Relief . . .
Born on December 25, 1919 in Calcutta, Abu Rushd earned his under-graduate and graduate degrees in English from St Xavier's College, Calcutta and Calcutta University in 1940 and 1942 respectively. He did his Masters from Oxford University. He was supernumerary professor at Jahangirnagar University.
Besides, writing short stories and novels in Bangla and English , he translated Nazrul, Rabindranath and Lalon. The central and recurrent themes of his creative works are the hopes and aspirations, despair and frustrations of the urban middle classes. He has shown great skill in portraying the attitudes and feelings of the people, who on the partition of the sub-continent, migrated to Dhaka from Calcutta and its adjoining areas.
He died on February 25, 2010.
This is a translation of the story 'Khalash'.
For quite some time, he didn't have any communication with his family members. The last letter had come three weeks ago. His daughter had been suffering from low fever. Neither the doctor nor medicines had had any impact on her. In addition, Nasima would feel embarrassed about her son's doing mischief with her father. Amid the financial hardship, her son's hunger was an extra burden. His hunger was simply uncontrollable. On top of that, at times, he would break glasses and saucers. She had mailed a letter to Borkot, her husband, asking him to send her some money soon.
Receiving her letter, Borkot sent two hundred taka through telegraphic money order; he was yet to get the acknowledgement, though. It was difficult to know whether the money had reached her. If the money transfer was bungled, it wouldn't be possible to get any clue. Moreover, if efforts were made to track it down, there could be trouble he might get into.
Also, the situation turned unusual: everyone seemed to be busy in maintaining his or her status quo. His friends, though few in number, also had stopped coming to him these days. Uncertainty loomed large: it was difficult to ascertain when the military would come and who they would pick up. Even if someone met someone accidentally, the conversation would generally veer round very ordinary matters. It was as if an unseen but ubiquitous force would descend from nowhere to catch and take to cantonment anyone who dared to converse freely. Then from there some would return; some would go traceless.
Occasionally, in one or two evenings during the week, people still played cards. Instead of taking liquor, Borkot would love playing cards. Black & White or Seagram V, excited the tired nerves, brought about a hallucinatory happiness and emitted sparks in words. Frustrations were stifled by a sense of absorbedness, but that sense of determination was transient. The next moment disillusionment ate into the heart bit by bit.
However, the pleasure of playing cards was entirely different. Oscillating between victory and defeat, the game was filled with the mood swings of the players and was occupied by the purity of absorbedness caused by intense intoxication. Conversed with doses of warmth and affability, even Shala or harami, the slangs, extensively exchanged during the game, became so pleasantly acceptable, and the players slid into a world of their own, forgetting the world outside.
Temporary, though, the next moment they got awakened by the rude fact that Rob, a card player, had gone missing for three days. His wailing wife, neatly dressed in a sari with some careless crease on it, rushed to Borkot. Discarding her skilled tenderness of self-reliance and being humane with the rheum discharge of her eyes remaining unclear, she fervently appealed in a frail yet heart-wrenching voice: "I heard one colonel is your friend. Possibly you know that my husband doesn't get involved in anything. Whichever way possible for you, please get him out."
When sadness appeared in the form of a known propitious face, her prominently visible navel under the blouse stirred up the mind in some ways. Even the grim scene of two mangled dead bodies forming a confused mass that he had seen couple of days ago at Bakshibazar didn't provoke any emotion. One of them had his leg stuck in the blackish sludge of the gutter, and his left eye popped out from its socket; the hair on the other person's head looked uniquely very lively. Knowing all the details from Rob's wife, Borkot tried to console her deceptively: "Let me find out. Don't be so impatient."
However, he didn't inquire. Rob's wife was right in saying that Borkot knew a colonel. He was a Panjabi, named Shovan Ali. The name sounded more like a Bangali, but he was a fucking asshole, a number one son of a bitch. Borkot earned his friendship by supplying wine and women. It was for his sake, Borkot was still safe. The bastard would want more wine and women from Borkot if he had put pressure on Ali for more favor based on his friendship.
Later it was known that after peeling off the skin from his hand, Rob was put in a huge cooking pot, filled with boiling water. During a conversation a Baluchi captain had said: "If one or two miscreants like this were given such an exemplary punishment, then the Indian agents will soon be streamlined."
A mailman delivered a letter. Was it a demand for money again? Borkot wouldn't be able to send money now as he had lost a lot of money while playing cards over the past few days.
There is an element of intoxication in becoming penniless, and at least for some time you would feel like a hero.
The letter was not from his wife; the handwriting was someone else's. Therefore, he thought he would read it later. What else could the news be? Now he would require convincing Reba to spend a night with Shovan Ali. She wasn't that ordinary. She used to teach psychology in a college, but she would often give in to Borkot's strong sexual desires. If she was in good mood, she wouldn't mind having sex with others in exchange of money. If he could manage her, Borkot would earn another contract from Shovan Ali, and then he would say in reprieve: "Shovan allah."
The strategy worked. Borkot felt a little relieved after sending some money back home.. As soon as he remembered the low fever of his daughter, that cheerful feeling received a whack. To bring his 35-year-old wife and 16-year-old daughter to Dacca now would be thoroughly unsafe. None could say when the evil eyes of Shoval Ali and his friends would fall on them.
Alas! Wouldn't the peaceful days ever come back? Wouldn't I be able to look worry-free at the dangling china-rose in thin green leaf, smiling in sunshine, at least for some time?
These thoughts keep crossing Borkot's mind. If he had someone around, he would pour some Black & White right now.
Suddenly, his attention was drawn to the envelope. Who could write it? He wondered. Shahana Apa! How come she suddenly wrote a letter after such a long time?
Could it be her whim? She was the daughter of the brother-in-law of Borkot's uncle; she was possibly senior to him by two years. In his teens and youth, Borkot would frequent her place. Sometimes he would give her some paisa to buy some candy sticks; while he was a student of class nine she had lent him Sharatchandra's 'Borodidi' to read. From then on Borkot simply devoured Sharatchandra. On one occasion, Shahana apa recited the poem 'Niruddesh Jatra' for him. In each and every detail that day would always remain alive and special to Borkot. It was an enviably enchanting afternoon; when the wind paused, Shahana apa with her unkempt hair looked like a woman from another world. Attired in a white sari with the red border, her soulful rendering of the poetry amounted to dripping of nectar, and it became poetry itself. That day, she sailed him off to a faraway land, miles and miles away, into a colorful-deserted and lovely-cloudy island.
Although the letter was not a big one, the four-sentence letter bore date and address at the top right had corner.
"Even though I haven't had any news from you for a long time, I still hope you are alright. I urgently need one hundred taka. If possible, send the amount soonest. You don't need to come."
Despite a certain degree of mystery shrouding the letter, a particular type of Shahana apa's character also emerged from within the lines: no shocking appeal, no hypocrisy and no hesitation.
A teacher of a junior girls' high school and celibacy herself, she certainly had faced a grave situation; otherwise, why would she remember him after such a long time and want money from him? She could be forty years old now. She had been living alone, away from parents for quite some time. Purely for school's sake, she had been living in the mofussil town for about 20 years, away from her near and dear ones. Her parents would visit her infrequently; also, she would reciprocate their visits during vacations and festivities. Initially, some marriage proposals came to her, but she refused. Borkot knew nothing more than that.
Borkot couldn't smother his curiosity; rather he became more inquisitive. What happened to her parents? Did the military reach there, too? Did they burn their homes and kill people there? Why did Shahana apa remembered him only? Didn't she have her relatives? How did she get his address? She might have gathered it from Borkot's uncle.
Necessity is the mother of invention. 'How far will you take me, my dear?' This poetic line provoked some sort of excitement in him as he remembered it suddenly.
He felt like seeing her. Surely, her body had undergone some changes over such a long time. Amid the present cruel uncertainty, still a particular memory evoked a fresh hope for the future. He decided to meet Shahana apa, and on his way back he thought he would go to his father-in-law's house to enquire about his wife and the kids. The changeover of the scene and characters would refresh his perverted mind.
To go to her, he would need to catch a motor launch from Narayanganj. The number of water transports-boats, steamers, and motor launches-plying in the river Shitalakhya decreased to almost one-fourth. The movement of the military people through Shitalakhya, however, swelled up the current of the river. There was a reflection of self-dependence in the lifestyle and attitude of the military.
All of a sudden, an officer called Borkot: "Come here."
Although Borkot's self-dignity was hurt by the thoughtlessly rude address, he advanced towards the three-star captain whose eyes were deep and unrealistically blue. His body had inherited the blood of the bastards, perhaps. The mole positioned at the left end of the line of his black mustache had added an inexplicable wildness to the manly captain's disposition.
When Borkot stood near him, the captain asked: "Where are you going?"
Without disclosing his destination, he informed the captain that he would go as far as the launch would go.
"Where are you coming from?"
Borkot told him the local address.
"Where's your identity card?"
This time Borkot had a problem: "I left it at home."
(To be continued)
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