Unrequited love in a young man is a folly; for a middle aged man, it is simply ruinous. In youth, it can possess a certain wet-puppy charm, albeit slightly creepy yet charming nonetheless. This phenomenon seems to underpin much Bangla art, literature, and music.
When this foolishness strikes in middle age, especially when the object of his affection is an older woman, we’re floundering, we’re out of our depth, out of our league.
Older acquaintances offer far more worldliness, wisdom, kindness, sagacity, etc.
Young men have that cocksure immortality of youth, brashness, like that ripple of light dancing in a pool of water, visual quicksilver.
We middle-agers, at best, can only offer worship from afar.
It was one of those rich varied Dhaka Lit Fest days as only the DLF can do: With ideas, perspectives, insight, laughter, awe, thoughts, esoteric and exotic yet local fruit juice flavours, and chatter all pleasantly kaleidoscoping in my head.
Had just finished Prof Rehman Sobhan’s session of his memoirs with Dr Kamal Hossain and Mahfuz Anam, an intimate view into an entirely different era of politics, personalities, and society.
After that heavy session, was ready for a bit of fluff and distraction: Shobhaa De.
I knew nothing of her as a person or author apart from an early to mid-90s, probably, India Today piece patronising her as an Indian Jackie Collins bodice-ripper (or should that be blouse-ripper? or boudi-ripper?) writer, or in a word, smut.
Also as a budding stand-up, am fascinated by those holding bold and brassy opinions in public.
The talk was conducted by Antara Ganguli and ranged over many topics taking in home, society, and politics.
From the moment it started, I swallowed my sneering condescending immaturity and was unprepared for the down-to-earthiness, the wit, the sparkle, a little mischief.
There were Indian feminist viewpoints and liberal ideals regarding freedom of speech.
There was sugar, there was spice, there was resolute steel, there was sparkle, there was sheen of battle armour, plain spoken truths, recognition of flaws, and imperfections in home politics.
Many parallels to deshi politics passed through my mind: To love is not about being blind to faults; recognising, critiquing, and standing up to them is part of the process.
Dissent goes hand in hand with consent. Crystal clear views, fiercely opinionated, and stridently stylish, the lady sported a gamchha.
A question from the floor tried to improbably link Gaza with something, but was brushed aside firmly and with ease. I had fallen in love, and hard.
The next day her session (“Is Feminism the new F-word?”) clashed with my personal performance of non-ironical love poetry with the fabulous Ampersand Spoken Word group.
Had a great session but a bit downcast that I couldn’t attend her session nor she mine.
After stepping out of the performance tent, on the right was a crowd in front of the Bookworm bookshop signing booth.
I was accosted by someone wanting to discuss the poetry. Just then, there was a low-intensity buzz and an entourage emerged from the Bookworm corner.
The clouds cleared and the sun shone down, catching aflame the hair of the lion-lady herself.
She looked up and made eye contact and smiled at this idiot man-child and my life was complete.
Unbidden, unasked, my heart tapped out the beats to Harry Belafonte:
De, me say De-o
De light come and me wan’ go home,
De, me say De, me say De, me say De, me say De
De light come and me wan’ go home.
