Language barrier

The language barrier sometimes bother me. I feel that I shouldn’t write about this in English, or I shouldn’t write something on that in Bengali. It seems that a few topics are embedded with certain language. For instance, I can never describe the joy of Christmas and the warmth of fireplace in Bengali, nor can I write about the days I spend during Durga puja in english. The recent fusion culture does help me often to embed topics with certain languages, but I cannot write such at ease, I will cover that up with time I think.

I never felt any special attachment with the childhood asphalt and grass of my hometown. Now, standing at the edge of childhood, preparing for the upcoming manhood, I feel different. The soil under the green grass attract me, the street dogs make friends with me, the birds call my name, the trees beside the asphalt road bind me to them, and I hear my bicycle crying for my company. All these, I don’t know, if I have expressed correctly; because few things belong to some certain language. I cannot explain the beauty of the sodium vapor lamp that shines at night on the lamp post beside my school, I need my mother tounge for that. I cannot explain the emotion that come with science in my mother tounge, I need English for that.

Assertion chooses it’s language for me most of the time.

Heart, Hope and the Firefly

It was about her; a childish show off. But what I didn’t anticipate is that when serious business gets mixed up with such show off, it might get disastrous. My physics exam was all about a show off. But, while in that exam hall, when I was stuck in a very easy problem, I didn’t looked at the mistake, I was thinking, “Why can’t I solve this easy problem? How am I gonna perform before her?” I got tensed and hot. I lost my calm mind. I did bad.

My teacher expects a good marks in physics from me. He told me that last day that I have to get a eighty percent. While I was entering the exam halls, I thought about that particular sentence; I must get a eighty percent. He hoped that best for me. But I have failed him.

Last night, while I was lying in the dark, the ambient light of the night sky peeking through that hazy glass windows; I was sad until I saw a yellow flash. The flash from the small body of a firefly. It forced me to turn back. I was staring at the blinking fire flying around me. It was showing me light.

Portable music player and the lexicon

My home town if not very acquainted with the phrase, Portable Music Players, instead it is acquainted with iPod. I heard the word in my school, when a friend of mine got a SONY Mp3 player. Everybody called that an iPod. I didn’t waste time explaining that not every small gadget capable of playing music other than mobile phone are iPods. After a while, the word iPod was everywhere. Even yesterday, my mother was referring to my Philips GoGear portable audio player as an iPod. Now, every portable small cassette player is referred to as Walkman. It makes me laugh when I see the same thing happening to iPod. Names of exceptionally popular gadgets always outsell the gadgets. Brand names do alter the lexicon.

Let me tell you some great product that changed lexicon, at least in my neighborhood.

• XEROX (Photocopying machine)
• Walkman (Every portable cassette player)
• Hi-Fi (Anything high end)
• iPod (Every small music player)
• Selotape (Sticky tape)
• Hurricane (actually a lantern maker, every lantern is referred to)
• ALL-OUT (Mosquito repellent)
• Cadbury (Chocolates)
• Mortein (Mosquito repellent burning coil)
• Kachhua (a turtle, also a mosquito repellent burning coil)

Cyclists

There are a lot of different bicyclists here. Some, try to break the sound barrier some try to be faster than the joggers. Some always carry a girl(when he is a boy), some always go beside a girl, some go along with friends(both men and women), and some ride alone. Afternoon; they ride with friends, Evening; no one is alone, always with their significant other. It is during night, I observe the most intriguing. Few return from their work late at night, tired, dizzy, barely keeping control of the bicycle. A few businessman, with their goods, ride along the empty street. Few madmen, spoiled by the liquid named alcohol, cycle over asphalt, making an adventure of their own. It seems that they are in complete peace with the universe. Their zigzag pathway and shaky handle reminds me of a child learning to ride a bike. Among the riders, I see a few poets, with a typical hanging jeans bag. Maybe, they return to their home, after spending a day at a magazine’s office, trying to convince the editor that the poem he wrote is worth publishing. During all day, and evening, I don’t get much distracted by the sound of bicycles, and it’s bells. But I just can’t ignore the clear and delicate sound of dust, tires and drivewheels at night. The riders make me think about them, their lives, their old bicycles, their struggle for existence.