How do I hate myself? Let me count the ways

The holiday lethargy has caused me self-loathing. Let me count some of the factors as to why I am beginning to hate myself.

I hate myself for living in an age that still sees religion-based racism overshadowing motherhood. I hated it when a sweet social media post on Mother's Day on May 9 turned bitter when actor Chanchal Chowdhury, a household name in the Bangladeshi cultural scene for over two decades, posted on Facebook a photograph of his mother wearing vermilion over her forehead. This was followed by serious backlash as some bigots attacked the Aynabaji actor for his religious identity. This narrow-minded crowd felt "cheated" since they had crowned the versatile actor with a Bangla name that lacks any religious tag as "one of their own" for such a long time, only to find out that he was "actually" their religious "other", and they did not have either the sophistication or the civility to hide their bigotry. I shall hate myself further if I have to stoop low enough to engage with such arguments. Suffice to say, a mother in whatever hue is sacred and beautiful. By the same token, an artist is an extraordinary individual who exists outside our daily drudgery, who tries in his or her given capacity to make the world a better place.