'A Clerk Uncle' and the pain of Inadequacy

 

I was once nominated for three awards at the final of an annual sports competition of the village secondary school. Third in poetry recitation, second in cockfighting, second in another class. I don't remember being nominated for any other award in my life. On the day the awards were distributed, I and Bu Abba went to his office picnic. As a result the awards were no longer accepted that day. Later, when I went to bring my prize to school, Uncle Clerk couldn't give it away, because the surviving prizes were already gone. In pain of heart, my father decided not to keep me in the village school anymore. But because I was a fairly good student, the school teachers did not want to leave me. I had very little knowledge. I don't understand my own good and bad. Sunil Pandit Sir once called in the office room and said in a tearful voice, "If Aktar can make us cry and move to another school, then go". Most of the time I did not understand the meaning of Sunil Sir's passionate words. I understand today. Headsir and the then president began to hesitate to give me TC. Some started calling me 'Gilas'. There were glasses and plates in the awards. It didn't matter that I had to leave school for a little glass or plate, the prize, however small, was to be given to the person who deserved it. Due to my father's stubborn position, I had to leave school and enroll in a city school.

That clerk uncle is still there, retired. When you go to the village, if you see each other, give a long greeting. The pain of not getting three awards in my heart, the pain of hurting my teachers, the pain of walking five kilometers to go to school in the city, the pain of teasing my friends, the pain of breaking my parents' heart, the pain of forgetting someone who seemed to be a teenager, all accumulate together in the pages of memory. . A large pond to the south of the school. The reintro-kadi trees planted by us on its banks are now very big and have branches like umbrellas. Sit in the shade of trees on the south-east bank. Whoo Whoo, Batash Boy. The south wind touches my troubles, takes the black water of the lake and goes to the north, the memories of childhood and youth are intertwined in the balcony of the school.

Writer: Md. Akter Hossain