In my solitude

An ode to a unique one

by Nurul Amin

In our daily life we come across
so many people. Some of the faces
from them always draw our attention.
A few of them are so pleasant that
you always feel happy about them.
From these few, fewer make
you think about them again and
again. The fewest from these fewer
are hardly forgettable. Their reminiscence
haunts you with a feeling of ecstasy.
But most surprising is the case of the one
that emerges as unique. This singleness,
oneness of one gets into you so much
that you cherish it as yours. You wish
to feel close. You like to dream. You
even like to materialize the cherished
dream. But when you find — the impediments
are insurmountable or the object of adoration
unperturbed or unresponsive, the above
feeling takes wonderful creative forms.

This is the feeling which is
transformed or ventilated in
great arts, music, poems,
dramas and even revolutions
for the love of the deprived men or
any other great works of the
great souls that we know
of. This is the feeling when
Tagore, Shakespeare, Keats, Shelly or
Dante writes. This is the feeling
for which Uttiya, Che or Ho
can make supreme sacrifice or
Mao and Lenin can bring smiles
to the teeming millions

One is truly overwhelmed at the
creative power of this wonderful
feeling of ecstasy that God
has endowed human beings with.
Society and average man like us
benefit out of this by:
listening to music or reading
great poems, looking at the
art of Picasso or Michelangelo or enjoying
a better life, afforded by their creations.

But has any one ever wondered
the ache in their heart, their
solitude and their sleepless nights
or the deep-seated anguish?
Never mind. It is still sweet.
It runs through the blood. It
is the whole existence. What
wonders me though is the
power of this unique.
Is it all God-gifted like
appearance, beauty or physique?
Not really. Much of this is acquired: like
sweetness, sophistication, intelligence,
compassion or altruistic mind, friendliness.
Hence why shall I not sing
the ode for thee? Does it
matter if I have failed to
make an impression on thee?
Neither does it matter if thee
remain calm like autumn ocean or
steal like stone. But who
does not still wish to feel
close to thee? Will
you be that great
at least in not objecting
singing the ode for thee.

July 6, 1978

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