On the Ocean of Consciousness
I have crossed a path of 27 years. Time is not short in a man’s life, but almost all in work. I can’t believe I spent so much time lecturing like this. I think this is the day. I started this lecture to share the joy of science with everyone.
I did not start this science just to know the time or the stars or to understand the universe. Because I understood that science means not cutting trees, not filling reservoirs, not poisoning water, not spoiling rivers, then the environment can be saved from pollution; I understood science not only to understand nature, but to understand each other, the democratic sense of co-existence, tolerance, flexibility and humanity, to play a small role in clarifying the uncertain journey of mankind.
We call this journey through science a discussion project. The infants who were born on the very day I gave my lecture on May 19, 1992, have now turned 27 years old as well.
Sometimes, a phase arrives in a person’s life when they find themselves unable to adapt to many things around them. The year 1986 was such a time for me. I could no longer align myself with society’s rhythms, conversations, or joys. A deep desire awoke within me to steer my life into a completely different channel. Yet, a profession was also necessary just to survive.
A diverse range of people used to visit me back then. One reason was that my room was surrounded by maps, charts, and thousands of books; many loved to just come and sit there. People also came because of my elder brother, the poet Arif Bulbul. Over a period of about six months, during discussions with my visitors, I used to say: “So many people come to me and listen to my words with deep trust. If they could help organize this endeavor into a structured, visual medium, I could sustain this way of life—I could continue my studies and simply walk along the banks of flowing rivers.”
This period went on to shape and construct my later life. I would wake up at 10:00 AM and drink my tea with deep absorption. Then, around 12:00 PM, I would go and stand at Ghat No. 5 on the banks of the Shitalakshya River, always accompanied by someone or other. This routine continued for nearly ten years.
I deeply loved watching the river, and I used to say that humans flow just like rivers—they never stay in one place. And yet, they commit such catastrophic acts just to secure a permanent place for themselves! Standing by the river, it felt as though my physical body was dissolving into the wind and scattering away. During that time, every fortnight on winter afternoons, I would venture out to sit in open fields or on high ground. I would position myself in such a way that if anyone wished to meet me, they would have to walk for at least five minutes to reach me. Back then, there wasn’t so much noise and chaos. These open spaces were my true learning centers.
I became a member of every foreign library available in Dhaka. Once every fifteen days, I would visit them and return with about fifteen books. I held memberships at the Indian High Commission Library, the British Council, the American Cultural Center Library, and the German Cultural Center Library. In those days, people around the world still valued libraries. Today, seeing people disregard them feels discomforting; everyone casually says, “But we have the internet now.” To me, this feels like an intellectual degradation.
Back then, I had an extraordinary friend who bought me books worth about ten thousand taka. Among them were several crucial books on quantum mechanics and relativity. I do not know how useful those books ultimately proved to be, but such profound affection from someone my own age deeply overwhelmed my life. The most significant achievement of my life was aligning that childhood emotion with scientific thoughts and concepts. This marked the beginning of my life’s failures, successes, or perhaps, its all-consuming path.
It was through my visits to the German Library that I had the privilege of meeting the artist S.M. Sultan. Together, we listened to Mozart’s The Magic Flute and the Ninth Symphony. I was the one who selected the pieces, and he welcomed my choices warmly. At first, I did not recognize him. The librarian, Zaman Bhai, said, “What are you saying? He is Sultan!”
I was stunned and deeply moved—his paintings had been exhibited globally alongside the works of Salvador Dalí and Pablo Picasso. At that time, he was continuously painting robust peasants. I was fortunate enough to witness him working on these paintings on several occasions. Reflecting on his work with music and his peasants used to induce a kind of trance in me—because the world’s first scientists were, in fact, the children of peasants, sailors, and weavers.
In 1988, I was completely spellbound after reading Waheedul Haque’s essay, “Baigyanik Nishongota” (Scientific Loneliness), published in the daily Sangbad. In the gentle breeze of the fan on that evening of my early youth, I connected with an extraordinary experience. I remember clearly that after reading the essay, I sat in absolute silence. I was in no state to respond even if someone came before me, yet internally, I was intensely stimulated.
I could see a magnificent, brilliant, and promising future pathway unfolding ahead. I felt through that single piece of writing how science, art, music, and politics seamlessly intertwine. After all, a human being is shaped by these very elements. Keeping these realizations at the forefront, the journey of the Discussion Project officially began.
I initiated this expedition focusing on various facets of geometry—how entire logical frameworks are constructed upon Euclidean axioms, and how, if the fifth postulate is omitted, the sum of the angles of a triangle can no longer be measured traditionally, causing lines to lose their absolute rigidity. I also observed the immense fascination people have for discussions on extraterrestrial civilizations. Will extraterrestrials ever arrive? To arrive, they must first survive. But have we ourselves learned to survive alongside the person next to us? Has one society managed to build a true kinship with another? Instead, nations continue to fight solely for supremacy over one another.
A vast number of people wander across seas and oceans as refugees in search of a sanctuary; despite being creatures of this Earth, they have no country to call home. The Cosmic Calendar shows that if the entire age of the universe is compressed into a single year, cavemen painted their walls just 1 minute ago, and human civilization learned to write using an alphabet a mere 10 seconds ago. What a fleeting sliver of time! Yet, we have stepped into the space age, all while failing to shed our primitive habits.
These experiences expanded my vision. I witnessed the brilliant illumination of evolving life. Once, while walking along the dirt path from Sastapur to Chanmari village, I suddenly stopped in my tracks at the sight of a white wall ahead. All around, yellow mustard plants were swaying in the wind. The other side of the wall seemed to hint at an immense, boundless backdrop, stirring something deep within me. Thus began the journey into the cosmic ocean of consciousness. My call remains to the new generation: to traverse a much longer path toward the horizon of cosmic life.
(May 20, 2019 – June 3, 2019. 27th Anniversary of Discussion Project)
Asif :Science Orator; Editor, Mahabritta (science journal)
