Fiction
The cruel conflict
Shojib is surprised to see the door unlatched. The door creaks as he pushes it open. The midnight breeze blowing across brings in a sweet smell as he stands on the balcony. The lights of the dining room are switched on, and from the balcony he sees sleepless Rehana in a crumpled up sari standing in the middle of the narrow corridor that connects the dining space with the balcony. For a minute or two they keep looking at each other with their eyes wide open. Then she walks clumsily to him and leans her body against his broad shoulder. He gets a feeling that a roach is slowly creeping up from his feet. Holding her straight by his hands, Shojib mutters: "What happened? Why didn't you sleep?"
"I'll go back. I don't want to stay here anymore. Please take me home." Teary-eyed Rehana pleads while unearthing the secrets of her sufferings. As Shojib tries to wipe off her teardrops with his fingers, some of them fall on the dusty floor. Placing his palm under her chin, he raises her downcast head.
"Don't be upset, my dear. Everything will be all right." To assuage her pangs, he sweetly says.
The roach is gradually creeping up on him, and he begins to feel the smell of flowers, unexpectedly becoming stronger and then slowly turning stinky. He feels like throwing up. Finally, he takes a bath to get rid of the uneasiness.
"It's not good to take a bath late at night. You'll catch cold." Emerging from the bathroom, Shojib listens to his elder brother Badrul's concern, sounding genuine to him.
Ascertaining that the voice is coming from a closer distance, Shojib inquiringly says:
"Has there been a room change?"
"Wreaths have been exchanged. Shouldn't there be a room change?" Astringently Rehana says.
Rebeca, Shojib's loving sister, has got married. She must be in her red Benarasi, and she must have had her face done up by some lovely red and white dots! But Shojib doesn't feel like looking at her.
"Where is Firoj Bhai? Is he home?" Shojib indicates to Rehana to take from him the towel he has been wiping his head with. She wonders how Shojib is so cool listening to such news!
"He's not been home for two days also." Sorrowfully she lets him know while laying the table and serving him fried rice and chicken roast. The food coupled with her care brings about an energizing change in him; surprisingly, though, the burning sensation is continuing in his body. Somehow he gulps down one or two morsels, and when he gets up to leave, Rehana catches his hand and pleads: "Please don't go. Finish your meal and then go." Kissing her hand, he, however, manages to escape from her clutches to the balcony where he starts smoking. While arranging the leftovers and putting things in order, she says: "Your bed is in the drawing room." Before retiring to her bed, she looks back at him from in front of the washroom door and adds: "Tell me if you need anything."
He needs something, but he doesn't know what that is!
Lying on the bed, he keeps looking at the figurative design created in the ceiling of the room by the tinge of the soft light of the next room coming through the serrated ventilator. Then he keeps turning from one side to another in bed in futile attempts to induce sleep. Now he feels that the roach that was creeping up from his feet some time back is no longer there. But the smell of the flowers returns, though it is not provoking any putrid smell this time. He breathes in the flowery smell deep into his heart. Simultaneously, he feels a strong craving for futchka building up in him. At the same time he is having a gastric pain. The hunger and pain together create an explosive situation, and in a flash, he sits up on the bed looking at the open door where under the mellowed moonlight Rehana keeps standing, waiting for approval, with the mosquito net in her hands.
"Come in."
"Turn the lights on."
"It's too hot already."
There are no lights. Getting up from bed he opens the southern window to let some more moonbeams barge in.
"Yes, mosquitoes and too much heat." Rehana stands in the middle of the room crisscrossed by the natural light and shade. This is the first time Rehana also feels that her nose is tickled by some kind of a smell.
"Are you getting the smell of sweet and sour mangoes?" Sniffing, she asks Shojib.
"Futchka. So tasty! I feel like eating it now."
Like the petals of a budding flower, Rehana's lips wait for the succulent and mouth-watering food.
"Sweet and sour mangoes. So delicious! So many days I haven't had them."
With accumulated anger and hunger Shojib, like the poverty-afflicted people of the third-world, pounces on Rehana, and they go into an ecstasy.
When the night slowly advances toward dawn, relaxed Shojib wakes up only to find Rehana missing in bed. The tranquilizing impact induces him to sleep for another round, and when he gets up, the sun is in its full fury already. A breeze blowing across caresses his body as he stands near the window. Along with the zephyr come wafting the wails.
There isn't any anger or hunger; why is someone crying somewhere?
Taken aback, Shojib tries to find out its source. Donning a Punjabi, he descends the stairs in a hurry, and he spots the source as he stands on the empty lawn. In chorus, a lot of people, bereaved, stunned and infuriated, are bawling incessantly. Nervous Shojib shouts: "Who cries? Where?"
Meanwhile, four young men, carrying a khatia, quickly pass through the lawn to go upstairs.
'Listen. Who are you? Where are you going?" Shojib shouts out the questions into the air as the youths keep climbing the stairs not answering. Following them, Shojib also goes up, and when he reaches in front of the main door of the eighth floor, he identifies the voices: Rebeca, Ruma, Shuma and Numa are howling in grief.
Jotsna is sniveling and saying: "Renu didn't die. I don't believe. She has been killed."
Rakib is wailing and saying: "I'll call the police. My sister didn't commit suicide. This is a cold-blooded murder."
Only Badrul is unusually calm. Neither is he fretting or screaming. This is the first time Shojib doesn't feel like facing the situation. He leaves the place unnoticed.
He steps out into the newly bitumen-laid street at the Kakrail roundabout, and at midday, he feels he needs a shoulder to lean on. Rueful Shojib gives in to a torrent of tears. But he can't understand what it is for.
(This is the third and final segment of this short story)
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