Published: 01:22 AM, 14 September 2026
'Talent Is Useful, But It's Overrated'
This picture shows the author with Jannatul Fardaus Mahia who belongs to Department of English Language and Literature in North South University, Dhaka. AA
The café was tucked into a quiet corner near Bookworm, the well-known bookshop at Gulshan 2 in Dhaka. Through the glass window, I could see people entering the bookshop with the eager expression of readers who had come looking for something they did not read before.
I was already seated when Jannatul Fardaus Mahia arrived.
"Good afternoon, Sir," she said with a gentle smile.
"Good afternoon, Mahia. Please, sit down."
She placed a notebook on the table and looked around the foodstuff inside the café.
"You chose an interesting place, Sir."
"I thought a conversation about literature should take place somewhere surrounded by books."
She smiled. "Then I suppose you have brought me here to test my English."
"Not at all. I have brought you here because I enjoy listening to you when you speak with your melodious voice."
She raised an eyebrow. "That sounds dangerously close to flattery, Sir."
"Perhaps it is. But I intend to support my argument with evidence."
"Evidence?"
"Yes. Your command of English is remarkably mature. You do not merely know English words; you understand how words can create atmosphere, argument and emotion."
Mahia lowered her eyes for a moment.
"Thank you, Sir. That means a lot to me."
"It should. I don't praise students without reasons."
The waiter brought our coffee and two sandwiches. For a few moments, neither of us spoke. Outside, Gulshan's afternoon traffic moved restlessly along the road, while inside the café everything seemed suspended in a quieter world.
Mahia opened her notebook.
"I have written down a few ideas for my next article."
"I expected nothing less."
"You really think I can become a good writer?"
"I think you already are becoming a good author."
She looked at me curiously.
"What makes someone a good writer, Sir?"
"Curiosity first. Discipline second. Honesty third."
"And talent?"
"Talent is useful, but it is overrated. A curious and disciplined mind can accomplish more than talent without persistence."
She nodded thoughtfully.
"I like that. Perhaps I should remember it whenever I become discouraged."
"You should. Writing is often a lonely conversation with yourself."
She smiled. "And today I am having a conversation with you instead."
"Fortunately, I am less demanding than a blank page."
"I'm not sure about that, Sir."
We both laughed.
For a moment, I studied her expression. There was an unusual confidence in the way she listened. Her hair fell naturally around her face, and I had often noticed how gracefully it framed her features. Even her lips seemed expressive when she spoke, changing in a subtle way with every thought.
"You know," I said, "there is something else I admire about you."
"What is that?"
"Your presence as a speaker. Your hair may catch someone's attention first and your expressive lips may make your words more vivid, but your language is what makes people stay and listen."
She smiled, slightly embarrassed.
"Sir, that is quite a poetic compliment."
"Perhaps. But I meant it intellectually."
"Can intellectual admiration and affection exist together?"
"Of course. The mind and the heart have never been perfect strangers."
She looked through the window towards Bookworm.
"Maybe that is why people love books. They speak to both."
"Exactly."
She turned another page in her notebook.
"Sir, I wanted to ask you something. Why did you encourage me to write for The Asian Age?"
"Because I believed your writing capability deserved an audience."
She became silent.
"I am grateful to you for that," she said at last.
"And I am grateful to you, Mahia, for accepting the challenge. You have written articles for The Asian Age with sincerity and wisdom. Seeing your work appear in a daily English newspaper has been genuinely satisfying."
Her eyes brightened.
"I sometimes wonder whether my articles are good enough."
"Never confuse perfection with progress. A writer becomes better by writing, publishing, receiving criticism and writing again."
"So you think I should continue?"
"I think you must."
She closed her notebook.
"Then perhaps I should write about this afternoon."
"About coffee?"
"About our conversation."
"Then be careful. Conversation can reveal more than people intend."
She smiled.
"That sounds like something a novelist would say."
"Perhaps I have been reading too many books."
"Or perhaps you have been talking to too many writers."
"Perhaps one writer in particular."
She laughed softly.
"Who?"
"You."
She looked away, pretending to be interested in the street outside.
"Sir, you are making it difficult for me to concentrate."
"Then perhaps we should return to serious intellectual matters."
"Such as?"
"Your next article."
"About what?"
I thought for a moment.
"Write about the relationship between language and human connection. Explain how a sentence can cross distances that geography cannot."
Mahia considered the idea.
"That is beautiful."
"Then write it beautifully."
She picked up her pen.
"And if I succeed?"
"Then I will have another reason to thank you."
"For what?"
"For reminding me that teaching is not merely about giving knowledge. Sometimes a teacher learns from the student."
She looked at me warmly.
"And sometimes, Sir, a student learns more from a conversation than from a textbook."
Outside, the afternoon light settled softly over Gulshan 2. Between the café and the bookshop, between coffee and conversation, we continued discussing literature, journalism, ambition and the strange power of words.
And as Mahia began writing her first sentence, I realized that some of the finest conversations are not remembered because of what was said, but because of what they inspired us to become.
Mahfuz Ul Hasib Chowdhury is a
contributor to different English
newspapers and magazines.
The writer is also a Commonwealth
Open University Fellow.
