Translated from Bangla by Haroonuzzaman. Cover art: Rickshaw art from Bangladesh.
Syed Rahman lay on a luxurious bed, tucked away in a quiet cabin on the third floor of the Popular Diagnostic Centre. Next to him, his beloved wife, Shaila, sat partially reclined. Her condition wasn’t any better, and at first glance, it was hard to tell who was suffering more due to her many sleepless nights. In a corner, Sapna, her son’s wife, had arrived not long ago. Meanwhile, the wives of her two sons took turns attending to their father-in-law. Initially, the hospital authorities were annoyed by their gathering, but now they refrained from intervening, feeling vexed and weary. They had to be present, so they took shifts. Sapna was here for two hours, a realization she got from the ticking clock. “Time seems to pass slowly in this hospital. Life feels monotonous! It’s as if I’m trapped in a difficult situation,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Oftentimes, Sapna would wake up as the sun approached midday. If she wanted, she could take on evening duties. However, this choice would mean giving up the enjoyable Z-Bangla serials. She thought it wiser to skip daytime rest. Furthermore, she noticed she was gaining weight due to her inactivity. Marriage, motherhood, and family responsibilities had already changed her once-slim figure, and any trace of it was at risk without proper maintenance. Thinking about this, she asked her mother-in-law, “Ma, could you give your opinion on how I look in jeans and a fotua?”
“Indeed, you’re looking great in this outfit,” Shaila, her mother-in-law, answered, hardly intent upon the matter. Sopna wished she would speak more, but her mother-in-law’s nonchalant attitude put a brake on her discharge of words. On the mirrored glass of cabin barrier, Sopna re-examined her near-svelte shape and soliloquised, “I need to shed my fat a bit more.”
Rahman was half-asleep and half-awake, stuck in this state of in-betweenness for the past three days. In a dreamy state, he was immersed in a bioscope, as if he had been watching his delightfully gripping childhood collages peeking through a box covered with red-blue tape, while sitting under a Pakur tree. The photomontage was unveiling his past, one image after another. He could hardly restrain himself from the afflictions of memory hangover that day, with one eye fixed on the fleeting images of his boyhood, while the other reluctantly glanced at some dead flies on the wall and a sluggish lizard engaged in its hunting sport. Closing his left and right eyes alternately, he moved between two lives. At times, he lived both lives simultaneously, keeping both eyes wide open. Intermittently, he would blabber.
Suddenly, he grasped his testicles firmly.
“Shala Mofa, does anyone rough someone up like that?” he said with irritation in his voice.
“Ugh, here he goes again!” Shaila shifted in her seat.
“Ma, who is Mofa?” Sopna inquired.
“Perhaps he’s talking about Mofidul, his cousin,” replied Shaila.
“Oh,” Shopna responded nonchalantly.
“I didn’t kick the ball intentionally. Why did you try to prevent it like that? Take a break, and it’ll be fine,” Mofidul had said.
Rahman’s hands and legs went limp. As Shaila noticed his struggles, she removed the pillow from under his legs.
“Rahman, get up. Come on, get up; we are on the attack now,” Sobur, who had been playing in the lower back position, hurriedly called Rahman, but there was no response.
Staring at the sky, he had tried to piece together the scattered, fleeting clouds, lost in thought. “Rahman, get up. Hurry up. They’re about to score a goal,” caught in a trance, he had called out his own name, Rahman, while lying on the bed.
“Ah! It finally happened,” Rahman had said at irregular intervals.
“What happened, baba?” Sopna wondered trying to break his trace. But it was of no use.
“A goal! They scored a goal. Modhu, we lost the match even though we were about to win. I’ve stolen Tk 100 from my abba’s pocket. It’s all gone,”
Modhubala had been waiting by the pond with a gamsa in her hand while he washed his legs.
“Since you lose so much, wouldn’t it be better not to bet? I asked you to buy me a necklace from Jumat’s rickshaw van, but you didn’t. Do you understand now?” Teasingly, Modhubala had said.
“Certainly, I would have. I thought I would not only get you a necklace but also something more after the money doubled.”
“What do you mean by ‘something more’?”
“What’s the point in telling you that now?”
She had childishly insisted on knowing what he would say.
Lying in the hospital bed, Rahman could hear the conversation between him and Modhubala, his eyes closed. Sometimes, he would join the discussion.
“Let me win another day, then I’ll tell you,” Rahman had replied, yielding to her demand.
“I’m not giving you the gamsa then. The day you win, I’ll give it to you then,” she had moved forward to go home.
“Modhu, listen! Don’t go, please. I’m totally wet! If I go home like this, ma will tell me off like anything!” Rahman had shouted out, expressing his predicament.
“Let her scold you. I want that,” Modhubala had melted away into the hazy distance.
Stupefied, Rahman had remained seated there for some time. In the crepuscular evening, huge shoals of young fish had been swimming blithely on the surface of the blackish pond water, as if they were on their way to finish their bath before nightfall. Rahman had kept gazing at them, feeling moved.
“What a wonderful life!” Coming out of reverie, Rahman said turning his head in bed.
“He didn’t let me sleep the entire night. Like a baby, he cried out the whole night, saying that his heart was burning like hell. And now he says—what a wonderful life!” Perturbed and incensed, Shaila muttered under her breath.
“Ma, Rashi didn’t go to her house yesterday,” Sopna chimed in while humming.
“What did you say?” Suddenly, Shaila Begum became animated, or perhaps she pretended to be.
Thereafter, Sopna continued narrating the last episode of Rashi drama in detail.
2
“Look, it just can’t happen that I’ll always pick shak (spinach), and you’ll chase doves, and on the way home, you’ll snatch half of it and then tell Chachi (aunt) that you picked it. I won’t let that happen anymore. If you don’t harvest shak with me today, I won’t share the greens with you anymore,” Modhubala had said, dipping her smooth-white legs into the shimmering wheat field.
“I just can’t. Picking botua shak (a variety of potherb) is not my thing,” Rahman replied straightforwardly.
“Then what will happen? Only bird-catching? Have you caught a single one so far?”
“Who told you I go to catch birds? I go to mingle with them to understand their language.”
“The person who doesn’t understand my language, how will he understand the birds’ language?” Modhubala said sarcastically.
“Do you know which birds love to chatter?”
“They can’t fly, they just jibber-jabber.”
“You think they only twitter. In fact, they talk a lot among themselves.”
“Can you give me an example of what they talk about?”
“That day I went to Mobu’s mango orchard in search of doves. To my surprise, I saw a bird talking to another one—chitter-chatter! Chitter-chatter!”
“Chitter-chatter! Chitter-chatter!” Modhubala grimaced, interjecting the conversation.
“Modhu, this isn’t right!” Rahman said authoritatively.
“Chitter-chatter! Alright, I understand. Tell me, what does it mean?”
“It actually said that the boy coming toward us was being followed by a crazy girl who smelled like cow dung! Yuck!”
“Do you know what a cow said when it saw us together that day? Shall I tell you?”
“No need. I know you understand cow language. People of the same race understand each other’s language. Wise people say. I don’t know that, though.”
“Then you’re the chattery bird. Chitter-chatter! Chitter-chatter!”
“Okay, that’s fine. I didn’t say I objected to it. Do you know how lucky it is to be a bird? It can fly away whenever and wherever it wants to. Rest assured, I’ll really fly away one day.”
“Would you take me along?”
“How can a bird accompany a cow? Do you think they’re a match? Tell me.”
“Buzz off. Go to your bird. If I keep on blabbering with you, I won’t be able to pluck botua shak today.”
In flying leaps, Rahman had disappeared into the distance through the shegun (a kind of tree) garden in the midday.
Dazed, Modhubala had kept looking at the emptiness for some time. After a while, she had come back to her senses and moved on to join the boys and girls in plucking the greens.
3
“Coo…Coo…CooooOOOOO-woo-woo-woo…!” Enticingly, Rahman had called a dove.
“Coo…Coo…CooooOOOOO-woo-woo-woo…!” A dove had responded from the topmost branch of a small tree.
“Coo…Coo…CooooOOOOO-woo-woo-woo…!” he tried to return the bird’s response from the hospital bed. His words lay strewn on the hospital floor.
“Ma, Baba isn’t in a mentally sound state. He has been talking nonsense for the past few days,” said Ira, the wife of Rahman’s middle son. Two hours after Sopna, the wife of Rahman’s youngest son, had left, Ira arrived. Shaila Begum had her shower and lunch when Sopna was there. After sleeping for about an hour, she still felt sleepy. However, she couldn’t sleep due to Rahman’s behavioural changes. Certainly, Rahman was experiencing a mental problem. What was alarming were his kidney problems and heart attack. Even though it was a minor attack, he needed to be kept under special observation; otherwise, something very serious might happen.
The doctor said, “Let’s continue the treatment for the kidney and heart first, then we’ll address his mental problems. He might recover from the other illnesses automatically.”
“The doctor says he’ll be okay,” Shaila also felt reassured alongside Ira.
“Ma, just think about the problems we’ll face if he becomes mentally deranged! Our sons and daughters are all grown up now, and so many people come to our house. Don’t you think it’ll be a matter of prestige?”
“Bouma (daughter-in-law), your father-in-law hasn’t gone mad yet. Moreover, he’s not behaving strangely in your house.” Shaila wanted to respond firmly but couldn’t.
After all, her middle son, Ira’s husband, was covering half of the expenses. Reflecting on it, she softly said, “Bouma, let’s just pray that things don’t turn out that way.”
“Right, Ma,” Ira said, adding, “We are always praying for him. Shantu’s exams start tomorrow. He won’t study at his desk unless I sit beside him. Last year, he missed one mark, which pushed his roll number to ten. Only God knows what will happen next time! I spent my days either on the prayer mat or in the hospital. If baba recovers, your son and I have decided to visit Ajmer Sharif to make offerings to the saint. Don’t you think it’s a good idea, ma?”
“Didn’t you vow to make offerings in your mother’s name when you and your sisters went there last year?”
“Yes, we did. But we couldn’t explore much. We only managed to visit Ajmer Sharif and a few city lakes. That was when baba fell ill, and your son decided to return to the country within three days. There were so many things we missed seeing. If we go this time, we’ll explore all of Rajasthan.”
Although Shaila wasn’t particularly interested in Ira’s words, she had to show her agreement with what she had said.
“Certainly, you must go. It’s your time now to go places and enjoy. When you’ll be of my age, you won’t be able to go anywhere and see things. Although I had lived with your father-in-law in Canada, it was as good as staying at home. Barely did I visit Niagara Falls. For NGO work, your father-in-law had gone to so many places. He did the same everywhere: after the office, he would return home straight and then sit in his room, turning the light off. If life is lived like this, do you think it is possible to separate Toronto from Dhaka?”
As Shaila finished what she wanted to say, to her utter dismay, she saw Ira mumbling to someone on the phone, wearing the headphones. Frustrated, she remained silent.
4
“Modhu, please hurry up and fetch a mug of water; I’m thirsty,” Rahman had said in a half-conscious state, panting. He had been remarkably skilled at the traditional game of ‘boutola’.
Modhubala quickly had gone to her house to get a bodna of water.
“Water! Water!” Rahman murmured distressingly. Instead of a bodna, Ira brought him a bottle of water. Pouring water halfway into a glass, Shaila lifted his head to assist him in drinking.
“Why is the water in a bodna?” Rahman reacted angrily.
“Baba, why would it be a bodna? It’s just a glass of water. How could we have a bodna here?” Ira tried to help him understand with a cheeky yet meaningful smile.
“Oh, this is the ablution bodna. Not only did Abba use it for ablutions, but he also drank water from it,” Modhubala had explained, reentering his bewildered mental state. Thereafter Rahman had drank the water from the badna.
“Pooh! Rahman drinks water from a bodna used for poop. After defecating, Noitonburi clears her bum with water from the bodna.” After Bacchu had spread those personality-damaging words in the village, Rahman went chasing him, leaving the bodna aside.
In an instant, Rahman snatched the glass from Shaila’s hand and hurled it to the floor, shattering it into smithereens, and shouted out in suspended animation, “Shala Bacchu! It’s either you or me. I’ll see who has the last laugh.”
Shaila couldn’t comprehend half of what her husband had said.
“Amma (mother-in-law), do you know the people baba was mentioning?”
“I’ve heard some of the names from him. Maybe many of them aren’t alive.”
“Were they baba’s friends or relatives?” Ira inquired.
“I have never been to his village home. After my father-in-law had a second marriage, my mother-in-law, along with her son, moved to her brother’s house in Dhaka. Since then, she hadn’t allowed him to go to the village. She would remain scared if he didn’t return. After we left for Canada, my father-in-law died, followed by my mother-in-law within a few years. Since then, I haven’t heard any stories about your father-in-law’s immediate family members or relatives. After our return to the country, he continued to avoid meeting people from his own area. Moreover, he would get incensed if anyone talked about his village. ‘How can people live in villages! Barely one will find anything there. All moronic people!’ He used to say this sort of stuff. Later, I learned from a mango trader in Meherpur that he had a half-brother who looked after their landed property in the village.”
“Ma, I won’t go to Mamabari (maternal uncle’s house). I don’t like the city,” Rahman said as he lifted his head from the hospital bed and looked at Shaila.
“Okay, you don’t have to,” Shaila replied, placing her hand on her husband’s head, even though Rahman directed his pleas at his mother who had passed away long ago.
“Let’s go. If you don’t like it there, come back. I’m not confining you there,” Ma had responded to his request while crocheting a woollen vest. “But you’re going once and for all. If you don’t like the place, will you come back?” Rahman inquired.
“No,” Ma replied firmly.
“Then what will happen to me?”
“Either you’ll stay here or with your mother. It’s your decision.”
“It’s a difficult decision.”
“Why is it difficult? How can that kind of baba be more precious than your ma? Will you be able to stay with your stepmother?” Ma asked.
“It’s not about baba and stepmother. I have a lot of other things here,”
Rahman tried to make her understand.
“Tell me, what are the other things that you have?” Ma attempted to go beyond his apparent answer while concentrating on her knitting.
“Ma, I really don’t know how to make you understand,” Rahman said, feeling confused about the things he had in there. Lying on the bed, Rahman continued to make sounds, saying, “Chitter-chatter! Chitter-chitter!”
He even attempted to shout, “Coo…Coo…CooooOOOOO-woo-woo-woo…”
“You’re grown up now,” Ma had said, adding, “That’s why I’m not forcing anything upon you. I’ve entrusted your well-being to your hands. But I must say, your ma won’t survive without you.”
5
“Ma, how do you tolerate Baba’s peculiar behavior? How can an educated person like him act so nonsensically?” Shoeb, Rahman’s youngest son, asked with excitement.
“Don’t say that!” Sadeka, his elder sister, interjected to restrain him.
“Why shouldn’t I? Do you know, Apa, what a terrible thing he had said to Ira that day?
He said, ‘Ira, you…!’ Oh, I just can’t think about it. Does anyone say such things to their daughters-in-law?”
“He didn’t say it to Ira; he said it to Modhu,” Shaila clarified.
“How does Modhu-todhu come into the picture? Did Baba have any love affairs, Ma? What a cinematic name! Does she really exist?” Shoeb asked with disdain in his voice.
“Shafik is waiting outside for you. He mentioned having some important work with you,” Sadeka said as she literally pushed him out of the room. As a lawyer, Shafik, their middle brother, had gained some popularity in Dhaka.
Shafik and Shoeb entered the hospital cafeteria.
“How is Baba doing?” Shafik initiated the conversation.
“Mad! Completely mad!” Shoeb answered in disgust.
“I’m not saying that. I mean, how much longer do you think he’ll survive? I think his time is up. Even the doctor indirectly conveyed the same – no improvement. Anything can happen anytime.”
“What did you say? No, no, that’s impossible! If he passes away, who will I quarrel with?” Shoeb was on the verge of bursting into tears.
“Calm down. Don’t we all want baba to survive? However, the final decision is in His hands. Now, the question is, if something were to happen to him suddenly, have we determined where he should be buried?”
“I don’t know,” Shoeb replied curtly, showing little interest in finding out. “But we must find out. We won’t be able to keep his body either at the hospital or at home.”
“What are your thoughts?”
“I spoke with Boroapa (elder sister). We all reside in Gulshan. If he could be buried somewhere near this area, it would be preferable.”
“Hmm. Then let’s proceed with that. I don’t have any objections.”
“Do you know how much it will cost to purchase a burial plot in and around here? Baba hasn’t left anything behind. We’re doing our best to cover his treatment expenses. Next year, my son is going to study in Canada, and I’m struggling to manage his finances. Borobhai (elder brother) isn’t responding, even though he’s in Japan. Tell me, what can we realistically afford?”
“So, where do you want to make the new arrangement? Azimpur or Jurain?” Shoeb asked.
“Ma has expressed her wishes that we bury baba, wherever we want, in a plot under a 25-year lease. On inquiry, I have come to know that a burial plot in Mirpur Intellectual graveyard, Uttara Sector 2 graveyard, Azimpur graveyard, and Jurain graveyard will cost Tk 11 lakh each.
“What about Banani and Uttara Sector 4 graveyard?”
“The cost is even higher there. Each burial plot will cost Tk 15 lakh. There’s a graveyard around Abdullapur. It is relatively cheaper, new, and well-arranged. What’s your opinion?”
“Isn’t it quite far from our place?
“Yes, it is. We’ll visit it on special days. Boroapa, you and I have cars. Usually, we don’t go outside our places. Maybe that will be an opportunity.”
“Don’t you think we should seek an opinion from Amma?”
“What will she say? We have to make this decision to honour Ma’s words. If she hadn’t requested for a 25-year lease for the burial plot, we could bury Baba in any graveyard. Ma is staying with us, isn’t she? Do you think our Borobon will inquire about Ma? Rest assured, she’ll come once or twice a week to assert her seniority. Borobhai is trying to stay in Japan with his family. We are victims of circumstances. We are being bulldozed, and we’ll continue to be.”
“Somebody has to do it.”
“That’s why we’ve been fulfilling our responsibilities. Listen, if you somewhat agree, then I can do one thing. Baba has some property in the village. Upon inquiry, I’ve come to know that the sons of Baba’s half-brother have been enjoying them. If we can file a strong case against him, we’ll get a significant portion of it. What do you say? I’ll do everything; you just stay with me.”
“Bhaiya, I have to go now.” Shoeb got ready to leave.
“Okay. Just wanted to inform you. Think about it.” Shafik ended the discussion with those words.
Rahman coughed, and after a short while, he coughed ceaselessly for about five minutes. Shaila administered suppositories as his fever wasn’t coming down. She hoped the fever would subside soon. While having a high fever, he began babbling once again in a state of delirium.
“Ma, please let me go to Mobu’s garden for a short while,” Rahman had implored.
“We don’t have time. We have to catch a train from Chuadanga at 2 p.m. We must start our journey from here, with at least two hours in hand.”
“I’ll just go and come back.” Without waiting for his ma’s permission, Rahman had moved urgently.
Ma had maintained so much secrecy that no one could have guessed, just an hour before, that she would leave for Dhaka today. She had been afraid that Rahman’s baba might stop him from going with her. She had been looking for an opportune moment to leave Meherpur, which was her primary concern. As he couldn’t decide whether to go or not, Rahman had finally returned halfway. He couldn’t understand what had happened to him. Rahman had followed his mother as if he were lost in a daydream. He didn’t know who he had been thinking about. However, he remembered the name soon after the train had left the station. “Modhu!” Feverishly, Rahman pronounced the name with all his strength. “Rahman, don’t go. Don’t. Get down. That’s a death trap, Rahman!” Dressed in an oil-smeared khaki shirt and trousers, a middle-aged man had blown a cautionary whistle for the train to start moving. Modhubala had kept running after the moving train as Rahman looked back through the train’s window. As the surroundings turned blurry, Rahman struggled to keep his eyelids open. Shaila moved toward him. He seemed to have responded after two days. He had lain lifeless until then. Shaila gained some mental strength as Rahman moved a little. In this family, her only strength was her body. She came to this realization due to the experiences she had over the couple of days. It seemed she wanted to keep Rahman alive because of her own need. The train had started to move slowly.
“Rahman, don’t go. Don’t. Get down. That is a death trap,” Modhubala had shouted out for the last time before the train whizzed past the station. Rahman could see Modhubala’s face. Rahman could see his ma holding one hand in the train, while Modhubala pulled the other to prevent him from going away. Caught between the two choices, Rahman had to decide which life he would lead.
“Don’t come, Rahman. Don’t. Get down. This is a death trap,” Rahman had echoed the same sentiment, being at one with Modhubala. He had disembarked from the train, slipping through his ma’s grasp. While running toward Modhubala, Rahman had looked back to his ma for the last time. To his utter dismay, he had found another Rahman sitting in ma’s tight embrace. The lookalike Rahman had been flashing a mysterious smile.
Wailingly, Shaila caressed Rahman’s smiling face to embrace him for the last time.
***
About the Author
Mojaffor Hossain is a notable fiction writer of contemporary Bangla literature. Starting his career as a journalist and currently working as translator in the Bangla Academy, Dhaka, he has published eight books packed with awe-inspiring short-stories, which, in the recent years, have attracted much acclaim from both general readers and literary critics. His signature style is using native realities as his settings, and giving them magic-realistic or surrealistic color. He has been awarded several times for his short stories. His latest short story collection, Manusher Mangsher Restora, has been one of the best-selling books of the year 2021.
Awards
Kali O Kalam Sahitya Award 2020
Brac Bank-Samakal Sahitya Award 2021
Exim Bank-Anyadin Humayun Ahmed Literary Award 2018
Abul Hasan Literary Award 2019
Boishaki Television Award 2012
Arani Short Story Award 2011, and
NRB-Protibha Prakash Sahitya Award 2022
About the Translator
Haroonuzzaman (b. 13 January 1951) is a translator, novelist, poet, researcher, and essayist. He has had around 32 years of teaching experience at home and abroad. Besides teaching English in Libya and Qatar for about 12 years, he has had 20 years of teaching experience in English Language and Literature at Independent University, Bangladesh (IUB). In addition, he had been into print and broadcast journalism in Bangladesh and Qatar. Since 2005, he has to his credit several researches and a book on the preservation of endangered languages of Bangladesh and a five-book Bangla baul Series. These books have received rave reviews and wide acclaim.