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20 April, 2017 00:00 00 AM / LAST MODIFIED: 19 April, 2017 11:34:28 PM
A Journal’s Story
A Journal’s Story

Zareen Raushan

These days where Facebook status updates and Whatsapp messages rule the medium of expressing one’s thoughts, a person looking for a diary to write poems in came somewhat as a shock to me. Ovnil, whose name I learned later, purchased me from a buzzing shop at Aziz Super Market, which mostly caters to the needs of Charukola (art) students. However, Ovnil did not seem to belong to that category, he could be separated from the crowd easily.
He was one of those quiet observant shoppers who knows exactly what he wants, buys the item and then leaves. Together, we made a long journey for his home, far from the area of Shahbagh to Uttara. I did not realise that I was a present for someone else till the next morning, when he quietly took me out from my brown wrapping paper and wrote down a note for the person intended to be my companion for the rest of my life.
“This is for you,” said Ovnil as he pulled me out of his Che Guevara backpack, along with a gel pen he had bought to accompany me. I was eager to see this writer upfront, who was supposed to fill up my pages with writings of passion and feelings. I found myself looking at a young woman wearing a pair of rimless spectacles staring at me with utmost awe.
Opshori’s eyes gleamed with happiness as she took me in her hands and opened the cover, then reading what was written inside, she smiled. “You should write, you know,” she said, her eyes shining.
“I have done my bit analyzing this and that. You better finish this journal by the time I come back from China,” Ovnil replied. “You do know how to write in journals, don’t you?” he asked in a serious tone, but with a smile on his face. They were waiting for their lunch to arrive at the table. Opshori only smiled backed at him.
Ovnil took me back from her, opening one of my pages. I wondered if he would start writing again, but he did not. Using his finger he kept on explaining how she was supposed to write and then sign her name after she had finished writing a piece, with a date at the very end of each page. Opshori did not say anything, except that she kept on listening to him. Carefully, she took me back from his grasp and placed me in her bag.
As I was being engulfed into the darkness, I quickly stole one last look at Ovnil. He seemed satisfied about his gift. I could feel myself being taken to the place which was going to be my ultimate home. Opshori took me out of her bag and held me in her hands, feeling my spine and going through my empty pages. I could tell that she was reminiscing about this afternoon as she had a bright smile curled up on her lips. She seemed particularly interested in reading and re-reading what was written on my first page. It was obvious that I was not a mere journal to her or just a simple gift, as a matter of fact. More importantly, the person, who had gifted me to her, was the special one.
Although I did not get to see Ovnil anymore, I knew Opshori did keep her word. She filled me with her words and feelings, whatever she felt for Ovnil was inked down on my pages. However, no matter how many poems she wrote down, none of those were as valued to her as the words that were penned down by Ovnil himself on the 19th of November last year:

Amongst the writers,
 Very few have the ability to write feelings.
 You are the writer of simple,
 But deep feelings.

 

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Editor : M. Shamsur Rahman

Published by the Editor on behalf of Independent Publications Limited at Media Printers, 446/H, Tejgaon I/A, Dhaka-1215.
Editorial, News & Commercial Offices : Beximco Media Complex, 149-150 Tejgaon I/A, Dhaka-1208, Bangladesh. GPO Box No. 934, Dhaka-1000.

Editor : M. Shamsur Rahman
Published by the Editor on behalf of Independent Publications Limited at Media Printers, 446/H, Tejgaon I/A, Dhaka-1215.
Editorial, News & Commercial Offices : Beximco Media Complex, 149-150 Tejgaon I/A, Dhaka-1208, Bangladesh. GPO Box No. 934, Dhaka-1000.

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