::: Star Campus :::

Extra Credit

Till Chaos Plays a Serenade

Sabhanaz Rashid Diya

“A writer lives, at least, in a state of astonishment. Beneath any feeling he has of the good or evil of the world, lies a deeper one of wonder at it all. To transmit that feeling, he writes.”
-- William Sansom, British novelist and travel author

I have a friend who believes writers are gods. They create characters who breathe beyond the flutter of pages, embody personalities, overpower people and are more quoted and believed than reality itself. Writers have their own worlds, their own people, their own realities and between two hard bound covers, they have the ability to allure us into a parallel world. Writers are gods.

Writers are gods and they can do strange things to us. Source: INTERNET

I don't need to give an introduction and I am certainly not the right person to write a memoir. Yet, Humayun Ahmed's writings were as such; they made others feel like gods, they created writers. It is difficult for anyone who has read even one of his books to not want to share how they feel at the recent turn of events. We all want to blurt out so many things, wrap ourselves with emotions he created through his characters, and somehow find ourselves making a final desperate attempt to create a memory. It is a strange, insatiable desire but like my friend says, writers are gods and they can do strange things to us.


	Botol Bhut, a famous book by Humayun Ahmed.

Yet, we cannot help but question what do we do with our humane gods? Do we build alters to worship their legacies or at the very brink of their demise, we suddenly remember they were humans and become judgemental about their idiosyncrasies? Do we drag them down to the average and deconstruct their concepts, or are we so overwhelmed by their presence that we swing on branches and try to get as much of our share as we can lest, we never meet another god again?

As journalists, intellectuals, media personalities and aam janata gathered at Shahid Minar last week, it only seemed fair to post such questions. Memories were being created on spot, lost 'friends' revealed and everybody had something to say. A middle-aged man mumbled something about being the inspiration for Misir Ali and a hundred television cameras hogged over him. A young lady shouted his name and claimed to once take a lone walk with him, and paparazzi had their new lead. A spluttering shower could only remind us of his favourite season, but while thousands stood indifferently under it, some carrying kodom phool -one cannot help but wonder the influence he has left on generations, then and now.

Talk shows have a new gossip to unravel. Much anticipation arouses as people speculate his resting place. Flashbacks, poorly articulated videos and excerpts from his book flood our television channels. Blogposts slowly emerge-some criticise, some praise and some try an avante garde take by dissecting the characters of his life, fiction and behind. Our cheeks taste salty, our eyes bloodshot and our minds eager to make a final judgement call. Families are harassed, motives questions and mainstream media gets more clogged by the minute. Fans become soul mates.

Humayun Ahmed is astonished. He has lived a life of wonder, he has reinvented wonder. Yet, as he watches us from above, he cannot remove himself from wonder. He knew this would happen, but as he watches, he is no less intrigued than he was when he used to imagine this. What are people if not overcurious? What is media if not an overkill? What is madness if not unreasonable insanity? What is love if not divided?

Humayun Ahmed smiles and mutters, ki shanghatik!

Humayun Ahmed gave birth to a generation of young readers through his books. Source: Internet