Bridging The Divide

Between Two Worlds

A silence filled Arif's small house as Chattogram continued to rain. The rain fell, and the wind flowed like his own breath. The sky rang with the acclaim of his Bengali verse, a biting reminder of the warmth he felt from his compatriots. But with each compliment, the shadow of his unfinished English poem obscured and drove him down the path of exile.

One night, after a weakening day of composing, Arif got an email from an international scholarly magazine called "The Unused Voices." Known for its combination of multicultural composing, "The Unused Voices" was famous for finding and advancing journalists from assorted foundations. They wanted to publish one of his works. He did not send any poems to them yet. Still, at once, he worked with one of his friends, a senior editor in this journal, and he was trying hard to convince him to claim the junior editor job at that magazine. Still, Arif was only interested in editing his own manuscripts. But at this time, Arif became muddled. He thought maybe this opportunity to publish a poem was to bribe him into doing their bidding.

Uneasiness settled over him. It felt like a test he didn't plan for. Would he be able to rise to the occasion, he had longed for? Will he express the noteworthiness of his Bengali lyrics in English? He sat in his work area, looking at the screen, his fingers drifting over the keyboard. The words slipped away from him and through his fingers like water.

Perplexed, he started pacing the room. The clock chimed discreetly, each sound reminding him to arrange and demonstrate himself. With an overwhelming heart, he opened an empty document and started to type in, but his mind was clear. He composed a number of lines in Bengali, pouring his soul into each word, but the English translations appeared purged and dead. The battle escalates; he feels like a soul stuck between two worlds.

Arif looked for comfort from his despondency on the roads of Chattogram. He meandered the city and saw life in all of its shapes. He watched vendors advertising new angles, children playing in the rain, and more seasoned grown-ups sitting on seats telling stories of the past. Each minute blended and fueled his energy for composing, but the internal battle proceeded.

That evening, he met Rana once more, trusting to discover his perception in their discussion. Over cups of tea, he confessed his issue.

"I don’t know if I can type in English. My heart has a place in Bengali verse. But this opportunity opened recently to me like an entryway, and I fear what lies behind it."

Rana tuned in carefully, his eyes full of shrewdness.

"It's usual to be torn, Arif. You have got to regard both sides of yourself. Perhaps you'll be able to blend them - write in English, but let your Bengali legacy impact it."

Arif knew he shouldn't select one dialect over another. He might weave them together to make a wealthier embroidered artwork.

Over the following few weeks, Arif inundated himself with the combination of his two characters. He began deciphering his Bengali verse into English not as a basic transformation but as a transformative handle. He permitted the beat of Bengali to direct the stream of the English dialect, mixing the characteristics of both dialects. The pieces fell into place. His verse started to reflect the duality of his life - the amalgamation of his legacy and his yearnings.

One afternoon, Arif was spending time with his mother, an educator at a private college who was a devotee of Bengali literature. They sat in their comfortable reading room, enveloped by racks full of Bengali and English books.

"Mother, I'm vexed,"

Arif began, his voice filled with concern.

"I got an email from 'The Unused Voices'. They are interested in publishing my work, but I'm uncertain if I can type it in English."

His mother looked up from her book, her eyes softening with concern.

"Arif, your composing has continuously been a blessing. Why are you doubting yourself now?"

He replied,

"Mother, it's distinctive. Composing in Bengali is elementary for me, but it is in English. I am hesitant to lose its quintessence."

She inclined forward in thought.

"The dialect could be a vessel, Arif. It passes on our considerations and sentiments, but the quintessence is what's imperative. Your Bengali poems are beautiful because they come from your heart. In case you capture that energy in English, your readers will feel it as well."

“But what if I can't do it?”

whispered Arif, apprehension apparent in his voice.

"At that point, you attempt again,"

she answered calmly.

"You never gave up effectively. Keep in mind your father had the same issues. He found a way to bridge the gap between the two worlds. You will, as well."

Energized by his mother's words, Arif chose to yield his three recently composed poems to "The Unused Voices." Each lyric was a combination of his Bengali legacy and English goals, representing his travel of self-discovery. As the weeks turned into months, Arif kept on sending in his works, trusting to have them distributed to various portals.

At long last, the day came when an email from the magazine arrived. Taking a profound breath, he opened the email as if to discover a courteous dismissal. They lauded his composing but felt that the pieces needed cohesion for publication. The dismissal hit him hard. In spite of his best endeavours, he felt like a disappointment. A sense of expatriation developed and dominated his imaginative soul.

Days turned to weeks and weeks to months as he battled to overcome his creative block. Attempts to write in English were laboured and fruitless.

Arif was in his house one cloudy evening, staring at a blank page. He decided to call Ishrat to find solace in her presence. They met at their top pick café, the warm, gleaming insides starkly different from the storm exterior. Arif conceded,

"I'm truly misplaced, Ishrat. I do not know if I can compose in English like I compose in Bengali. I feel like I'm beguiling myself."

Ishrat came out and took his hand.

"Arif, your verse is an expansion of who you are. It doesn't matter what language you compose in, as long as you sort it from your soul."

"But each time I endeavour, I come up short; it's like I'm deciphering the words without knowing the veritable meaning,"

replied Arif, feeling guilty about his straightforwardness.

Ishrat felt sorry for him.

"Don't see it as a confinement but as an opportunity to create."

Arif shrugged, not feeling confident,

"You're right, Ishrat. I must hold both sides of myself in high regard."

Two years passed, and Arif found himself living in the same little house. Looking at the clear screen, it was pouring outside, reflecting the breadth of his pitiful heart. His last sonnet, in English, which he submitted to a few magazines, was not published. His adoration for Bengali verse blurred into a far-off memory, and he felt forlorn and vanquished. He had learned to grasp his character and discover quality in his composing, but the battle of being a pariah was still overpowering.

Arif was like a dispatch at the ocean, misplaced between the shores of the past and the dubious skies of the future. The journey of self-discovery made him feel tired and uncertain of where to go. As the winds howled, Arif realized that his battle was not over. The poet's way was full of challenges, but he knew he had to keep moving forward even if the path was unclear. He turned off his laptop and went outside, letting the rain wash over him, an update that there was a glimmer of trust and hope within the darkest of times.