Life often takes one through convoluted paths, my tale of being a corporate citizen, a business school graduate moulded to ascend the hierarchical ladder of commerce, to a fervent penman, is one such.
Often found myself contemplating the deeper resonance of life. Much of this can be attributed to my literary idols—Ernest Hemingway, with his sparse, piercing prose and profound insights into the human condition; Faiz Ahmad Faiz, whose verses echo with fervours of romanticism & revolution; and Mario Puzo, who unveiled the intricate tapestries of power and betrayal with masterful storytelling.
They kindled in me a passion for words, and a desire to transcend the mundane and delve into the realms of creativity and expression.
Leaving behind the ambitions of a young business school graduate to become a corporate citizen and instead aspiring to be a wordsmith required not merely a change of vocation but a metamorphosis of identity.
The transition was fraught with uncertainties, societal disapproval, and the gnawing fear of failure.
Yet, the allure of becoming a wordsmith, of weaving stories that could touch lives and stir minds, proved irresistible. And that is how I began working in the newspaper industry - a domain I had never particularly cherished given its stifling constraints and people’s predisposition about its pervasiveness.
The ink of truth is often blotted by a heavy hand that does not know how to write.
My foray into newspaper became a conduit for my literary aspirations.
A career in words is beleaguered by myriad challenges and is far from any ideal métier.
Yet, it was within this crucible of adversity that my resolve was tempered. The practice of journalism, though not my ultimate passion, honed my craft, sharpening my prose and deepening my understanding of human narratives.
As the recent nationwide curfew, an internet blackout, and the ensuing unrest plunged the nation into a maelstrom of chaos and violence, my role as a mere carpenter of words seemed insufficient. Amid the chaos, I roamed the city not as a pensive participant, but rather a detached observer as stray cats tend to be.
The curfew, ostensibly imposed to restore order, became a crucible that tested my mettle as a merchant of words.
Amid the cacophony of clashes and the omnipresent threat of violence, spectres of dangers loomed large; I endured the sting of projectiles, the searing heat of fires, and the caustic menace of acid; but I trudged through the throes, driven not by an obligation of my profession but by passion.
Words I pen, though constrained in the present, carry the promise of future revelation.
A night-bitten dawn
Predawn stillness of Dhaka has remained shrouded in an eerie silence that murmured the tension simmering beneath as the curfew transformed the city into a morose mirror image of its quotidian self.
An acrid scent hung heavy in the air, a grim reminder of the violence that had erupted with unbridled ferocity.
Remnants of the clashes between the protesters and the regime's enforcers are strewn like detritus of a forgotten war.
Vandalised structures, their facades marred by fire and fury, stood as mute witnesses to the brutality that had unfolded.
Blood-stained pavements bore silent testimony to the lives lost, snuffed out in the throes.
The internet blackout, a calculated move to stifle dissent, had plunged the nation into an information void. In an age where connectivity is synonymous with life itself, this blackout was a stranglehold on the collective throat of the populace.
Yet hushed conversations and furtive glances hinted at an undercurrent of defiance. As it appears, the curfew, the blackout, the violence – all were but transient shadows against the indomitable light of hope.
But the air is heavy with the scent of fear and loss, echoes with the silent screams.
The imposed isolation left people to grapple with their anguish, but the blood that stains the streets behaves like ink with which the story of struggle and survival is written.
