May 26, 2006

What's around : May 27 , 2006

Now if you're reading this for the first time, it's my regular post What's around in which I try to share different links with you that seemed interesting to me. So check them out..

A copy of the Mona Lisa made from hundreds of computer parts is displayed at a high tech exhibition in Beijing, Thursday May 25, 2006. The work is titled Technology Smiling.

Use this speedtest tool to check both your download and upload speed. As submarine cable's has been started to use in our country too now I think it would be a very useful tool.

And finally as you all know that every necessary thing's price has raised quite high now a days. My blog is not an exception(not necessary item although:P). Regular reader's might remember that I posted my blog's price in an earlier post. But now when I checked it tonight I found that the price has become almost 6 times! I am attaching here the price.. So check yours too!

My blog is worth $23,146.14.
How much is your blog worth?

May 25, 2006

My Playlist : May 25 , 2006

Now if you're reading this for the first time, it's my regular post My Playlist in which I will try to share one or two songs I've been listening to now a days in MP3 format and also the lyrics if possible. So check them out..

Disclaimer: You are downloading this file because you have the original copy of it. Otherwise, you must not download this file because it is illegal to have it. You have been notified and I do not take responsibility for the incorrect use by the visitors.

Now let's talk something about Hyder husyn who's the artist of the song I am going to share today from his debut album, "Faisha gechi", and it's awesome. If you haven't heard any song of it until now, run fast to the local music store and buy it. Because some of the songs are mind blowing to me. The music is good and so is the lyrics. So here are some from the album :

So todays Mp3s are:

Song: 30 Bochor
Artist: Hyder Husyn
Album: Faisha Gechi
Link to Download: Click Here


Song: Sharee
Artist: Hyder Husyn
Album: Faishya Gechhi
Link to Download: Click Here


Song: Faisha Gechi
Artist: Hyder Husyn
Album: Faishya Gechhi
Link to Download: Click Here

And finally click here to see a music vdo of his song faisha gechi.

Now as I just completed this post, a funny moment came into my mind. It happened in last PL when I was living with Shaon for exam preperation. That was the time when I first post "My Playlist". Any way during that time whenever I thought any of my post was cool I dragged people into it (I still do it). So I dragged almost all the people of my msn messenger list into this post. And oneday while I was going through the slides and was at appear offline status in msn messenger, I saw that someone became online with status message : "Thanks genius bro, for the amazing song by Black, I am loving it." ...The fact was the girl forgot my name and also she thought the song was by black which was actually by Yatri!

Anyway signing out now. Adios!

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May 24, 2006

Bloggers Against Torture

Raise your voice against torture. (via Rezwan bhai's blog.)

Torture Awareness Month
Join Us!

Join Us!

May 22, 2006

100$ laptop

One Laptop per Child (OLPC) is a non-profit association dedicated to research to develop a $100 laptop—a technology that could revolutionize how we educate the world's children. This initiative was launched by faculty members at the MIT Media Lab. It was first announced by Lab co-founder Nicholas Negroponte, now chairman of OLPC, at the World Economic Forum at Davos, Switzerland in January 2005.

Here's the first working version of the laptop..

Links: Official site , More Photos .

May 19, 2006

Backdated Blogger - 2

Now let's start from where we stopped last time. After the eye-incident life began as it was. From class to hall and at the weekends back to home. During my stay at hall oneday a very funny event occurred. As you know that our halls are surrounded by lots of trees. And as it's the season of fruits, almost all the trees are full with fruits like mangoes, jackfruits, coconuts and so on. So we the residents every now and then climb those trees and fulfill our tastebuds. And climbing trees might be dangerous. Last year a student of architecture department fell from nazrul hall and died while trying to get mango from tree. So authority rightfully took step against this and put a notice forbidding students from doing that. They announced that hall authority will collect those fruits and distribute those among students.

But you know it's the age that doesn't care for any restriction. So on the evening when we went out to have tea I noticed another notice which is from the students, posted in the hall. And that was funny. I am attaching it below. BTW it's in bangla and you might need to click on the picture to see the bigger size of the picture and read the notice carefully..

Link: Backdated Blogger - 1

May 18, 2006

Porashona : Shafi Style

All who read my blog regularly already know that my exams are going to start. But the fact is when. The answer is obviously "when we wish". But don't include me among the "we". Because It really doesn't matter to me when the exam starts. If it delays for a week then I'll take rest for another week. That's all. But it did matters for studious people. Like if you read khaled's you'll get a pretty clear idea of what's going on their.

So yesterday when I visit khaled's blog and read his post about exam I thought why not I post about my one. So I organized my study table and snapped a picture and posting it here in khaled's reply :D

What do you think?

Update: Audity has her own style.

By the way a rare mirage has been sited by thousands of tourists and local residents which was of high clarity lasting for four hours off the shore of Penglai City in east China's Shandong Province on 7th May, Sunday.

Read the full story on China Broadcast.

And finally while I am leaving I advise you not to search using one of these killer phrases.

May 16, 2006

Backdated Blogger - 1

Those who follow my blog already know that I became quite irregular as I was living in halls. I had so many events and ideas floating around me but the only thing that I lack was internet connection. But now I have the internet connection but the moment has gone. But still I'll try to share some events that happened then here.

The first incident occurred when my nephew (my cousin yafiq's son) Zehn, poked his finger right into my right eye. That was probably 29th march of this year. I came home on wednesday night to spend it with my family. So when Zehn came to visit us, I started playing with him and the result of which I hurt my eye. At first I didn't take it seriously washed it with some fresh water. But when it continued to hurt and for the whole night when I can't open my eye I got a little bit afraid. In addition to this tears continued from my eye which also made me scared a bit. So in the morning I smsed the fact to moon, who's father is an eye specialist at Islamia eye hospital for suggestion. But by the time she replied my father literally pulled me to Bangladesh eye hospital to see a doctor. The doctor was nice. But when he told me that he might need to operate on my eye I was really afraid. He put some oinment on the cornea and bandaged the eye and told me that Zehn successfully made contact with my cornea and scratched it. So if things won't improve within next 24 hours then he might need to operate on it.
But fortunately none of those happened. On the next day I got my bandage removed and the eye along with the cornea was great. A lucky escape huh!

May 11, 2006

The Living Root Bridge

Today while I was browsing through flickr's photostream I found an amazing picture in Gillian's photostream. It's captioned "The double daker." At first I didn't realize it's speciality . But when I saw the picture, Tree root bridge, I understood why the double daker is so special. So I did a little google search and found something very amazing which I am going to share here.

I think everyone's well aware about Cherrapunjee, which has the reputation of rainning the most, the wettest place in the world. But what no one knew is the unique double decker, a feat of bio-engineering wonder.Of late this has become the most popular site for the tourists for they say they have never seen anything like it in the whole world. If you are wondering what it is, let me tell you, well it is a two-tier living Root Bridge measuring 59ft and 83 ft in length respectively. The trek to this double decker is tough and will take approximately one and a half hours down very steep village path through forested areas. I am attaching here two pictures from Gillian's photostream. Have fun...

For those who wish to explore Cherrapunjee here's a nice guide. I wish I could go there!

May 8, 2006

Know our favorite teacher..

Yesterday while I was reading Esha's post about buet teachers, the idea of introducing our favorite teacher, Tanvir Irfan sir to my readers came to mind. We had him as our "Pattern Recognition" course teacher last term. And a group of our lucky classmates(A2) had him this term also as their "System Analysis and Design" Sessional teacher.

Tanvir Irfan sir was also my hallmate at Titumir Hall. But I didn't know him well while he was a student because I wasn't a resident then. Anyway I think it's better for you to know him from his (Irfan sir's) own descriptions because he has a wonderful website up online. It's such an amazing personal site that you'll never get bored. So here's the link of the site :

Click the link above or here to visit Sir's wonderful website.

May 7, 2006


Finally I'm back at my home with my PC. Just wondering how fast the term went! It just a few days when we started this term and now it's finished! Really if you're busy with your works you really can't track time. Anyway lot's of things happened by this time. I lost someone who I treated as a very good friend, finished 3 HUGE projects successfully and went outside dhaka for the first time with my friends. I'll try to write about those later. But now as I'm checking many many mails and blogs I found something very much amazing that I'd like to share with you.

It's a true love story of two persons who are from two different and very distant world. Here it goes from the description of Evan Ratliff who is a writer in San Francisco and the co-author of Safe: The Race to Protect Ourselves in a Newly Dangerous World (HarperCollins, 2005).

SHILPA was the first and only Bangladeshi woman who ever flirted with me. In fact she was the first woman who had even returned my glance in public since I arrived in the country two weeks before to report on Islamic fundamentalism and politics. Bangladesh's population is 80 percent Muslim and correspondingly socially conservative. On the street I received plenty of stares but no coy looks.

Shilpa, however, didn't just return my glance. She even smiled. We were at a political rally downtown, the climax of one of Dhaka's notoriously violent general strikes, started by the opposition party to paralyze the city. She was working riot control, wearing her olive drab police uniform and a black helmet with the hard plastic screen flipped up, together with a gaggle of other policewomen. (Later I learned they were deployed to arrest female marchers, an effort to uphold the social taboo against men and women touching. I also learned that they weren't excepted from the violent reputation of the Dhaka police.

The protesters sat in the street, blocking traffic and making antigovernment speeches. The police surrounded them, but peace reigned, and I wandered around taking photos. Whenever I lowered my camera, I found myself locking eyes with Shilpa. At first unsure if her look was suspicious or friendly, I tried a smile. I couldn't see her mouth, but saw in her eyes that she was smiling back.

Eventually I took shelter from the sun with a group of other reporters. A moment later, a photographer approached a reporter I knew, Sharif, who first seemed confused and then pointed at me, laughing.

Turning to me, Sharif said, "He says there is a policewoman who would like your phone number."

Dumbfounded, I wrote my mobile number on a business card and handed it to the photographer.

"O.K.," he said, sounding annoyed. "You come see her now."

Feeling suddenly like a shy 10-year-old in the playground, I pretended not to understand. But he walked off, and there was nothing to do but follow. I was already uneasy in Dhaka, unable to blend in or communicate, and now self-consciousness was joined by a simultaneous thrill and fear that I was walking into some vortex of cultural misunderstanding.

Perhaps she felt similarly, because when I pushed through the crowd she covered her face and hid behind her fellow policewomen. The photographer handed her my card, but I could tell from her gestures that she was refusing to speak to me.

Not knowing what else to do, I sat down on a nearby fence, occasionally glancing up to find her smiling again. When it was time to go, I walked past the group and mustered the nerve for a kind of half-bow and said, "Dekha hobe" (See you later), drawing a chorus of giggles.

She waved my business card and called out, "Thank you!"

I assumed she wouldn't call, but hours later my phone rang, and a woman's voice said: "Hello, it is me. Ladies' police."

AFTER the exchange of names we reached a communication impasse, which she broke with a string of English phrases. "Golden hair, beautiful eyes." I excitedly recalled the translation for "You have a beautiful smile." To which she replied, "What?"

She gave me her address — she lived, it seemed, at a police station — and I promised to write. I asked for her phone number, but she didn't have her own.

I hung up disappointed. The next afternoon, however, my phone's display showed the same number calling. Riding in a noisy motorized rickshaw at the time, I didn't answer. It immediately rang again. And then again eight times.

After I arrived at the newspaper offices, it rang again.

"What's your problem?" she demanded.

"No problem."

"I calling you!" she said. "What's your problem?"

"I was in a rickshaw."

"You come here now," she said.

"I can't come now."

"You come here now."

"I don't think we are communicating very well."

"Why no meet?"

I turned and asked someone for the Bengali word for Saturday. "Shonibar," he said.

"Shonibar," I said into the phone.

"What's your problem?"


"Thank you. You come 4:30. Ladies' police hostel."

On Saturday I went to the district police station, the entrance to which was an unmarked opening in a corrugated metal fence. Several dilapidated buildings and decrepit cars were policed by chickens in a dirt courtyard.

I hesitated at the fence, debating whether to forget the whole thing. Finally gathering my nerve, I approached a group of policemen. They seemed baffled when I tried to ask for the ladies' police hostel. I gestured to represent long hair and repeated "ladies" until they let out a collective "Ah" and broke up laughing. One led me cheerfully to the hostel.

A minute later Shilpa appeared, sweeping down the stairs in a bright orange sari. She was tall and trim, and without the helmet her black hair hung almost to her waist.

She seemed simultaneously pleased to see me and annoyed that I was late. "I wait for you," she said.

We sat on a wooden bench in the lobby, but our conversation foundered on her limited English and my tortured Bengali. Then, seemingly on cue, Shilpa's sister — also a policewoman — arrived. Through her sister's superior English, Shilpa began to reveal details about herself. She was 23 years old, from a small village in the west of the country.

The only clue that we might actually be on a date came when she pulled out a small notebook and wrote two questions: "You are married?" and "Were is your wife?"

I wrote, "Not married" and "No wife."

"Why no wife?" she asked out loud.

A fair question, and I had come to Bangladesh at 29 in part hoping to try to clean the slate of past half-hearted and blown relationships. Now I was sitting on the bench in the police hostel, pursuing the most unlikely possible romance, if that's what this was.

I assumed she was looking for the short answer, however, so I wrote, "I haven't found the right person yet, I guess."

For the next week, I talked to Shilpa at least once a day. Although we barely conveyed more than simple details — "chicken for dinner," "hot today" — I looked forward to it. For days I tried to invite her and her sister out to a restaurant, but no combination of English and Bengali produced the desired result.

Then one day Shilpa called to say that she was going home to celebrate the Muslim holiday of Id al-Fitr. "You go to my village?"

The offer threw me. Meeting her family seemed premature. I told her I couldn't, but regretted it as soon as I hung up.

The following day she woke me up with a call from the train station, and we had a short but unexpectedly intimate conversation: she wanting to say goodbye, I groggily wishing her a good trip. In my half-asleep haze I imagined meeting her family and taking her home to mine, and for the first time I admitted to myself feeling more than curiosity.

Several days after she was to have returned to Dhaka, though, she hadn't called. Perhaps she had stayed longer. Or had I offended her by declining her invitation? I was leaving the country in a week, a fact I had never successfully conveyed. I began to worry that I might never see her again.

Finally, two days before my flight, I decided to go to the police station. I wrote out a note, had the desk clerk translate it and bought some flowers.

Once there, I hesitated in the lobby before peeking into an adjacent room. There she was, talking with a bearded, portly man, whom she had identified earlier as the house master. She jumped up and ran over to me, but under the guardian's unwelcome glare, she said she couldn't leave for dinner. She promised that we could have lunch the next day.

When I arrived under the house master's disapproving stare the next day, she greeted me coldly. She pulled out her notebook and wrote down, "Mokali flyover."

I knew the Mokali flyover, the newly opened (and only) overpass in Dhaka. But what did she mean? Sensing my bafflement, she whispered, "You go Mokali flyover. I come there."

WE said pretend goodbyes, and I caught a taxi to the overpass, waiting until she arrived by rickshaw. She beamed at her plan's success. We were alone at last. Another taxi ride took us to a small amusement park, where I bought us some chocolate ice cream bars. We watched the kids and took turns translating the objects around us, laughing. She scribbled something in my notebook.

Soon it was time for her to get back, and we got up to leave. On the way out I convinced her to have our picture taken. Handing my camera to a passerby, we stood together, smiling. But when I tried to put my arm around her, she shrieked and leapt away. I realized that in all of our meetings, we had never actually touched, not even a handshake. Our mysterious passion cut an innocent path through the thickets of miscommunication.

Twenty minutes after we had parted my phone rang. "Mokali flyover meeting place! You go? I am so much needing to see you."

I agreed to meet, waiting a half-hour before her taxi pulled up, and sat down next to her. She apologized for making me return and then pulled out some pictures of herself. She wrote "Forget me not" in English and Bengali on the backs and handed them to me. "This is our very last meeting," she said.

"Maybe I'll come back," I tried.

She demurred, and I knew she was probably right. So we said another round of goodbyes. This time, as I climbed out, she offered her hand, palm out as if expecting a high five. I put a hand up against hers, and she folded them together with a gentle squeeze. Then she let go and was gone.

Sick of the traffic, I walked the hour back to my hotel. When I arrived, drenched in sweat, I turned on the air-conditioner and let the cool air wash over me. I pulled out my notebook and flipped through it.

Her note was written in English on an otherwise empty page. It said:

When I will die
please come to my grave.
Don't cry for me,
only say I love you.