Engineer Fakor Uddin Manik

Once upon a time, the heart of the nation was a garden of knowledge painted in golden hopes. In that garden, flowers of thought bloomed, showering the moonlight of new dreams. Deep within the garden flowed a spring of creation, nurturing young seeds—like birds of wisdom spreading light. The gardeners of this garden were the conscience of the nation, bright as the sun, who silently planted saplings and sowed seeds of knowledge in the soil of research.

But today? That garden seems abandoned, where flowers are wrapped in hellish polymers, where the spring water has mingled with the poisonous currents of vested interests. In a corner of the garden sits a shadowy figure of fear—the circus ringmaster, who spreads no light and is only busy showing himself.

The gardeners, who were once lamps spreading light, are now just silent shadows on the stage, unable to face any real question. The young seeds? They are like skillful pigeons walking on a tightrope, who can fall off the stage with one mistake, yet boldly raise the banner of the stage master, hiding behind their existence.

The spring of research? It is now silent and inactive. Where knowledge once flowed, now hangs a lock. Funding no longer comes for research; instead, money is spent on colorful banners, pleasure trips, and arrangements for copy tables. Even the laboratories have become a stage for syndicate deals, where talent has lost its place and emptiness now reigns.

Now the harvest of wisdom must be reaped from the breeze blowing from the shadow of the stage master, and CVs carry the cursed phrase, “Worked under the guardian’s direction.” And if it says “PhD from abroad,” a storm of bitter questions arises—“You don’t even know the king of the sycophant stream, do you?”

The conscience of intellect today has become party minstrels singing for the nation’s replacement party servants. When classes are canceled, young birds leap with joy because backlog sessions are the only tradition of the campus. They prefer running behind the stage master with sticks more than turning pages of books.

The library? Today it is like a dusty, nearly dead shadow of an old archive. Books have disappeared from the once deep caverns of knowledge. Research labs hang locked, and young seeds are busy on the stage of vested interests. Talent has merged into slogans, and logic is lost in the clanging of sticks.

The stage of education today hosts discussions on “The Ringmaster’s Dream,” “Party’s Contribution,” and “The Spirit of the Sycohant Stream.” Real crises of science, technology, or economics? Those seem tales from an unknown planet. Research papers today bear titles like “The Role of Student Organizations in Political Stability,” not “Quantum Theory.”

Young seeds copy-paste their PhD theses; some rely on Google Translate, and at the end write—“Special thanks to the ringmaster for inspiration.” Yet those who deserve credit never even reach postgraduate levels. But the fault is not theirs—this is today’s research environment.

The stage of student rights is now a battlefield for party fights, where research halts, and seats are secured in syndicate corridors. The recruitment board doesn’t ask, “What is your research about?” but “Do you know the stage master personally?”

This is the nation’s most tragic outcome—education, peace, and progress have become false promises. The gates say “Garden of Knowledge,” but inside reigns the stench of rotten vested interests. Young seeds hold indecent slogans, stars hold not pens but the stage master’s mobile number. Talented ones are destined to be ‘PS’ officers, and sycophants get professorships. The light of talent fades, and the shadow of power grows over the field of research.

Yet, amid this darkness, some lamps still burn—some gardeners still take classes and immerse themselves in deep research. Some young seeds still sit in the corners of the library, asking questions, thinking, writing. For them, there is hope—that one day the true light of knowledge will return to this stage.

But if not—then this garden will become history’s most tragic menagerie, where talent perishes, research is buried, and the stage master remains the eternal ringmaster of the circus.

The writer is a social thinker and satirical writer. He can be reached at Email: fokoruddincse@gmail.com