In a loud, self-congratulatory uproar of moral indigestion, a fresh swarm of self-declared ‘guardians’ of decency has crawled out from the cracks. To them, the nation’s law is far too lenient. In their fantasy monologues, they see themselves as capeless crusaders, Marvel heroes for male fragility, yet they remain blind to the cowardice behind their bravado.
Self reflection is alien to them; shame, extinct. Public decency? Only a demand they weaponise, never a rule they follow. After all, in their world, they’re always the main character, never the menace. And in a society that outsourced its spine to apathy, aren’t we all just background dancers in the Messiah complex of street-corner tyrants?
The latest sermon from our self-righteous Guru came in the form of a 35-second horror clip—belt in hand, striking two young women like a lunatic with a moral complex, barking commands as if he were a general in the Holy War on Jeans. Surrounded by a flock of potbellied philosophers, sorry, middle-aged men.
The spectacle triggered not outrage, but awe. Not one dared intervene. Instead, these bystanders, men marinated in apathy and cheap bravado who gawked, and basked in the violence like it was a live-action morality play performed just for them. Just months ago, the same twisted drama played out: the unspeakable crime of dressing freely punished by a crowd that cheers for repression like it’s a national sport.
A question then arises, where do they learn this nonsense, and what twisted form of education turns a man into an unsolicited guardian of everyone else’s morality? The easy answer might be the usual scapegoat, those cliché religious institutions tucked into every corner of the country, but that doesn’t explain the whole circus. In recent years, people have grown so emboldened in their idiocy that blaming just one group feels like giving the rest a free pass.
You see this behaviour everywhere, in every class and creed. Our righteous Guru doesn’t wear religious robes either. He usually turns up in a t-shirt, sports a haircut stolen from a back-alley barbershop in Dhaka, and walks around with a face that practically begs to be slapped. Regardless of the incident, these features remain hauntingly consistent.
So what creates such a specimen? First, the attire. Always looking like a discount goon from a B-grade movie, he blends into the crowd just enough to spark chaos while hiding behind it. This strategic camouflage, combined with erratic shouting and a wild look in his eyes, makes most people too stunned or too scared to interfere.
Add a few years and the social privilege of being an ‘Uncle’, and he now believes God personally appointed him to enforce his 40-year-old views on a society that never asked. Then comes the haircut, perhaps the most tragically comic trait of all. It’s either soaked in mustard oil or drowning in gel, with strands styled in tribute to a European footballer, despite the face underneath screaming midlife crisis and microwave nationalism.
And finally, the slappable face. Yes, we know, don’t judge a book by its cover, but let’s not pretend that stupidity doesn’t have a face. It transcends race, colour, and class, but somehow clings especially hard to the psyche of the Bengali male.
Scientists might one day need to win a Nobel Prize just to pinpoint the exact genetic link between the Bengali male and his messiah complex. But the evidence is in plain sight—it’s fed daily through a diet of lofty cultural expectations, hollow dreams, and a total lack of real achievement. The Messiah complex is nothing new; every tyrant, from Napoleon to Mussolini to Hitler, had their version.
But here’s the twist: the Bengali male believes he’s standing on the same pedestal, without any of the grit, or evil to back it up. That’s why they stand for nothing. One minute, they’re tearing down another man for shamelessly breaking the law, and the next, they’re sitting in deafening silence when they witness the very same stupidity unfold before their eyes.
But fear not, dear reader, for change isn’t entirely out of reach. As much as the messiahs of mediocrity and their cult of silent bystanders may dominate the scene today, there are still a few of us who believe in actually doing something, beyond scrolling through Instagram and imagining we’re part of some righteous movement.
Perhaps, just perhaps, the next time these “guardians of decency” step out of line, we might be the ones to step up and point out that no, actually, being a hero doesn’t involve swinging belts or patting your own back for standing still. After all, even the most stubborn Bengali male must wake up one day and realise, the only thing more painful than their own ignorance is the realisation that no one’s caring for their dramatic outbursts anymore.