside, with terrifying faces, but inside, completely hollow and void. When I remember the teacher's words, the helpless image of the legs of the black cat dancing in the dark appears before my eyes.

Class Seven and Eighth were the times when the most wonder was sparked in my eyes, Mahbub Alam. After the division of Hindu and Muslim students into two sections, I joined the B-section. Probably at this time, Mahbub Alam joined our section. From Seven to Ten, he was our first mate. Mahbub Alam's handwriting was like Muktars. His exam papers looked like the drawings of an artist, with no room for the examiner to mark. He did not need to adjust his numbers in the exam. The teachers all admired him. They were proud of him. Once, even the Urdu teacher was so pleased to see his paper that he increased his marks by ten to twenty (the mistake was due to a mischief of Mahbub Alam. He could not grasp three questions with "or" while answering. After seeing the paper, when he went to add the numbers, the situation caught his eye). In intellect, brilliance, and intensity, he outshone everyone in the class.

One day, an amazing incident occurred. We were all in class, suddenly a gentleman with a beard, wearing pajamas and a panjabi, entered the class noisily and asked the teacher, "Is Mahbub Alam here?" Sitting on the chair, Nitinanand Babu was taking the class. Upon hearing Mahbub Alam's name, the teacher almost jumped out of his chair in surprise, laughing and pointing at the gentleman in amazement, he asked, "Who are you?"
It was as if he had come from another planet.
The gentleman humbly said, "I am Mahbub Alam's father!"
Upon hearing the answer, the teacher became ecstatic with pride and joy. He repeatedly said, "You are Mahbub Alam's father. You are our Mahbub Alam's father! He is a gem. Our pride! He will brighten the school!" He began to shower Mahbub Alam's father with respect and admiration, so much so that we could not understand where to hide our fathers with our luck.
We did not see the same affection and pride with our good students at that time!

We thought Mahbub Alam would show extraordinary success in real life; but that didn't happen. Even though he received a decent first division in the Matriculation exam, the results in subsequent exams were somewhat mediocre. The one who was the school's 'gem', 'pride' - ended up with an average job and faded away within the routine life. I have often wondered why this happens. Many of those who are considered the best students or the 'wonders' of the whole school at that age often end up vanishing like a meteor, disappearing into obscurity. It's not just about Mahbub Alam, but I've seen this trend throughout my teaching career.

Author: Educationist, Literary and Social Reformer.