I had no particular reason to visit Dhaka University. Every so often, I wander into places without any reason. From the Shahbagh intersection, I strolled absentmindedly toward TSC.
It was a beautiful afternoon. Clouds floated across the sky, yet through their breaks a soft, unusual light streamed down. It felt like a cup of tea would be nice.
In Dhaka University's official language, I was preparing to sit at a tea stall in TSC "as an outsider." Just then, almost flying, a boy came and slipped something into my hand before disappearing in an instant. I looked at it, a UNO card. Blue in colour. Not a playing card, rather a voting card. On it, a young woman's face, smiling gracefully. Beneath her portrait, her name and ballot number. The whole thing was so strange that I couldn't help but laugh.
After finishing my cup of tea, I slipped the card into my pocket and started walking toward Madhur Canteen. A friend was waiting for me there. Between the DUCSU building and Madhur Canteen, another person handed me a one-dollar bill. I was surprised. Looking closely, I saw that instead of George Washington, the face of an unfamiliar young man was printed there. It felt as if he was staring back at me, saying, "Spare me a vote!"
Soon my pocket held foreign currency, and a little later, even a local note that looked like a ten-taka bill. Of course, all of them were fake.
While chatting with my friend, I started walking again. As we passed the road in front of the Faculty of Fine Arts, two long, narrow cards were slipped into my hand—bookmarks. One carried a painting by S M Sultan, and the other one by Quamrul Hassan. Suddenly, my mood lifted. Who would have thought election campaigning could bring something this beautiful!
But the strangest incident took place at Hakim Chattar. I had gone there to grab some fried snacks. From beside the stall, a rather serious-looking young man approached me. In his hand were several cigarette packs. He extended one toward me.
Feeling a little awkward, I said, "I don't smoke." (Though in truth, I do, once in a while.)
The boy smiled. I noticed his smile was strangely beautiful. He said, "Bro, this isn't something to smoke. It's something to look at."
I took the packet from him. There was a photo of the candidate on the packet. The brand name read "Lucky Rafsan." On the other side were the words, "To protect yourself from cigarette smoke, build smoking zones." I looked back at the boy's face. He was smiling in a way that made it seem as though he had handed me a riddle, one I simply could not solve. The same packet held both poison and its antidote. Isn't life just like that, too? Who can say!
As evening descended, I set out for home. Sitting in the rickshaw, I pulled the day's collection from my pocket: the UNO card, the dollar bill, the ten-taka note, the bookmarks, the cigarette packet. My pocket was no longer just a pocket—it had turned into a little museum. After paying the rickshaw fare, I slipped those "unexpected gifts" back inside and climbed the paint-worn stairs to my flat.
My mind, meanwhile, was replaying the whole day. I kept thinking: behind every item in this pocket-museum, there was a young man or woman. I know none of them. Perhaps I never will. So what! They are all dreaming of something very strange. And who doesn't know that dreamers can make the world a better place?
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