Wish to depart after contributing to humanity

The environment of my early childhood was quite the opposite. It was highly conducive to growing up with a healthy, vibrant mind. I was the eldest son in the family. My oldest sister—whom we referred to as "Boro Apa"—was eight years older than me. When she was five years old, my second sister was born. The entire family was eagerly awaiting a son, so the birth of two consecutive daughters left everyone very disappointed. The one most upset by this was my older sister herself. She was furious that her sibling was another sister instead of a brother. In her frustration, when my second sister was only about one and a half to two years old, she tried to suffocate her by stuffing a bicycle pump nozzle into her mouth and attempting to pump air into her.

In such a celebrated moment, my own "arrival" as the first child of the family took place. I was deeply adored by everyone. I was born in perfect health, and after birth, I became even more admired for my health and beauty. I was the type of baby that was referred to as a "Glaxo baby." I was so chubby that even Khaleda Apa, the daughter of Principal Ibrahim Khan, who was a close friend of my older sister, couldn’t carry me in her arms. She has mentioned this to me many times. Nowadays, scientists say that being excessively chubby as a child is detrimental to health, but back then, everyone believed the opposite. A "Glaxo baby" was considered a healthy, beautiful, and beloved child. My "Glaxo baby" status wasn’t by chance—it was the result of excessive milk consumption. While most children drank milk six times a day, one bottle each time, I drank three bottles at each session, six times a day. That is, a total of 18 bottles of milk every day. I also had a special condition for drinking my milk. Before finishing one bottle, the nipple of the next bottle had to be put in my mouth. If there was even a slight delay of a couple of seconds, I would roar with a loud, terrifying sound, causing everyone to panic. My mother loved me the most among all her children. I received extra care and affection from her compared to the others. I still remember how she used to secretly give me thick brown milk cream, which was much richer than the regular milk. In short, my early childhood was spent in a healthy, lively environment.

Those school days taught me that, no matter what, a deep sense of inferiority had taken root within me. It was this feeling that made me want to escape from the world of people and retreat into my own isolated cave, where I might slowly fade away. Perhaps that would have been my fate, but there was one thing that saved me: my deep love for humanity. The yearning to live in the hearts of people. Above all, there was that anguished cry of longing: "In the midst of humanity, I wish to live."

From my early childhood, I have felt this longing within me at every moment of my life. I have constantly felt that it wasn’t just that I loved the people around me, but that I also wanted to live in their hearts. I respected and honored this wish to live as the highest form of destiny, the most precious wealth. I want to work for the people as much as I can, and when the time comes to leave this world, I want to do so with my life completely spent in service, leaving only a trace behind.

But in those helpless, sorrowful days at the beginning of my life, in my childhood, what did I have within me that could make me stand before others and live in their hearts? At one point, I thought, if nothing else, there was at least one thing I could offer them—my humble behavior, my honesty, my love. The innocent, meaningless love of my simple heart.

The first encounter with humanity in my childhood came through my desire to share love and courtesy—through the sights my eyes saw, the sounds my ears heard, the skilled service my hands offered, and the warmth of my presence. It was through this I first connected with people. In doing so, I realized that the most radiant sight on this earth was the faces of the people around me, as bright and beautiful as blooming flowers. Those faces became my most cherished scriptures. Since then, my connection with humanity has only grown deeper with each passing day.

Among the few memories from my childhood in Karotia that still shine brightly in the corner of my mind, one stands out: a dream I once had one night. By then, I had already heard the story of "Sheet Boshonto" from the book Thakumar Jhuli from my mother. In that story, a white, pearl-like elephant stood in the middle of the ocean, and that image of the elephant seemed to appear as a rosy dream before my eyes. In the dream, I saw an elephant exactly like that one, standing in the field in front of our house one afternoon. I left my friends in the middle of a game and walked toward the elephant. To my surprise, the elephant, in its gentleness, sat down on the ground and allowed me to climb onto its back. As soon as I did, it began to walk again. I had once heard that anyone who rode an elephant in a dream would become a king. If it was a pearl-like elephant, even more so! My heart filled with joy and excitement, thinking that perhaps I really was about to become a king—an actual, true king!

Suddenly, I saw the elephant walking across the vast balcony of a grand palace. The palace was silent, devoid of any sound. There were no signs of people. The doors and windows were tightly closed, as if the entire palace was asleep—its king and queen, suitors and friends, ministers and soldiers, all trapped in the magic of slumber. As the elephant walked along the balcony, it eventually reached the edge of a river. Looking towards the river, I noticed a boat moored on the shore, and standing on it, my father, Khurram Khan (the Zamindar of Karotia at the time), and Ibrahim Khan were talking in the cool evening breeze.

For a child who was destined to be a king, this dream seemed very encouraging so far; the journey on the back of the elephant through a fairytale world was truly magnificent. However, what happened next was deeply disappointing and quite deflating. As I sat proudly on the elephant’s back and approached the boat, my father suddenly called out from the boat: "Hey, get a glass of water from the river!" He held out a glass to me. It felt as though I had fallen from the colorful heavens of my dream straight into a filthy trash bin. Despite seeing a future king right before his eyes, my father failed to recognize him, and I felt sorry for him. Surely, everyone would agree that asking a future king for such a demeaning task was not something a father should do. Perhaps in protest, as I got off the elephant to fetch the glass, my dream shattered. I was still very young at the time, and I hadn’t seen much beyond Karotia. So, my dream, too, hadn’t ventured far beyond the realm of my own experiences. It was only much later, when reflecting on that dream, that I realized everything I had seen in it was familiar.

The "pearl-like" elephant in my dream, which I had imagined to be white, in reality, wasn’t white at all. It was actually the elephant from the Karotia Zamindars estate. Its skin was the usual rough black, like any other elephant. That elephant would often come to our banana grove to eat banana trees, and in gratitude, the mahout would lift us onto the elephant’s back and take us on a small ride. It was this very elephant that I had seen in my dream, and in my excitement, I had mistaken it for the "pearl-like" elephant from the fairytale, and so, I had fantasized about becoming a king. Perhaps it was the stories of the "pearl elephant" that influenced my mind. The deserted, silent palace I had seen in the dream was familiar as well—it was the grand building of Karotia College. I had seen its empty, dormant halls during the summer break, and that image must have appeared in my dream. The river in my dream was the large river near Karotia market, from which the small river flowing near our house branched off. And of course, the dream of becoming a king was born from the fairytales I had heard. When I reflect on this dream today, I feel like life had already hinted at my future outcome through that dream. It had at least shown me that the child who set off on the elephant's back with dreams of becoming a king would one day have to end his life doing something as ridiculous as fetching a glass of water from the river. Though I had gotten the chance to step onto the stage of life for the first time in Karotia’s small school, I will end this chapter of my story by sharing how I was deprived of that rare opportunity.

A grand event was scheduled at the school. It would start at 6 PM and end at 9:30 PM. Along with those participating in dances, songs, and recitations, we, the regular students who had no chance of being part of the main program, decided to organize a grand performance with a song to at least get a chance to step onto the stage. It was decided that a few senior students would stand on one side of the stage and sing the song "Urdha Gagone Baje Madol" with the band, while we, the 'left-out' students, would march in four rows, walking onto the stage from one side and exiting from the other side in sync with the rhythm of the song. The audience would not be able to see much in the crowd of students, but there was no time to worry about such things. All the students' families were invited to the event, and they would surely attend. They would be happy simply to see their child walking across the stage. My enthusiasm, however, was for another reason. I was thrilled at the thought of marching confidently across the stage to the beat of the music in front of the audience. I was excited thinking of that rare moment of being seen.

The event took place in Karotia, Tangail, in 1945. On the day of the event, my excitement reached its peak. I couldn’t even take my usual afternoon nap due to the excitement. Although the event started at 6 PM, our turn was at the very end—9 PM. I anxiously waited for the evening to come. Just imagining the rare scene of me walking across the stage like a hero in front of the audience made my body shiver with anticipation.

Everything was going as planned, but the real problem began due to my missed afternoon nap. It was part of our daily routine. Even if we didn’t want to sleep, my mother would force us onto the bed. Our bodies had become so accustomed to this that if we missed our nap, by late afternoon, we would start feeling drowsy. Still, the excitement of the event made the afternoon pass smoothly. But as soon as it was around 5:30 PM, I began feeling weak, and my vision grew dark. Within moments of the event starting, I was completely drained, but how could I fall asleep and miss the rare opportunity to walk on stage? I tried forcing my eyes to stay open, but I just couldn’t manage it. Eventually, I realized I couldn’t even sit on the bench properly anymore. I slumped onto the two guardians sitting beside me and had to endure their scolding for a while. My house was nearby, so I thought I still had plenty of time. I figured a short nap at home would be enough to refresh me for the event.

I went home, laid down on the bed, and hung my feet off the edge so I wouldn’t fall into a deep sleep. Before I laid down, I told my mother to wake me up before 8:15 PM. She nodded and reassured me that she would. As soon as I laid down, I was completely exhausted and fell into a deep sleep.

The sound of something startled me, and I abruptly woke up, realizing that the surroundings were eerily silent. It was already well past 10 PM. This meant that the rare opportunity to walk across the stage in front of the audience had long passed. A deep sense of sorrow and resentment surged in my chest. In my imagination, I could still see the vibrant scene of students marching across the stage, synchronized with the song "Chol Chol Chol," but in that moment, everyone was there except me.

Abdullah Abu Sayeed: Educator, writer, and social reformer.