OP-ED: Between a simple sentence and an essay of uncontrollable complexity – Dhaka Tribune

Remembering Fuad Sir: English teacher, funny adult, tongue-clicker extraordinaire

As a reader, consumer, and perhaps even a man of letters once upon an optimistic time, tributes, be they written or otherwise, constitute some of my least favourite types of content. Between the narcissism of the author and the nihilism of temporal annihilation, what purpose does a tribute serve but to ensure that, through the weight of tragedy or through serendipitous proximity, an individual finds his or her way into the spotlight for a brief moment in time?

These journeys through the artificially cobbled streets of a strangers lane of tediously strung-together memory -- oftentimes with an eradicated person of some import whose existence, unfortunately, has failed to earn its place next to yours -- are oftentimes little more than hyperbolic, poorly expressed, uninteresting forays into the falsity of a person that once existed.

Is there really such shame in remembering, loving, liking, enjoying the company of, praising somebody who existed imperfectly, that we must take away these flaws, instill pretenses, create statues out of clouds so that an act of remembrance in effect serves the exact opposite purpose -- to be forgotten as just another subject of a few thousand words forcefully spread to span a few hundred hours?

Can we move away from such selective memory sharing, from birthing elephants inside rooms too small to house so many?

Contrary to appearances, this is not a bitter diatribe that unnecessarily seeks out flaws in individuals who have perhaps earned the right to indulge in the harsh unrealities of manufactured memory. This is a response to finding myself in a situation similar to my predecessors: A desire to offer a few words dedicated to my subjectively important memories regarding a person who is an objectively unimportant stranger to most people to have ever existed.

This is an attempt to do something different.

While I wish to make no claims towards the quality of writing I now present you with, the activity itself is something that I enjoy and feel comfortable doing. Such instances occur less frequently in these times of millennial misery, time shortages, and overly indulgent digital dalliances, but hardly ever as a 16-year-old student of O Levels and future failure at committing to less than three letter grades.

But, thanks to fragile alliances formed by soft fathers in hardened corporations, thanks to inevitable friendships formed in Lalmatia and unlikely ones formed above a Dhanmondi bicycle store, thanks to the forces of the universe blowing woefully unprepared dad-son duos across the subcontinent and back, I found myself awkwardly sitting in a room filled with adolescent teenagers, doodling endlessly in my notebook.

This was the class of Abdullah Al-Fuad, father of friend, sporadic attention giver, also teacher of O Level English. My memory, notorious for not existing most of the time, does not recall detail with much accuracy, or at all. But I can remember so many moments of shared laughter, specificities now long forgotten, not with him, but the people who surrounded him. From the way he clicked his tongue to the unaffordable price of his attention, leaving you dumbfounded with his answer to a reasonable question you were unlucky enough to have asked, to the random Turkish swear words he would slip into conversations with unsuspecting students, he was just incredibly fun and funny to be around.

Three decades into a life dissipating its worth, I understand the value of laughter: I have all the patience for people who have shown moments of exceptional cruelty, whose sins have delved into the societally unacceptable and the justifiably illegal, who have dumbfounded me with their ability to be self-serving with such unwavering consistency, but none whatsoever for unfunny individuals with hollowed out senses of humour.

That room was also where I discovered that this was something I enjoyed. I dont know which aspects of Fuad Sirs knowledge pool I was fortunate enough to have inherited, but I do know that the room served as an endless well of opportunity for me to sweat out the frustrated, imitational words of a lovesick teenager. And then, later, more practically, the provider of my first salary as an individual qualified enough to scrutinize the English language skills of others.

But, before that, I read at home. I wrote in Fuad Sirs class. Sometimes we exchanged words. I read at home. And I attempted to write like the writers I read. I think I received some feedback or the other in between but I remember nothing. I read at home. I wrote in Fuad Sirs class. I began with simple sentences. Like that one.

And now its 15 years later and I do not know if the dependent clauses which constantly shove their way into my sentences are welcome details or burdensome annoyances, whether this is a skill to take pride in or a habit to be eliminated.

Between the nostalgic act of recalling those times-when-we-understood-so-little to the living of these times-where-we-understand-too-much, we have gained and lost the people we choose to act as supporting characters in the forgettable movie of our lives. Fuad Sir, along with the people who surrounded him, was part of a similar process, not for some unfortunate, avoidable, and regretful decision on anyones part, but merely due to frosty way leading on to frosty way.

But all of this is just a complex, time-consuming, and convoluted path towards expressing a simple sentiment: Fuad Sir was an undeniable catalyst in my life. I had at 16 what most people spend their entire lives missing: Knowledge of exactly what I was meant to do.

I dont know why I choose to waste this knowledge with such consistency of spirit, and I dont know why I began nor where we have ended up, nor do I know what my intention was as I began. And I definitely dont know if youll remember Abdullah Al-Fuad, teacher of English, funny adult, and tongue-clicker extraordinaire, but I do know that our memories only exist in the living and that our incessant need to create statues of ourselves will only lead to a half-broken visage in an antique desert.

I believe I was lucky to have my life visited by Fuad Sir and to have later visited his life and that of his family. Maybe I will visit again. But if you have found any value in my visit into your life today, unannounced and unearned as it may have been, then you too have been visited by the spirit of Fuad Sir. And that realization is the closest to immortality we ever get.

SN Rasul is an Editorial Assistant at the Dhaka Tribune and a Lecturer of English at North South University.

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OP-ED: Between a simple sentence and an essay of uncontrollable complexity - Dhaka Tribune