Professor Yunus's recent political cameo is interlaced with similar existential conflicts. The gravitas of his lighthearted, if sincere, decision to enter politics at a time of crisis and help usher in a brand-new prosperous Bangladesh was unnerving.

The sheer lightness and temporality of his weighty ambitions burden us with an impossible puzzle: what to think of his political commitment? His hasty appeal to the public for political support offers us a glimpse not only into the mind of post-Nobel Yunus, but also into the political culture of Bangladesh.

Bangladeshis, at home and abroad, celebrated the news of Yunus's winning the Nobel Peace Prize with unbridled patriotism and raw emotion. Many eyes shed tears of joy and pride. It was, understandably, a shinning national moment in the history of the country, as the world's spotlight focused on Bangladesh to offer homage to the country's worthy son.

Yunus himself reciprocated the euphoric public reaction with equal fervour by appearing in the media and at civic receptions with a jubilant face, and by making ambitious statements befitting the occasion. Basking in the limelight, he lifted the country to a new height of optimism.

But something crucial happened then. At the peak of the mass frenzy, the public, journalists, expatriates, and a segment of the civil society, still intoxicated with hardcore emotion, expected from Yunus a radical cure-all political solution for an allegedly dysfunctional Bangladesh.

And Yunus promised -- often from the airport (alas, the entrenched postmodern metaphor of lightness) -- to deliver it, without really knowing how. He assured his countrymen, albeit prematurely, that he would play the role of a saviour, without actually investigating the nature of this humongous responsibility.

A peculiar quality of the limelight is that it has a propensity to blur our vision instead of sharpening it. Yunus seemingly misjudged the public celebration of his Nobel Prize -- or what he called in his first open letter, "pure love and respect from people of all ages" -- as political support.

No doubt, in the wake of the Nobel, the masses elevated him to the loftiest pedestal of reverence because he brought the country the highest honour, but it was by no means political endorsement. It was an exalted moment of glory, mostly apolitical.

But when Yunus emerged as a would-be political figure, the people subjected him to a completely new set of judgment criteria. Would Yunus be a good administrator? Would he safeguard the interests of the common folks? Is he ready to commit to the rigorous bureaucratic needs of an elected official? It was a completely new, and necessary, political analysis for which he was barely ready, and hardly prepared any profile.

Suddenly, the Nobel Prize seemed inadequate to convince many that Yunus was ready to run the country. Here in Washington, I was amazed to see how the living rooms of expatriates were abuzz with the incessant debates between Yunus admirers and skeptics.

Seldom black and white, the debates presented a litany of viewpoints: sui generis figures like Yunus are a must in the government for a political renaissance in Bangladesh; he should be the conscience and visionary reformer of the country rather than its prime minister; and Yunus is not tested as a political figure.

Yunus's open-letter policy to all citizens, asking for their suggestions and advice, was refreshing, for it promised a new participatory approach to politics. But his first letter was flawed, and at times corny, despite its honesty. He wrote: "I feel it with my heart that I should, showing due respect to the people's expectation of me, participate in the mission of taking the nation to the height it deserves."

The innocent pre-judging of "the people's expectation of me" bordered on juvenile excitement, a dangerous setback for a future political figurehead eager to reform the country's virulent rajniti.

We find a curiously satisfied man in his first letter: "I am a very fortunate man. There is nothing left for me to desire." A cynical interpretation of this could be that the war on poverty has been won, and now it was time to march to the next battlefield: the corrupt world of politics. Does a Nobel Prize mean a spectacular finale to the ongoing fight against poverty, or rather an acknowledgement of the fight's humanity?

The harshest cynic would even smell in the "nothing left for me to desire" a light shade of postcolonial sycophancy toward the West that, as if, provides the final seal of approval to a humane project in the impoverished East. Not that Yunus's letters contained any, but there is hardly the need for that kind of asymmetric self-perception.

A Nobel or not, Yunus's model of poverty alleviation was already staging a silent social revolution in rural Bangladesh, despite whispering, and often unanswered, criticism of Grameen Bank's high interest rate.

The Nobel Committee needed Yunus, and a humanitarian project with a global appeal that could suppress the subterranean allegations of political nepotism against the Nobel Peace Prize, more than Yunus needed the Nobel.

Yunus's final letter (May 3) had a deep, melancholic subtext of fatalism, and the wounded sentiment of a dejected warrior. "...[O]ne thing became clearer, that those who were encouraging me will not join politics themselves and will not give public support because of their own problems. And those who are in political parties will not leave their parties, at least, now. They might join later if the political situation changes. After all calculations, I realised that nothing much is being accumulated. So, whom will I form the strong team with?" he lamented.

We are saddened, no doubt, to see our hero feeling betrayed. But, despite all good intentions, Yunus's political life hardly crossed the threshold of the utopianism of a visionary reformer.

One crucial thing was missing in his whole new-politics project: a real engagement with the political nitty-gritty, a political strategy, not articulated en passant at the VIP lounge of the airport. Airport conversations are notoriously superficial.

Yunus's political life echoes the classic Kundera narrative, filled with both transience and insignificance. Bangladeshis carry the unbearable weight of bafflement resulting from their hero's innocent miscalculation, in which the public's blinding zealotry in expecting from him an overnight, radical remedy is also largely responsible.

There is no denying, though, that Yunus is still our national treasure, the most recognisable and esteemed Bangladeshi around the world. We must cherish him, for he is most adept at illuminating new paths of growth for us. The fog of confusion remains, but it seems like the people want to see him as a Gandhi, rather than as a Nehru.

Adnan Murshed is Assistant Professor, School of Architecture and Planning, The Catholic University of America, Washington, DC.