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My cursed toenail

THEY say that toenails are nasty-dirty-unnecessary-difficult-to-cut pieces of keratin that stick to your leg no matter how much you want to get rid of them and the supplementary nail-boogie that comes with them. I respect nail boogies for all the greater good they do by providing a habitat for bacteria (which does not necessarily imply that I am a great fan of its smell) but I still cannot help but dislike my toenail. I disagree with the definition too; toenails are crappy-pain-machines, which hurt you like hell when broken.

After hearing that they sold the supposedly real toenail of a pop star for seven thousand dollars last month on eBay, I decided that I had better start growing my nail too, who knows, maybe I could also become a pop star with my broken throat and wireless guitar someday (I would call my first album "The Silent Music").

Trust me, that was the single worst decision that I ever made in my entire life (which incidentally is full of problems due to gravely serious wrong decisions).

Three weeks into my saga of nail growing, I discovered to my horror that it was only a good niche for the nasty-pasty organisms to grow and helped little in increasing my exquisiteness, and the only good they did while feeding off my nail-boogie was to teach me to keep my socks as far from my nose as I could. I deny to say that they stunk, but I have to accept with sagging shoulders that they were unhygienic, very unhygienic.

One thing I learned from my wrong decision saga was that the nail boogie is very much different from the nose-boogie, it has a different texture. Even though I did not taste it, I can also assure you that it cannot but be bitter, unlike salty nose boogies that is (which I did taste).

I now sit in the corner of a football field, sad and dejected, and yeah, you have guessed right, my toenail failed me. Muddles of sweat and tear now flow down my cheeks, not because of the pain, but because of my broken dream of earning a fortune with my toenails. If you have never had a nail cracked up its spine through the middle of your toe, try putting the backside of a pencil up your nose; it hurts as much as that one.

The sad part is bolstered by the fact that you cannot touch your nail even when it keeps kissing off all the happiness that had surrounded you after scoring the first goal in your life, that is if you can call an own goal a goal of your own (at least I scored something).

I learned something from breaking me toenail though, it is that your broken nail does not bleed, not even the slightest, but pisses you off when you try to wear your trousers. It hurts like hell then. Hobbling on one foot with the other foot dangling helpless is another technique that my nail has taught me in the last few minutes, bringing along the understanding as to why dogs whimper when they hop on three legs; it hurts a lot when you do that.

Dear toenail, did I feed you and your spirallo and streptococcy friends throughout the month for this? To grow and pay back with a broken heart and a pink toe! Have you not any idea how funny the bandages on one's toe look when they stare back sarcastically as he tries to have a bath while still hobbling?

Curse you toenail, I curse you for all the pain you have given me by breaking through the middle, for breaking my heart, and for not tearing away quickly at the operation theatre when the dentist kept wrenching you as if you were a tooth (trust me, it was a dentist tugging at my toe). I curse your whole lineage for all the throbbing and ache in my now pink toe.

By Eshpelin Mishtak


Trapped in her past

SHE put down her book on her bedside table and turned off the lights as gloominess took over her eyes. She blinked once, blinked another time, slower the second time. She was weary; she was desperate for some sleep. You'd think she would close her eyes right then, and sleep through the night like those shining stars sleep through daylight.

Things change, and things changed right then. She followed the motion of the angry waves that take over the Pacific- she tossed and turned from left to right. The night was dark, the room was dark, and her emotions were nothing different. She put her hands on her forehead as she fought against the miserable images that were escaping the past and running through her mind. Her life was a battlefield. It was a struggle within her: on one side stood the girl with the sunshine smile, on the opposite stood her past figure with a river of teardrops flowing at her feet.

The night was aging, and it was bringing with it the sorrow of her past. Sure she grinned as long as her friends were around. But her smile was faked. The night was a moment of truth. She had not escaped the past, but rather the ghastly figure from the past had entered present life. She was defeated. Her eyes still watered the flowers that were printed on her bed sheet. She still went through the tough time, blame on the mistakes that were stamped in her history.

Only if she could go one more step back, she could alter her past doings, and make her present life better. But no, she was trapped in the time right when the world turned on her, in the time when the Seven Seas would fill a bottle and her teardrops- a barrel. Her eyes were blood red, sleepiness long gone. It was nothing different than the last few nights. She was trapped in her past.

By Sanjana Rahman


Curse on the tigers

Aah, everyday the sun will rise in the east, the waves will crash against the shores, traffic will create havoc in Dhaka city and Bangladesh cricket team, often called “Tigers”, will fail after giving some hope.

In the recently completed or lets say prematurely completed test series between England and Bangladesh, the Tigers played horribly. It was the same old story. Tamim would go blazing away at the beginning scoring a fifty or even a hundred, Imrul Kayes and Zunaed Siddique would show some spirit and give Tamim support and then individual scores wouldn't get into double figures including that of wunderkid, Shakib. The bowling though, in both the tests was quite good, at least troubling the English batsmen but still, very inconsistent. We say with great regret that the bowlers are also following the batsmen's path of inconsistency.

Like the proverbial Mummy's Curse, it looks like there is a curse on the Bangladesh Team as well. Much less mysterious and melodramatic than the Mummy's Curse, it may be called the “Popularity Curse.”

Actually the real problem is that Tigers always depend on one single player; it used to be Ashraful when he played a few magnificent innings (I was too young to understand). Then, with the media almost worshipping Ashraful, he thought of himself as invincible and well, got cursed and never played well. Who said he's inconsistent? He is very consistent in playing badly.

In between we had heroes like Shahriar Nafees, who, after playing wonderfully for a short while, faded into obscurity. Then, it was Shakib, after a fairytale few months, he too was cursed with arrogance and inconsistency; he too is starting to acquire Ashraful's symptoms. Now, I watch with horror as the latest craze, Tamim Iqbal, playing so well, seems to be following in their footsteps. What else can account for his poor show in the second innings of the ill-fated second test against England?

Please, for God's sake, don't let this happen to Tamim; he is just too exciting to be lost this way!

By Ahnaf Zarif Rahman


At Night

When I went outside,
I saw the stars which looked very bright,
It was an amazing sight,
The moon gave a beautiful light,
The stars were shining and winking,
They were all sparkling and glittering,
It was amazing just looking up high,
It was such a beautiful sky,
It was really a beautiful sight,
It was really a memorable night.

By Tajnubal Hoque



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