Sports Car

I disdain the ephemeral ideals, life philosophies, and activities of humanity on this Earth. Yet, I harbor no aversion for life itself, as it emanates from an imperceptible source, a visible current that is not guided by these dogmas but emerges from the profound depths of emptiness, rising like the inexhaustible essence from the arid soil of time. For all the transgressions on this spinning globe, I first seek the faults within myself. Upon careful contemplation, I perceive my misdeeds as cosmic in scale and a playful mockery of irreparable damages. I acknowledge that wrongdoers and those silently bearing the burden of their transgressions are inherently intertwined, complementary forces. I intensely abhor the insidious idolatry of the leash for its insatiable materialistic cravings. I vividly remember selling my mother at the hands of the butchers in the marketplace for a sports car. The orchestration of a nocturnal feast in pursuit of acquiring the sports car was matched by waiters presenting American steaks, triggering the aroma of my mother’s flesh from the depths of memory.

Was that really my mother’s flesh?

During my childhood, lying on my mother’s lap, I used to gaze at the full moon within the circle of her arms. The sensations I experienced, akin to the fragrance one gets from small orange jasmine trees on a spring night rising from the earth, were beyond my comprehension. I don’t know whether the ocean will embrace me anymore, whether its currents will let my feet soak in them! For even a tiny drop of poison can turn the ocean venomous. I can no longer hide in the darkness I created with my own hands because the stars have ignited in every corner of the sky. The ocean is abandoning me, only to welcome me in its embrace, as it can’t let me drown in the peaceful depths of its belly where the fish roam undisturbed.

Do they truly possess that peace?

In the state where I reside, they navigate the ocean depths with cautious eyes, as if sending submarines created from their own shadows to harbor fear in the enemy’s heart. It’s as if they contemplate their own demise merely by glimpsing themselves in a dream. They seem to be their own enemies, as humanity no longer harbors any grand purpose beyond becoming adversaries to themselves. I do not know whether the arrival of human children, emerging from the inferno of self-ignition, can save the world from the curse of a small orangutan child, fallen and perished.

I despise myself so much that others find no opportunity to detest me or claim that they are too preoccupied with self-loathing to spare time for animosity towards others. Consequently, they eventually turn self-destructive, akin to a nuclear bomb of Hiroshima in self-flagellation, leading to an inevitable desert where dwindling human civilization sprouts like cacti.

Their hearts resemble that arid land where the flame’s blossom withers, and what falls is the petal of tears. I do not know when I will cease to harbor a slightly lesser abhorrence for those whom I loathe more than myself. I am uncertain how long I will have to carry this suicidal burden of timeworn skeletons whose corroded heart rusts our minds, turning them into saline deposits and seasoning them with bitterness.

Oh! The melancholy of selling my mother for a sports car could swiftly evaporate if I hurry!

How swiftly I can forget the aroma of the earth when it escapes my grasp!

Ah! Idolatry, tell me, in the celebration of the specter, let them feast on my flesh, let them revel on my body until the demise of that last person. Now, I stand before you, and in the presence of Rani, the divine being, I perceive the scent of flesh in the barbecue of minced meat. To entice the composer, I exclaimed, “What an exquisite aroma!” and I rose to sing songs that I am not, songs that are not just songs but are like those Dracula-like nurses, who, under the spell of supernatural forces, uncover the oxygen masks of children sleeping in the deep incubators of the night and expose the elderly wearing oxygen masks. Those nurses, now naked, dance to the rhythm of my song.

I am that cursed singer whose destiny was intertwined with my mother’s the moment I was born. However, my mother despises swiftly judging people in life, revealing a path not only of existence but of dreams, where one doesn’t walk the path shown by someone else but creates their own. I have endured the challenge of forging my path from such circumstances.

From the summit of the invincible mountain, I have risen within, soaring towards the sky, where the audacious eagles cast their shadows, flying freely above that very peak. I used to feel like one of those eagles, but the allure of the flatlands kept pulling me. The eaglets aspiring to be companions of those eagles, who, adorned with peculiar imitations, couldn’t rise to the allure of those cursed eagles in the skies, ensnared by the temptation of the mundane.

For this reason, my disdain is growing stronger every day. I know that one day, I will swing myself away from the ceiling of the cosmos, unleashing acid onto the dormant embryos within me, those who carry the stories of the future. Those ascetics who transcend the luminous bodies, freeing moonlit souls from the clutches of darkness and reviving those entangled in venomous sins through their benevolent discourse!

Where are those ascetics?

Now, those whom I see, they are not like my mother; they are demons, disguised as ascetics to drink our blood. Love to them is the key to that slaughterhouse. Ah, these pilgrimage sites are like snake pits! Hidden beneath the guise of the body, they appear as leopards, deceiving with the sweetness of a cat; when you approach them, you transform from a cat to a leopard; they will devour you in one gulp, raising their dagger with a stench that even God keeps far away. Surely, recognize those scholars who teach you idolatry and servitude; surely, recognize their teachers who are puppets in the hands of Satan. Surely, recognize those courthouses where demons measure the sins of angels and ensure their own demonic secrets remain hidden. I am willing to hang myself in the gallows of belief and faith in such places, where someone hanging from the ceiling seems to commit suicide but is actually hanging for the crime of killing oneself.

What does humanity truly desire in the eyes of humanity? Is there anything like that?

No, there is nothing like that; when the sea engulfs a ship, it is not said that the sea has stolen the priceless jewels inside that ship, but rather, the sea itself knows from where it has been stolen from and had taken away those jewels, the liberating gems that emerged from within the poisonous fangs of the cobra.

Where will these pirates stop?

Where shall we pause?

Before halting, how much shall we blossom?

In this relentless pursuits of self-transcendence, humans aspire to bloom like flowers; it seems, even after death, a corpse yearns to rise adorned with petals, awaiting the arrival of vultures. Do you know that those insects or vultures, whoever you are, aspire to swiftly liberate you from your sins, sorrow, and shame? I understand our self-love is akin to the love of those insects — seeking liberation from our own sins, just like a tiny creature yearning to set you free.

Where will these priests cease?

Where will these heedless leaders of the nation halt?

Where will the magnates of colossal infernos cease?

Where will my pursuit in sports come to an end?

For which, I had paused amidst the inaudible heartbeat of my mother!

I abhor myself horrifically. As I engage in this endeavor, there is no path to my redemption, and on the unspeakable road of the world’s inferno, I am escaping like a corpse in the form of a sports car, like the corpse of my mother. I don’t know how to halt it. As long as under the wheel of the chariot, like a pack of jackals, it grinds everyone beneath.

What is self-love?

Something that ensures everyone’s self-deprecation or self-humiliation?

Like the blood of that animal in the slaughterhouse, which was once holy blood of God and is now the repugnance of vultures, the sustenance for hungry fish!

What is human love?

That which allows you not to be yourself and to tailor your garment to the measurement of another’s body?

Whom do you call equal?

A magical punishment for unevenness among people, or like a zoo where all creatures are confined in the same cage?

Human equality will never come if they are not individually capable of rising above that threshold. It doesn’t depend on the depth of the ocean but rather, you can be as deep as the sea by discovering your own depth perception.

Being yours, someone hasn’t taken birth. If you desire to soar like eagles, then you must craft skillfully with precision, using the feathers from your own soul. Loading someone else’s wings will surely not allow you to soar high in the sky, not even with the wings crafted by Icarus’ father. The sun indeed knows the extent of its power; it has spent itself wisely. You are the result of the sun’s power, so it will cast you down, unravel all your false feathers, and expose your imitation wings.

I harbor profound disdain for this paternal dependency, and my father relies on his father, and his father on his, fostering interdependence. In this way, everyone is tethered to someone, oscillating between dependence and the abyss, poised to plummet into the depths of the abyss at any moment. Like me, fallen within the confines of this materialistic maze, in the temple of idolatry within this complex. Those who have left me entangled in the thorns of gossip and indigestion, within the realm of this sports car; I have soared away, akin to the phoenix in the grand theatre of life, beyond my mother’s grave.

With whom do I compete so fiercely?

Whose victory do I seek?

With the vanquished, my own nemesis?

Whom do I aspire to govern when I admit my inability to govern myself?

When I wish to ascend the guillotine of self-reflection, the conglomerates and distractions do not step aside; they know my achievable defeat, many more aspects remain unfinished, which, if handed the death penalty, will go incomplete. My departure is fueled by the anticipation of the end of my sports car, but I know that true closure lies not in finishing a single race but in transcending the starting line of this conscience, navigating the hangover of this material indulgence. There is no path on which to cut through. Like the hangover that lingers without an antidote, no remedy awaits the next day without indulging in intoxication.

Whom shall I implore to come and rescue me?

I, who once presided as the deity of life, now find myself strapped into the seat of this sports car. Much like a skilled driver commanding a stream of blood, you, with utmost proficiency, have secured me in the seatbelt, akin to the way fate binds its subjects. Only at the culmination of the car’s destruction is liberation possible. I acknowledge the impossibility of escape within the confines of this sports car catastrophe.

Can I now call out to the mother like a child?

Can I now perceive the scent of that earth-like mother as if it were mine?

No, that is no longer possible. I sold her to a butcher like a commodity in the market. The butchers have cut that meat into pieces and sold it to you, and now, what once filled your stomach, will ultimately blend with the emptiness at the speed of the sports car.

NOTE: This is an English adaptation of a Bengali text by Probar Ripon.