A BOY AND A BUS

A BOY AND A BUS
- Tilok Adnan

He's waiting for the BRTC to move; 

the big, red machine stares -

    "What do you want me to do? 

Men, women, and children

are in a rush to feed me,

they've no clue it slows me down." 

    "Be fed, my friend, 

my big, red heart -

not in comparison to you - 

needs feeding, too.

Your role in the city is quite like mine, 

an empty vehicle whose engine 

pumps to reach the people that need us.

In my case, a person

and without them I feel 

as if I have no function." 

    "You're too naive. 

You're pink and blushed, 

I can hear the sound of your blood rush

I can hear it like monsoon rain, 

it outweighs the buzz of the avenue.

Lovers like you take me for a ride

to forever and more, until they realize 

they've reached the end and

I can't go further.

In this way, love dies." 

    "Are you saying you're exhausted?"

    "Tired." 

    "Perhaps you're right, but 

what do you know of alleys

and homes, and fresh grass 

and the path by the lake?" 

    "I know they exist. That they are places.

Destinations no one can call their own.

Catacombs of memories over years.

Where are you headed?"

    "Your route is bound. 

You don't see past the city's blocks. 

My heart follows intuition, 

each day it takes a different path." 

    "So why make today's journey long?

Move along, go another way." 

    "Just as you do, my heart knows

that a journey takes time." 

The bus leaves. 

He walks onward. 

YOU

              YOU 

              by Tilok Adnan

Someday we will have to leave the Earth 

    Inhabit another rugged rock pushing

                                                            down

                                                      on 

                                                                        

emptiness

    

     

    We will pull it back with populace 

    We will skip alien stones on alien planes 

    Look up at the sky of a different hundred hues

    It is this semblance of an act that will always

                                                       

                                                           define the you. 

The Bangladeshi Writer

Hi. I am your typical Bangladeshi

and I want to sell my work

so I can leave a mark for my 

countrymen to know that they, too, 

can dream of flourishing outside

their nation, so that they, too, 

know what is bought off the shelves

and what is in me that sells . 

I grew up well-accustomed to your

culture from having watched Star World

but I think I'll side with the majority

and color myself a victim of identity crisis.

Since I live in a third-world nation

it must mean that I have issues accepting my paternal family.

Cross that! This is about going back to my roots!

Why I am the way I am and who I am. 

And while you'll be aroused by my 

introspection into how a man can 

grow up rich in a country where 

the diaspora flock to the city for money

a future for their children with 22

years of struggle or most likely more

just to blend in as a middle-class citizen,

I know nothing of that. I'll paint myself deprived

and I'll tell a story about how I went 

about cleansing myself through a journey

across the tattered beauty of greenery 

that sprawls all the way to my granddad's village.

I'll tell you how the war affected village 

(Because I can't be from Bangladesh if 

I don't mention the horrible war stories,

the despicable crimes of West Pakistan. 

We are quite deprived of all our heritage;

You won't find much of it in textbooks

or on Ekushey TV, if anyone even watches

the channel anymore - I doubt they do) 

made my grandfather into the ardent man

he was and how a love story unfurled 

when he married the girl of his dreams,

albeit the wedding was arranged by family.

And some women - others like me trying

to make a name for themselves - may have

already told you that kind of thing is inherent 

patriarchy and years of oppression in the subcontinent -

Some Monica Ali wannabes, I presume -

I'll choose instead to make it what I like. 

It's part love story. But all is not fair in love

and all is not good that is poor, especially

when my grandfather was the only educated man

and his wealth accumulated from having been so

(, you see, I can't write about the hindus who were

cast out of the country during the 1971 war, 

about how the land my family owns was

pretty much served on a golden spoon 

through some bonds and some government bids 

and a lot of it being a sort of finders-keepers sort of thing.

The backstory on the land would look bad on me 

Plus I am not Hindu. Thank God I belong to a 

Muslim family caught in the struggle 

to preserve my Muslim beliefs, my identity).

My family's struggle came from the uncouth,

disobedient children of my grandparents

with the exception of my father, who followed

in gramp's footsteps. He's a doctor now. 

Anyway, those children obviously threw a fit

when the majority inheritance was passed on to my father

and bearing no ill-intent, my father left his home

giving away what was his, hoping he had a better opportunities

in the city, where he struggled to become the

self-made man that he is. He's sometimes on Channel I

doing live consultation for the general mass who 

call in hoping they don't have to pay for a visit to the doctors. 

My father's struggle in the city is one worth telling,

as he soon climbed the ranks as a surgeon,

fell in love with my mother, the girl of his dreams,

and raised three beautiful children, one of whom is me.

I guess that sums it all up, and if it helps

I could write about how I see my father's struggles

as my nemesis, and how I have always felt closer to him 

thus, suffering from identity issues. Would that sell? 

It's a lie, but it's a different kind of daddy issue. 

Makes for quite the compelling story and 

I see "New York Best-Seller" written in bold transcript. 

I hope you do, too, Mr. Foreign Editor. 

I am here to pave the way for my countrymen, 

Represent them the best I can, keeping intact their dignity

And I am sure that with my charm and eloquence 

they will look up to me for the man that I am. 

I've been living a theorem

I've been living a theorem

by Tilok Adnan

I've been living a lie 

telling other of my

world within a world 

where I am the proud

creator, but not so 

much that you'd find

an ounce of interest 

in me. My imagination

may be vivid, honed 

patterns through reasoning

combine the illogical 

shapes, things, places

to form unimaginable 

escapes and lanes of 

unseen what-nots, secrets 

I've kept and told you

you're no good for, or 

you won't understand

but I say this without

any knowledge of all

that you've seen in 

your travels. I feel 

inferior, inadequate

about how you crouch

over my face to let

me know you've been

there and done that and

honestly I don't care.

because I've always

liked my screens and

my paper, my canvases 

on which I paint 

the world my way 

but even then I am 

overshadowed by masters

who say I need more 

exposure to the world 

and this with time turn

my canvases too white

indiscernible as a result 

of my inability to be

better than them and 

you! Fucking hell, maybe

I'm just a dumpster and 

when you take off my lid

all you'll see are

crumpled paper, acetate 

bags full of them

enough to give you a

smirk and enough for

me to know I am 

trash, waiting to be 

poured clean of all my 

bullshit ideas of grandeur. 

There are no dragons, no

mystic lands, no future

driven dystopia, no lore

only a wasteland large 

with landfills and here 

and there ugly monkeys 

from my past who all

rummage through piles

of used ideas and play

them like a puzzle 

every night trying to 

see what fits what

which fits which, see

sometimes things form

a glitch and sometimes 

fathomable contraptions 

closer to things I have

seen on TV or read in books

hoping that doing this

long enough will lead 

to the discovery of

something nu. some thing

by which to impress, 

inter alia the world, and you.

 

PROBE

PROBE

nowadays, low resolution images

of the younger you stimulate 

a curiosity that probes 

the id in search of an answer 

to why I felt the way 

I did all those years that 

I spent mulling over how

a smile can cause a tree

to branch out further than

the far reaches of my far-flung

arms beckoning for your body

to come collapsing onto mine;

everyone's a pawn who stands

between our brittle bones'

magnetism. Neurons are bulls

set free in the narrow arteries

of the heart of the brain

that wants to know what's 

in it for us and which

fate awaits our arrival.

branches that shot outward 

gave birth to leaves as quick

as they fell until the rapid

process steadied to a calm

and screens grew bigger 

with time, rendering old

images stale, my interest

dwindling to a nut 

that would eventually fall

off, too, leaving me curious

about the roots from which

that tree grew. I know 

you stand at the tip of

the iceberg, and I still scour

below freezing waters where

nothing but blindness grows.

1993

1993

by Tilok Adnan

this may be a false 

memory: the carpet 

stretched out to the ends

of my playground 

decked with shelves all

around , exotic and forbid-

den toys on them and

couches and sofas and 

chairs from where I jumped

and sat and played heroes

of my own making, are

all in that particular room.

it includes a memory of

you walking toward, and 

out the door only for 

me to follow, only

to be stopped and plucked

from my own terrain so

that you'd be free to

run like my tears 

Gonipur 1989

I was the progeny of two rebellious lovers

Whose rebellion may have ended with their marriage,

And, then, soon after, a baby boy born in early June. 

A young girl turned into a mother for the first time,

For the first time her life divided for her first-born,

Because I mattered to her as she mattered to me.

I was born with the help of a midwife

Whose face I can't recall since that day

But, like many other times, she had done her job well. 

I was the only son of the eldest son of the household

Which, obviously, meant and must mean something,

But to this day it's only meant gawking eyes at the legacy of my father.

I heard that colors were thrown around that evening, 

Vibrant imagery projects itself onto the back of my mind

And I learn that celebration is an idea and not an experience. 

Flight

Flight for Embers in Snow
Who are you to decline my views on Who or what I am, what I do? Who cares for what you think of me? It helps to know that you would But maybe you should stop it Break into these walls in my head A ceiling full of doves and gulls A fresco painted with precision This chapel stands wide and tall You're not my kind You saw me fly You're chasing falling feathers Who are you to decrypt my views on Who or what I am, what I do? Who cares for what you've found inside? It helps to know that you could I knew that you would I am not your kind I have taken flight The ground is now below me You are running wild You are chasing feathers Tethered to your false beliefs I only hope that you break free The sun may sink in your part of the world It rises above in mine I send over the moon to your sky Hoping to shed some light You're so uptight You'll use that light To search for falling feathers You're shackled down By the vast profound Things you know are better I am not your kind I have taken flight The ground is now below me You are running wild You are chasing feathers Tethered to your false beliefs I only hope that you break free