When tears well up in the eyes
Monday, 21 June 2010
Maswood Alam Khan
Sabuj knows that I don't like to miss the part of FIFA World Cup 2010 where national anthems of the two teams are played before a game starts. Sabuj screams, "the song has already started, Mama" if for any reason I am not around before the TV set at the moment when a national anthem of a participating team starts playing.
During World Cup season national anthems of respective teams are special to me. I can also croon the first few lines of some national anthems of a few countries. It has been a kind of addiction I have developed since I started watching the world event. I enjoy seeing the players standing in a row in the middle of the field with their heads high, their hands placed over their hearts and murmuring the words of their anthem in unison with the tune that is played over the massive public address system blaring and charging the air of the huge stadium packed with thousands of spectators---some remaining silent, some fans with teary eyes singing the anthem who know the lyrics and some bowing their heads as a mark of their respect to the nation the players represent. It's a moment that radiates a magical aura for all the viewers to bask in and a pride to people whose national anthem is played. It's a bijou moment; it's a prize for the nation who has had their team qualified to participate in the World Cup.
In the Group-G match between Brazil and North Korea on the 15th June at midnight as we -- me and Sabuj -- were watching the North Korean players and hearing the North Korean national anthem Sabuj with his starry eyes asked: "Why is that player crying, Mama?" Instead of answering the question, I asked him: "Why did you cry the day before yesterday?" Sabuj answered: "I wanted to go home; I wanted to see my mother". "Yes, this is the same reason the player is crying for. He is remembering his mother too" I explained. Sabuj laughed on the other side of his face; he couldn't believe me. He retorted: "The player is a grownup man. How can he cry? He is not as little as I am". "Grownup people also cry; they of course cry in their privacy. Sometimes they cry inside a bathroom with the door closed. But this funny player is crying publicly as he is perhaps too weak to fight back his tears from welling up in his eyes". I was pretty tired of explaining the reasons of teary eyes in so many ways to Sabuj, the little boy.
A few months back, as Sabuj was stuffing his old clothes into his small carry-bag in preparation for his maiden journey to Dhaka his mother advised him in her earnest tone: "Listen carefully, you are going to leave our village and live in Dhaka for a long time staying in a house; the master of the house is your Mama (maternal uncle). What you have to do in his house is very simple compared to what you are now doing in helping your father weed out the cultivable land and bathe the cow. Don't cry while you are in Dhaka; don't show your wish to come back home. Dhaka is far better than Bhadrakhola. Your Mama will arrange for your studying maybe in a school. If you can win your Mama's heart, mind you, you have a bright future".
One morning Sabuj, a little boy aged only nine with a cherubic face, came to my house and with some trepidation gave me a courteous 'Salam', his both hands---as I could see out of the corner of my eye---tightly gripping the left palm of his cousin Jewel.
Like Sabuj, Jewel, now 18, was also parroted by his parents to call me Mama when he, aged not more than 8, came to my house about 10 years back. Sabuj is the fourth boy in a row preceded by Jewel, Saidul and Alamgir who have all been calling me Mama since their childhood though I have no blood relationship with any of them. All these boys are from the same village of Bhadrakhola under the district of Madaripur and they all have served my family since their childhood as our handy boys, one after another.
I feel there was not an iota of alloy mixed with love and respect Sabuj has been showing and paying to me. He enjoys sharing with me his childhood experiences and I also enjoy seeing and hearing his childlike way of looking at new wonders of life and many new gismos at my place he was not quite used to at his village home.
Of course, I treat Sabuj, so little a child, as no less than how I used to treat my own son at his age. At times he is quite demanding and a little precocious though; he often forgets that I am his Mama not by any blood connection. He always nags at me with stories about his village life, about quarrels among families he had witnessed, about a serene place called 'Dighir Paar' near his home, about so many comparables in Madaripur to whatever he sees in Dhaka. He even deemed the General Hospital in his Madaripur town way better than the BIRDEM in Shahbagh. He is simply proud of Madaripur, his beloved hometown.
Lest he should find doing chores tedious a maidservant has been appointed to do all the heavy jobs sparing Sabuj to do the lighter errands like dusting off the furniture and other fetching and carrying jobs. Two private tutors have been appointed to teach Sabuj at my place: one to teach him all the texts of Class-III and the other to tutor him in reading words and sentences in Arabic as the preliminary courses to his taking up reading the Holy Koran. Sabuj supports Brazil; so I had to buy a big national flag of Brazil and hoist it in my apartment balcony. I bought him the Brazilian jersey, a yellow T-shirt with an emblem of Brazilian footballers.
People say I dote too much upon Sabuj but I say I have rather been robbing Sabuj of his childhood only to meet my hunger for seeing the magic of a little child growing before my eyes, a heavenly pleasure his parents, not me, were supposed to enjoy.
But, of late Sabuj has been behaving a little differently. He lost his interest in good food. Every time I insist on his taking fruits or candies he replies in his Madaripur dialect: "Amaar Bhalo Thekey Naa (I don't feel well)".
One day I found him sobbing in his room with the door closed. After my huge persistence to know about his pains I could realise that he wanted to go home. From his indirect answers to my curiosities what I could understand was he did no more want to enjoy all the foods, fruits, pleasures and comforts in Dhaka that he couldn't share with his parents and his two sisters Shannya and Sharmin.
Tears that rolled down his cheek told a long tale about his pent-up feelings. Those tears were for his pride to take from whatever his parents could provide him with, to rest in the nest, however rickety, his parents made for him and his siblings.
I don't know how I myself would have felt if at such a tender age as that of Sabuj I was snatched away from my mother. Sabuj does not know why he had to be forced out from his home for no fault of his own. Why should poverty of his father deprive him of his right to live with his mother? I could only partially feel his pulse as I myself also felt an agony, though not as acute as Sabuj's, when as a grownup man I was also far away from my home.
During my three and a half-year stint in Malaysia in the late 1990s I got the first taste and the hands-on pains of staying outside my motherland for a long time at a stretch. It was during my tenure in Kuala Lumpur I could realise how agonising it was to miss my home no matter how happy I was with a good steady income and all those sights and sounds in a foreign land.
Knowing full well that I would have to face once again all the mismanagements and inconveniences back in my home and be deprived of all the creature comforts I was so accustomed with in Kuala Lumpur, I still, like Sabuj, had become desperate and begged my employer, a bank, to scrap my contract. I came back to my sweet home in spite of my employer's advice to continue my job in Kuala Lumpur at least for one more year.
"God, we are a poor country; we don't demand something big or heavily costly from you. What we humbly solicit is your showing a little mercy in granting us a win of the ICC trophy from the last available ball", Humayun Bhai, the senior newsman working in the Kuala Lumpur-based Asia Pacific Broadcasting Union, was beseeching in his hushed voice while sitting by his side at the VIP gallery I was also praying, "Why, Allah, should you not grant the poor Bangladeshi people a little dose of pleasure once in a while for them to occasionally numb their spasms of pains?", as we were awaiting the end of the suspense at Tenaga National Sports Complex in Kuala Lumpur in the rain-soaked afternoon on 13 April, 1997. God at last smiled at us and we both felt tears welling up in our eyes as Bangladesh won the final match against Kenya achieving from the last ball the target of 166 runs from 25 overs.
I vividly remember a Bangladeshi lady crying like a baby while she was leaving the Tenaga National Sports Complex after Bangladesh's victory against Kenya. She was rubbing her teary eyes with her handkerchief. Her lips were trembling the way the face of the North Korean footballer Jong Tae-Sae was quivering as the DPRK anthem was being played just before his team started playing with Brazil, the global football giant.
Tears that flowed from the eyes of the lady leaving the Tenaga National Sports Complex in Kuala Lumpur or the tears that streamed out from the eyes of Jong Tae-Sae at the Ellis Park Stadium in Johannesburg or the tears that flow from the eyes of millions when an athlete stands on the podium and bow his or her head to wear a garland bearing a heavy medal as in the background the national anthem is played and the national flag is hoisted in an Olympic stadium or the tears that flooded the face of Sabuj are not normal tears. They are the tears of joy; they are the tears of national pride; they are also the tears of love for mother and motherland. These tears become really heavy when you are hundreds and thousands of miles away from your home. These tears become energy when you fight for the pride of your nation. These are the tears that propel many patriots to sacrifice even their life.
The writer can be reached at e-mail: maswood@hotmail.com
Sabuj knows that I don't like to miss the part of FIFA World Cup 2010 where national anthems of the two teams are played before a game starts. Sabuj screams, "the song has already started, Mama" if for any reason I am not around before the TV set at the moment when a national anthem of a participating team starts playing.
During World Cup season national anthems of respective teams are special to me. I can also croon the first few lines of some national anthems of a few countries. It has been a kind of addiction I have developed since I started watching the world event. I enjoy seeing the players standing in a row in the middle of the field with their heads high, their hands placed over their hearts and murmuring the words of their anthem in unison with the tune that is played over the massive public address system blaring and charging the air of the huge stadium packed with thousands of spectators---some remaining silent, some fans with teary eyes singing the anthem who know the lyrics and some bowing their heads as a mark of their respect to the nation the players represent. It's a moment that radiates a magical aura for all the viewers to bask in and a pride to people whose national anthem is played. It's a bijou moment; it's a prize for the nation who has had their team qualified to participate in the World Cup.
In the Group-G match between Brazil and North Korea on the 15th June at midnight as we -- me and Sabuj -- were watching the North Korean players and hearing the North Korean national anthem Sabuj with his starry eyes asked: "Why is that player crying, Mama?" Instead of answering the question, I asked him: "Why did you cry the day before yesterday?" Sabuj answered: "I wanted to go home; I wanted to see my mother". "Yes, this is the same reason the player is crying for. He is remembering his mother too" I explained. Sabuj laughed on the other side of his face; he couldn't believe me. He retorted: "The player is a grownup man. How can he cry? He is not as little as I am". "Grownup people also cry; they of course cry in their privacy. Sometimes they cry inside a bathroom with the door closed. But this funny player is crying publicly as he is perhaps too weak to fight back his tears from welling up in his eyes". I was pretty tired of explaining the reasons of teary eyes in so many ways to Sabuj, the little boy.
A few months back, as Sabuj was stuffing his old clothes into his small carry-bag in preparation for his maiden journey to Dhaka his mother advised him in her earnest tone: "Listen carefully, you are going to leave our village and live in Dhaka for a long time staying in a house; the master of the house is your Mama (maternal uncle). What you have to do in his house is very simple compared to what you are now doing in helping your father weed out the cultivable land and bathe the cow. Don't cry while you are in Dhaka; don't show your wish to come back home. Dhaka is far better than Bhadrakhola. Your Mama will arrange for your studying maybe in a school. If you can win your Mama's heart, mind you, you have a bright future".
One morning Sabuj, a little boy aged only nine with a cherubic face, came to my house and with some trepidation gave me a courteous 'Salam', his both hands---as I could see out of the corner of my eye---tightly gripping the left palm of his cousin Jewel.
Like Sabuj, Jewel, now 18, was also parroted by his parents to call me Mama when he, aged not more than 8, came to my house about 10 years back. Sabuj is the fourth boy in a row preceded by Jewel, Saidul and Alamgir who have all been calling me Mama since their childhood though I have no blood relationship with any of them. All these boys are from the same village of Bhadrakhola under the district of Madaripur and they all have served my family since their childhood as our handy boys, one after another.
I feel there was not an iota of alloy mixed with love and respect Sabuj has been showing and paying to me. He enjoys sharing with me his childhood experiences and I also enjoy seeing and hearing his childlike way of looking at new wonders of life and many new gismos at my place he was not quite used to at his village home.
Of course, I treat Sabuj, so little a child, as no less than how I used to treat my own son at his age. At times he is quite demanding and a little precocious though; he often forgets that I am his Mama not by any blood connection. He always nags at me with stories about his village life, about quarrels among families he had witnessed, about a serene place called 'Dighir Paar' near his home, about so many comparables in Madaripur to whatever he sees in Dhaka. He even deemed the General Hospital in his Madaripur town way better than the BIRDEM in Shahbagh. He is simply proud of Madaripur, his beloved hometown.
Lest he should find doing chores tedious a maidservant has been appointed to do all the heavy jobs sparing Sabuj to do the lighter errands like dusting off the furniture and other fetching and carrying jobs. Two private tutors have been appointed to teach Sabuj at my place: one to teach him all the texts of Class-III and the other to tutor him in reading words and sentences in Arabic as the preliminary courses to his taking up reading the Holy Koran. Sabuj supports Brazil; so I had to buy a big national flag of Brazil and hoist it in my apartment balcony. I bought him the Brazilian jersey, a yellow T-shirt with an emblem of Brazilian footballers.
People say I dote too much upon Sabuj but I say I have rather been robbing Sabuj of his childhood only to meet my hunger for seeing the magic of a little child growing before my eyes, a heavenly pleasure his parents, not me, were supposed to enjoy.
But, of late Sabuj has been behaving a little differently. He lost his interest in good food. Every time I insist on his taking fruits or candies he replies in his Madaripur dialect: "Amaar Bhalo Thekey Naa (I don't feel well)".
One day I found him sobbing in his room with the door closed. After my huge persistence to know about his pains I could realise that he wanted to go home. From his indirect answers to my curiosities what I could understand was he did no more want to enjoy all the foods, fruits, pleasures and comforts in Dhaka that he couldn't share with his parents and his two sisters Shannya and Sharmin.
Tears that rolled down his cheek told a long tale about his pent-up feelings. Those tears were for his pride to take from whatever his parents could provide him with, to rest in the nest, however rickety, his parents made for him and his siblings.
I don't know how I myself would have felt if at such a tender age as that of Sabuj I was snatched away from my mother. Sabuj does not know why he had to be forced out from his home for no fault of his own. Why should poverty of his father deprive him of his right to live with his mother? I could only partially feel his pulse as I myself also felt an agony, though not as acute as Sabuj's, when as a grownup man I was also far away from my home.
During my three and a half-year stint in Malaysia in the late 1990s I got the first taste and the hands-on pains of staying outside my motherland for a long time at a stretch. It was during my tenure in Kuala Lumpur I could realise how agonising it was to miss my home no matter how happy I was with a good steady income and all those sights and sounds in a foreign land.
Knowing full well that I would have to face once again all the mismanagements and inconveniences back in my home and be deprived of all the creature comforts I was so accustomed with in Kuala Lumpur, I still, like Sabuj, had become desperate and begged my employer, a bank, to scrap my contract. I came back to my sweet home in spite of my employer's advice to continue my job in Kuala Lumpur at least for one more year.
"God, we are a poor country; we don't demand something big or heavily costly from you. What we humbly solicit is your showing a little mercy in granting us a win of the ICC trophy from the last available ball", Humayun Bhai, the senior newsman working in the Kuala Lumpur-based Asia Pacific Broadcasting Union, was beseeching in his hushed voice while sitting by his side at the VIP gallery I was also praying, "Why, Allah, should you not grant the poor Bangladeshi people a little dose of pleasure once in a while for them to occasionally numb their spasms of pains?", as we were awaiting the end of the suspense at Tenaga National Sports Complex in Kuala Lumpur in the rain-soaked afternoon on 13 April, 1997. God at last smiled at us and we both felt tears welling up in our eyes as Bangladesh won the final match against Kenya achieving from the last ball the target of 166 runs from 25 overs.
I vividly remember a Bangladeshi lady crying like a baby while she was leaving the Tenaga National Sports Complex after Bangladesh's victory against Kenya. She was rubbing her teary eyes with her handkerchief. Her lips were trembling the way the face of the North Korean footballer Jong Tae-Sae was quivering as the DPRK anthem was being played just before his team started playing with Brazil, the global football giant.
Tears that flowed from the eyes of the lady leaving the Tenaga National Sports Complex in Kuala Lumpur or the tears that streamed out from the eyes of Jong Tae-Sae at the Ellis Park Stadium in Johannesburg or the tears that flow from the eyes of millions when an athlete stands on the podium and bow his or her head to wear a garland bearing a heavy medal as in the background the national anthem is played and the national flag is hoisted in an Olympic stadium or the tears that flooded the face of Sabuj are not normal tears. They are the tears of joy; they are the tears of national pride; they are also the tears of love for mother and motherland. These tears become really heavy when you are hundreds and thousands of miles away from your home. These tears become energy when you fight for the pride of your nation. These are the tears that propel many patriots to sacrifice even their life.
The writer can be reached at e-mail: maswood@hotmail.com