I arrived in the afternoon. After entering through the gate, I asked where the editor’s room was. Someone escorted me there.
I was astonished at what I saw. Good heavens! What was the editor’s room like? It was a small office furnished with a desk and chairs, packed with old books and piles of newspapers. Sitting among them was a thin, frail-looking man, reading a book. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, leaving half of his arms exposed. He held a book in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. He was completely absorbed in reading, while the ash on his cigarette grew longer and longer.
As I approached, he gestured for me to sit down. A few seconds later, he put down the book and looked at me. He asked about my name, background, education, and how long I had been working in journalism. I answered all his questions.
Then he asked whether I wanted to remain a journalist for the rest of my life. When I answered yes, he suddenly asked, “You want to be a journalist for the rest of your life? Can you become a mastan journalist?”
His unexpected question left me speechless. I did not know how to respond. After a few seconds, he asked another question: “What is your wife like?”
I was completely at a loss for words! I was utterly bewildered. Should I say that my wife was beautiful, tall, fair, dark, or short? I had no idea what to say. After another brief pause, he continued, “If you want to become a mastan journalist, you must have a wife like mine.”
I wondered to myself, Is this man crazy? We had never met before, yet at our very first meeting he was asking about my wife. What did it matter to him what my wife was like? Besides, given his age, I had not the slightest interest in learning about his wife. He took another puff of his cigarette.
Then he began to tell me his story.
“During the period of 1/11, people from various quarters began pressuring me and trying to persuade me not to speak against the government on television talk shows. But I simply would not be persuaded. I continued speaking my mind. They were equally determined not to give up.
“When persuasion failed, they began threatening and intimidating me. One day, a car tried to run me over on the road. I escaped by the narrowest of margins.
“Even then, I did not stop. So the government of that time tried another approach: they attempted to influence my mother.
“This worked, to some extent. What mother does not worry about her child? She called me and said, ‘Son, please stop speaking against the government like this. Can’t you stop saying these things?’
“I did not argue with her. I simply said, ‘Mother, you raised me to be an honest person. If I fail to say what I believe ought to be said, I will be acting against my own moral principles. Can I do that?’
“My mother understood that trying to persuade me would not work. So she turned to another approach: she tried to put pressure on me through my wife.
“She explained to my wife, ‘These are dangerous times. The way Kabir speaks, he could get into trouble at any moment. Please try to make him understand.’
“My wife did not argue. She simply replied, ‘All right.’
“After observing me for some time, my mother realized that I had not slowed down; if anything, I had become even more outspoken. She called my wife again, this time trying to speak more firmly.
“After listening to everything, my wife began speaking in a calm but resolute voice. She asked my mother, ‘Mother, is your son particularly handsome? Does he have a good-looking face? Does he earn a large salary?’
“My mother replied, ‘No.’
“My wife countered, ‘Then why am I with your son?’
“My mother had nothing to say.
“My wife continued, ‘I am with your son because of this very quality in him. When it comes to telling the truth and standing up for what is morally right, he refuses to compromise. He is an honest and courageous journalist. If you take this quality away from him, why would I stay with your son? It is precisely this quality that makes me love him.’
“Kabir Bhai told me that after hearing his wife’s words, his mother said nothing more. From that point onward, she never raised the issue again—not even a single word.”
Kabir Bhai looked at me and asked, “Have you ever seen a wife like that—a mastan wife? If you want to be a mastan journalist, you first need a mastan wife.”
He continued:
“I would go to the office in the morning, disagree with something, or witness something unethical, and by the afternoon I would resign and return home. Your sister-in-law never uttered a word of complaint.
“Sometimes, we had no money to buy milk for the children, and there was no rice in the house. There were times when your sister-in-law survived for days on nothing but biscuits, yet she continued smiling. She never once spoke bitterly to me. She had only one thing to say: ‘If you have to live under a tree, I will live there with you.’”
Until then, I had been listening to his words as though spellbound. I felt as if I had entered another world. I had rarely, if ever, heard such eloquent speech and such beautiful, artistic choice of words.
To bring me out of my reverie, he said, “Well, what are your questions?”
I then conducted the interview and left.
Happy birthday, Nurul Kabir Bhai—the “Mastan Journalist.”
We need more fearless, uncompromising journalists like you.
Source: Collected from the Facebook wall of Emrul Kayesh.
Translated by: FB Stories Team
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