গত কয়েকদিনে তিনটা ইংরেজী ছোটগল্প পড়লাম, যেগুলো বাংলা থেকে ইংরেজীতে অনুবাদ করা হয়েছে। ছাপা হয়েছে Daily Star পত্রিকায়। প্রথম দুটো হুমায়ূন আহমেদের লেখাঃ Mr. Jalil's Petition, বাংলায় পড়েছিলাম জলিল সাহেবের পিটিশন শিরোনামে। The Man who would not Die সম্ভবতঃ অয়োময় গল্পের অনুবাদ, মনে পড়ছে না। সৈয়দ মঞ্জুরুল ইসলামের Tabizwala আগে পড়িনি।
ভবিষ্যতে আবার পড়তে ইচ্ছে হতে পারে, তাই এখানে কপি করে রাখলাম।
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Mr. Jalil's Petition
Humayun Ahmed
(Translated from the Bengali original, Jalil Shaheb-er Petition, by Hasan Ferdous)
With a smile, he said, “I am a father of two martyred freedom fighters. Two of my sons died in 1971.”
I
looked up at him with surprise. There was nothing out of the ordinary
in the gentleman's face or demeanor. He was around sixty years of age,
though he looked rather fit for his age. He sat with his back held
erect, wore no eye glasses and seemed to have very clear vision. I
asked him, “But what brings you here?”
The gentleman remained
seated, unmoved. Displaying no apparent emotion, he said, “We found the
body of one of the boys. We buried him in Malibag. You see, my
youngest daughter lives there.”
“I see.”
“Yes, near Chowdhuripara in Malibag.”
“But what brings you to me?”
“Just for some chit chat. After all, you are new in this neighborhood; we should help you settle down.”
Still
smiling, the gentleman quietly sat there. I felt he was not really
smiling; he simply had a smiley face. In a quiet voice he said, “I live
in the alley next to your house.”
“I see.”
“Yes, at 13/2, there is a coconut tree right in front of the house. I hope you have noticed that.”
I
had not noticed it. Yet I nodded, suggesting that I had. I was
beginning to recognize the kind of person he was. He must be a retired
man, with not much for him to do these days. On a holiday like this, he
was out here looking for some neighbor to idle away his time.
“My name is Abdul Jalil.”
I was about to say my name, but held off at the last moment. The gentleman, in a raised voice, said, “I know, I know.”
“How about tea? Would you like some tea?”
“No,
thanks. I don't drink tea. In fact, I am into neither tea nor
cigarettes. The only vice that I have is chewing paan leaf.”
“Sorry, no one uses paan here.”
“Don't worry, I always carry my own paan.”
He
stretched his hand inside a carry bag and brought out a small paan
container. It was quite colorful. Like a food container, it included two
or three compartments. I managed not to exhale a deep sigh of
frustration. Clearly, the gentleman had come with a plan for staying
long. He would probably spend the rest of the morning here, narrating
the story of his two sons. There are many who enjoy recounting their
life stories to others in great detail. The gentleman, leaning forward,
said, “My dear Professor, would you like to try a paan?”
“Thanks, no.”
“But
paan is good for your health. It keeps your gall bladder cool. Those
who take paan regularly suffer no trouble with their gall bladder.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, sir! Juices from paan and honey, these two are the best medication for gall bladder.”
I
glanced at my wrist watch. It was half past ten. I had no classes
today at the university, though it would have been better if I had some.
Then I could have said, “Look, I am sorry, I have a class at 11:00.
Maybe you would like to visit me some other time, when you and I could
have more time to spend.” But on a holiday, this could not be told.
The gentleman brought out various condiments from his container. He sniffed each condiment. Then, with great care, wrapped his
paan.
It was clear to me that someone who spent so much time in preparing a
paan would find no reason to leave my place before noon.
Yet strangely enough, he stood up as soon as he slipped a
paan into his mouth. Smiling, he said, “Sorry, got to go. I wasted so much of your time.”
Overcoming my surprise, I said earnestly, “Please, stay a little longer. Are you in a hurry?”
He
declined to stay. I walked him up to the staircase. On my way back, I
found my landlord waiting at the porch, his eyebrows crinkled. With
obvious seriousness, he asked, “So, he was after you too, Professor.
What, did you put your signature down?”
“What signature?”
“Why, didn't you sign Mr. Jalil's petition?”
“What kind of petition?”
“Oh,
I don't have to explain all that to you. Soon you will know it all by
yourself. He will bore you to death. My advice to you, don't encourage
him.”
Feeling rather prickly, I returned home. Moving to a new
neighborhood can be quite hazardous. You have to introduce yourself to
complete strangers, something not always a pleasant experience.
However, with regard to Mr. Jalil, such a fear was rather unfounded.
Since our first meeting, I saw him only twice. He turned out to be
quite a nice gentleman. Once I met him in front of Green Pharmacy.
Seeing me, he came forward with a broad smile, “Ah, Professor, how are
you?”
“Fine, thanks. How about you? How come you never visited me again?”
“I am hard pressed for time. Very busy with the petition.”
I
chose not to continue the conversation. Saying I had to attend a
lecture, I hopped onto a rickshaw. The second time I saw him was at a
news stand at New Market. Sitting on his heels, he was busy scanning
newspapers. The newspaper boy kept staring at him coldly.
“What are you reading so attentively?”
Mr. Jalil looked up at me; it seemed he did not recognize me instantly. He had his glasses on.
“I see you are wearing glasses?”
“Oh, yes. I get headaches in the evening. These are reading glasses anyway. But, how are you, Professor?”
“Thanks, fine.”
“Will visit you soon, I would like you to see my petition. I already have some 14,300 signatures.”
“What sort of petition?”
“You will know once you read it. You are a learned man. You should have no trouble finding it out.”
I
thought it must be a petition to the government, appealing for money,
though I was not sure about the 14,000 signatures he mentioned. I
showed no particular interest in finding out. After all, there is no
dearth of crazy people in the world. If collecting signatures gave him
some kicks, I saw no reason to be concerned about it.
However, the
matter did not end at that. One evening Mr. Jalil arrived at my place
with the files containing all the 14,300 signatures. With a smile
pasted all over his face, he said, “Please read it carefully,
Professor.”
I began reading. It said, about a million Jews were
killed during the Second World War. Everyone found guilty of this
heinous crime was prosecuted and continues to be prosecuted. Why did
the criminals responsible for killing over three million people in this
country go off scotfree? How is it possible that no one thinks it
necessary to raise their voice against it? In his rather lengthy
petition, Mr. Jalil asked the government to take action.
I looked
squarely at Mr. Jalil. He spoke quietly, “I am not doing this because I
lost two sons. My boys were killed in the war. I seek no retribution
for their death. I demand justice for those who were dragged out of
their homes and killed. I hope you understand what I want.”
“Yes, I do.”
“I
knew you would. You are a learned man. But there are others who fail
to understand. There are some who seek forgiveness in the name of
humanity. They say, forget it, forgive them. Why, is forgiveness so
plain, so cheap?”
I remained silent. Mr. Jalil took out his paan
container and started wrapping a paan. In a quiet voice, he said, “Do
you think I will give up? Never. Two of my sons went down fighting. I
will fight, too, until I die. If necessary, I will collect the
signatures of each and every one in Bangladesh. Three million people
lost their lives. How is it possible to remain silent? Are we human
beings, or what?”
I examined his signature file. It was very well
arranged, with present and permanent addresses neatly written next to
each signature. It also included the names and addresses of relatives
of those killed in the liberation war.
“Some say I have gone
crazy. The other day I went to a newspaper office. The editor refused
to see me. A lad there told me, 'Why bother about bygones? Better
forget them, brother.' I must be as old as his father. Imagine, he
called me 'brother'!”
“And what did you say?”
“'Don't you
want these people to be put on trial?' I asked. He said nothing. As a
matter of fact, he did not dare to say 'no'. Just imagine, kids of his
age had gone to war and fought so bravely, haven't they?”
“Yes, you're right.”
“Take
your landlord, for instance. One of his brothers-in-law was snatched
out of his home and butchered. Can you believe that this man refused to
sign my petition! Such people don't even want to know what exactly I am
asking for. One of them said, “You better apply for an abandoned
property. You have lost two sons in the war, you have every right to
get a house.”
“What did you say?”
“What is there to say? Am
I petitioning for property? Why do I need a house? The lives of my
sons are so cheap that they want to pay me off with a house? How dare
they? All I want is a trial. A fair trial, that's all. It should be
held as per rules of civilized societies. Got it?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I
know you are a learned person. It is easy to convince someone like
you. Unfortunately, most are unwilling to understand. Sometimes I have
to visit three times for a signature. Well, that's no big deal. I am
not going to give up, no matter what, you bet.”
He left after
collecting my signature. Several days passed before I saw him again. I
was very curious about his campaign. Each time I saw him on the
street, I inquired, “So, how far have you gone?”
“I am still continuing, Professor. Please pray for me.”
“Are people putting down their signatures on your petition?”
“Not everyone. Many are scared.”
“Why, scared about what?”
“One
really can't tell. For some, fear is in their blood, it is in their
nature. However, I am not the one to give up. I am determined to force
them to a trial. What do you say? Isn't it the right thing to do?”
“Yes, yes.”
“I
have now divided people by districts. I plan to visit each and every
district. It's not easy, but what to do! What do you say?”
“Yes, that's right.”
“Besides,
collecting signatures alone won't be enough. You need evidence to
pursue a case. You have to prove that those who were killed were
innocent. I know they will hire tough and seasoned lawyers. Right?”
“Quite likely.”
“Do you know some good lawyers?”
“Not sure, let me find out.”
“Of
course you will. After all, you are not blind. You know what grave
injustices were done. But most people don't. It's a country full of
ignorant fools.”
Since that meeting, I lost track of Mr. Jalil. I
thought, with the fat file under his arm, he must still be canvassing
for signatures in districts around the country. Signatures must be
piling up, leaping from 12 to 15 thousand, then to 20 thousand. Who
knows, maybe he has already reached half a million signatures. If he is
able to do so, that would carry a lot of weight.
At the
beginning of the monsoon, I learned Mr. Jalil was suffering from asthma
and rheumatic fever. My landlord commented, “Oh, he is nuts. He has
never taken care of himself. He is unlikely to survive this time.”
“What, are you sure?”
“Ya, the doctor at Green Pharmacy told me so. I also visited him the other day.”
“Is his condition really that serious?”
“He won't survive the rains, I think.”
“Oh, no!”
“It's really very serious.”
However,
Mr. Jalil survived the monsoon. Soon he was out on the street, his
file under his arm, seeking more signatures. I met him one day in the
afternoon. I could hardly recognize him. He came forward to greet me,
“Why, isn't it the professor?”
“My, my, you look terrible.”
“Looks like I won't survive much longer.”
“What do you mean? What about your project? This is a heavy responsibility.”
“That's the only reason I am still alive.”
“How far are you with collecting signatures?”
“Some 15,000. Can't collect more than three or four hundred per month. Getting old. But remember, I am not ready to give up.”
“Please don't.”
“I will put each and every swine on the dock. The Jews have done it, why can't we do the same? Right?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“They killed three million people, not just a few. Bangladeshis are not cheap. They have to pay a price for this.”
I
lived in that neighborhood in Azimpur for about two years. During that
period, I got to know Mr. Jalil rather intimately. I visited him
several times. A widower, he lived off the income from the rent of part
of the two-storied house that he owned. His eldest son's wife with her
two little daughters stayed with him in the same house. Probably the
girls were twins. They were very jovial. I really loved visiting them.
Mr. Jalil's daughter-in-law was always very caring.
It seemed
the two kids knew everything about the petition. With utmost
seriousness, one of them once told me, “After grandpa finishes writing
his notebook, the people who killed my father will be put on trial.”
Little
girls like her aren't supposed to understand such a grave matter. I
thought Mr. Jalil must have spent time explaining everything to them.
I
often visited them even after I moved to another neighborhood. As time
progressed, these visits became few and far between. Soon I left for a
long trip abroad. Before leaving the country, I went to see him. He
was in Faridpur collecting signatures, I was told. No one knew when he
would return.
When living abroad, one always feels a different
kind of affection for home. That could be the reason why I often
thought of Mr. Jalil. I found myself agreeing with him that it was not
right that those responsible for killing three million people would
remain untried. What Mr. Jalil was doing was the right thing to do.
After all, we did not live in the Middle Ages, such crimes should not go
unpunished now.
On the weekends, expatriate Bengalis would gather
at my place, most of them undergraduate students. Among them was also a
professor of Mathematics at Muirhead University, Mr. Afsaruddin.
Everyone agreed to support Mr. Jalil's project. If necessary, on behalf
of the people of Bangladesh, we would raise the matter at the
International Court of Justice, and write articles in foreign newspapers
to organize international public opinion, we resolved. We even formed
“Abdul Jalil Action Committee” at Fargo, a city in North Dakota in the
US, with me as its convener and Professor Afsaruddin as president.
Expatriates always love thinking about the welfare of their motherland.
There is always a desire to do something that would make a difference.
I returned home after six long years.
In
the years gone by, Dhaka changed significantly, but Mr. Jalil's house
remained the same. It had the same pock-marked walls. The same coconut
tree stood in front of the house. As I knocked on the door of his house
one day, a pretty young girl, aged around 15, opened. She stared at me
inquiringly.
“Are you Mr. Jalil's granddaughter?”
“Yes.”
“Is he home?”
“But grandpa died two years ago.”
“Oh, really! I am an old friend of your grandfather.”
“Please come on in.”
I
spent sometime there. I was very keen to speak with her mother, but
she was not at home. The young girl wasn't sure when her mother would
return. Before departing, I asked, “What happened to the signatures
your grandpa was collecting? Do you still have them?”
“Yes, we do, but why?”
“I think the work that your grandpa had started should be finished. Don't you think?”
The girl seemed rather surprised. “I will come again,” I said, rising.
“Okay.”
The
girl walked me to the door. In a soft voice she said, “Grandpa often
said, there will come a time when someone will ask for this file.”
That was the last time I saw them.
My
interest in the matter soon disappeared. There were other priorities
to look after. In fact, there was an abandoned property in Mirpur, and I
was busy negotiating to purchase it. I had no time to waste over Mr.
Jalil's file and his signatures.
Mr. Jalil's granddaughter is
perhaps still waiting for my return. Perhaps she dusts off regularly
her grandpa's file. After all, most girls her age tend to believe in
everything people say.
Hasan Ferdous writes fiction and is a columnist and critic.
______
The Man who would not Die
Humayun Ahmed
Translated from the Bengali: Niaz Zaman
Badrul Alam was on his way to taravi prayers
that Ramzan evening, but paused in front of the bungalow and peeped
inside. The room was dark. Badrul Alam was surprised because, just
before beginning his magrib prayers that evening, he had
expressly ordered that lights be placed inside the bungalow. None of his
servants ever seemed to obey the orders he gave them. He started
trembling in his fury. Recently every time he became angry, he started
to tremble.
It was impossible to stand too
long inside the bungalow. The smell was nauseating. Who could imagine
that when the human body started to rot it would exude this dreadful
smell? The smell assailed one's nostrils and went right up to one's
brain. The head started throbbing. And one felt nauseated. Badrul Alam
covered his nose with his handkerchief. He should have covered his nose
before entering the bungalow. He had just eaten and might throw up his
entire dinner. He had told his wife not to give him food. He would eat
after taravi prayers, but his wife would not listen. Nowadays no one listened to him.
With his handkerchief to his nostrils, he called out, “Ai-ee, ai-ee.”
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Photo: Amirul Rajiv
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There was no response. He wondered
whether the man was dead. Strange, that he should still show no signs
of dying though half his body was rotting. The doctor at the Upazila
Health Complex had written him off. He had said, “What's the point of
keeping him in the hospital? Two days at the most? Take him home. He
will die in peace among his relations.”
And the asses had to bring him and
put him inside his bungalow. How ridiculous! Is this his house? He was
astounded at their audacity. The bungalow is used for several purposes.
People come to visit. And they leave a half-dead man here! The terrible
smell exuding from the bungalow will ward off visitors. One's gorge
rises at the stench.
He called a little louder, “Ai-ee, ai-ee.”
There was no response. He tried to listen carefully. There was no sign of any breathing. No sign of any movement.
I do believe he's dead. Strange,
the utter callousness of my servants! A man is about to breathe his last
any moment, and they have not bothered to give him a light. Despite my
having told them, just before magrib prayers, to give him a
light. Who knows how long ago he died? The place is dark. Maybe dogs and
jackals have dragged the body away and eaten it up.
He removed the handkerchief from
his nostrils. Immediately the smell assailed him, but he didn't allow
the smell to bother him too much. He lit a match. The room brightened up
slightly.
No, he's not dead. He's staring at
me. The doctor said he would not last more than two days. The doctors
of these days seem to know nothing. How can a patient who is supposed to
live for only two days, survive for thirteen?
Badrul Alam asked, “Are you alive?”
Yunus replied, “Yes, I'm alive.”
“When I called out a moment ago, why didn't you answer?”
Yunus did not reply. He had not
answered because he had been afraid. He is very afraid of Badrul Alam.
On top of that, he is not even a daily labourer in this house. He used
to work in a neighbouring village. They had not been willing to keep
him, so they had brought him over here. Even Badrul Alam had not been
willing to keep him. He hadn't said anything because he had heard that
the man would not last more than two days. On top of that, it was
Ramzan.
Badrul Alam said in an angry voice, “Didn't they give you any light in your room?”
“They did. It went out.”
Kupi lights tend to go out in the
breeze. Not many people come to the bungalow, so it's risky having a
hurricane lantern. A thief might come and take it away. This man will
just keep on staring. He will not be able to do anything.
“Did they give you something to eat?”
“Yes, they did.”
“That's good.”
Before Badrul Alam left the room, he lit the kupi once more. Let the light last as long as it could.
Everyone was waiting for him at the mosque. The taravi prayers started as soon as he entered. The prayers themselves did not take too long, but it seemed as if the doa would never end. The same doa
was repeated in Bengali, Urdu, Arabic – several languages. The
maulana's job was still temporary. It would be made permanent after
seeing how well he performed his duties during the month of Ramzan.
That is why the rascal is trying to impress me through a lengthy, multi-lingual doa. On top of everything, at the end of the doa, he has burst into loud sobs. How irritating!
Badrul Alam thought of giving the
maulana a piece of his mind. He was the chairman of the mosque
committee. Though it wouldn't seem proper on his part to say these
things, nevertheless, he would have to. People have their own
obligations. It wasn't possible for them to spend their whole nights in
prayer. The maulana reached the final portion of the doa. “Oh
dear friend of our dear prophet, if we do not raise our hands to you in
prayer, to whom can we turn? You yourself have said in the Quran Majeed,
'Marajal bahraini yaltakeian,' that is, He it is who has maintained the two huge expanses of water. 'Bainahum barzakur' that is, between them is a natural curtain.”
Badrul Alam grew even more irritated.
It seems as if tonight's prayers
will never end. It is necessary to say something to this maulana.
Because I have said nothing to him earlier, he is doing whatever he
pleases.
Finally, the doa came to an end. Badrul Alam said in a sombre tone, “Maulana Sahib, I'd like a few words with you.”
The maulana felt nervous at the
tone of Badrul Alam's voice. Not waiting for Badrul Alam to speak, the
maulana quickly said, “I went to him as you had ordered me to. He is
unwilling. This work cannot be done by force. If you wish, I will go
again today.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You told me to administer the taoba to him. He is unwilling to do taoba.”
Finally Badrul Alam realised what the maulana was talking about. He had told him last week to persuade Yunus to do taoba. If one does taoba, the job is completed within three days. He was under the impression that the maulana had made the man do taoba. Now he realised that the maulana had done nothing.
“Why doesn't he want to ask for pardon?”
“He's afraid. He doesn't want to die.”
“What relationship does living or dying have to do with his doing taoba?
Life and death are in God's hands. Come with me immediately. Make him
ask for God's pardon. He will not be unwilling to do so in my presence.”
“Very well, Sir.”
“On top of everything, it would be
better for him to die at this time. The gates of Paradise are wide open
for all who die during the month of Ramzan. What do you all say?”
Everyone nodded agreement. One
piped up, “Sir, even his own father and mother have not done what you
have for him. You have done more than twice what his parents would have
done.”
Badrul Alam asked in a grave tone,
“Who am I to do anything? God does everything. We are only the means.
The other day Kuddus Sahib came to me and said, 'What are you doing? Go
and throw him somewhere else.' I said, 'Kuddus Sahib, don't say such
things during the month of Ramzan.'”
One rebuke was enough to make Yunus Meah agree to do taoba.
The maulana said, “This time God
will save you from the tortures of Hell. You are now as pure as a
seven-day-old child. You will go straight to Paradise. Do you
understand?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Have you relinquished all earthly claims?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“No, no. You must say, 'I relinquish all earthly claims. No one owes me anything.'”
The maulana sahib was staying
inside the mosque. The mosque committee was supposed to have built him a
house next to the mosque, but it had not been built yet. Of course,
everyone was expecting Badrul Alam to build it. If he said, “Yes” once,
it would be enough.
The maulana sahib paid a visit to Badrul Alam on his way to the mosque.
Badrul Alam asked, “Has the taoba been properly taken care of?”
“Yes.”
“What is his condition now?”
“The end is approaching. No one lives more than three days after the taoba. But he'll go sooner.”
“What is wrong with him?”
“I don't know. What I see is that his body is rotting. The stench is terrible.”
“On the twenty-seventh day of Ramzan my daughter and her husband will be coming to stay.”
The maulana said confidently, “He'll not last beyond a couple of days.”
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Photo: Amirul Rajiv
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But Yunus Meah was still alive four
days later. If anything, he was even chirpier. But it was clear that his
condition was very bad. Previously, the stench had only surrounded the
bungalow, but now it started to enter the house itself. On the advice of
the Sanitary Inspector, phenyl was generously sprinkled around the
house. The smell, however, still persisted. Jackals started prowling
around the bungalow. They were unable to resist the smell of putrefying
human flesh.
Badrul Alam went to see him, handkerchief clamped to his nostrils. “How are you?”
“Well, Sir.”
“That's good.”
“I feel very afraid at night.”
“What's there to be afraid of?”
“Something prowls around at night. I don't see it. I only hear it.”
Hearing this, the maulana sahib said, “The time is swift approaching. Azrael is prowling around.”
Badrul Alam was disgusted at the
maulana's words. What nonsense! Azrael prowling around! Who knew whether
the rascal had made him say the taoba properly?
“Maulana Sahib?”
“Yes?”
“Has the taoba been administered properly?”
“Yes, definitely.”
“See whether you can have it done once more. I'm only saying this because of the man's suffering. For no other reason.”
“I'll make him say it once more today. There is no problem. The taoba can even be said twice in one day. There is a hadith of our Prophet's in this connection. Our dear prophet has said . . . .”
“Never mind all that. I will hear you another day.”
The maulana sahib said,
“Occasionally, when there is some secret longing, the soul does not want
to leave the body. It is necessary to find out if there is anything he
would like to eat. Or if there is someone he would like to see.”
“Very well, I'll find out.”
Yunus was astonished when he heard that he would have to repent a second time. He chirped up, “But I've done taoba once. I have not committed any sin after my taoba.”
The maulana said irritably, “Don't
be sacrilegious. It is not up to you to judge whether you have sinned
or no, but up to God Almighty.”
The taoba was administered once more.
After the taoba was over, Badrul Alam visited the dying man. “You there – how are you?”
“Very well.”
“Do you feel like eating anything?”
“No, Sir.”
“If you do, just say so.”
“I'd like to have rice with tamarind water.”
He was given rice with tamarind
water. As soon as he had finished eating, he started having difficulty
breathing. His chest heaved rapidly. His eyes seemed to be popping out.
Badul Alam sent word to the maulana. If anything happened it would be
better to have everything done during the daytime.
Nothing happened during the day. At night the breathing became somewhat easier.
The maulana retired for the night. Before leaving, he told Badrul Alam, “We will have to wait for another day.”
Badrul Alam said drily, “What will happen after one more day?”
“It will be the dark of the moon. His wheezing will become unbearable then.”
Badrul Alam said in an irritable
tone, “Sometimes you talk about Azrael, at other times you talk about
the dark of the moon. Does Azrael see whether the moon is full or no
before he appears?”
On the twenty-seventh of the moon,
the condition of Yunus was really grave. A rattling sound came from his
chest. He started foaming at the mouth. It was easy to see that he
would not last till morning. Mrs Badrul Alam also paid him a visit, with
her face muffled in her sari anchal. He had left his food uneaten on his plate. He had not even touched it.
Mrs Alam said, “Give him some water to drink. Can't you see that his lips are parched? Poor soul.”
Towards morning, Badrul Alam came to see how he was.
“You there! How are you?”
Yunus chirped up, “I'm fine, Sir.”
“No difficulty breathing?”
“No, Sir.”
Badrul Alam's face grew grave.
Yunus said, “At night a jackal
entered. He bit my hands and feet. Please tell them to keep a stick near
me. A hurricane lantern also.”
Badrul Alam said not a word. As it was, during Ramzan his temper was always high. Today his temper rose to the high heavens.
During iftari he told Majnu, “See that a stick is kept by Yunus's bedside. And a hurricane lantern.”
Majnu was a worker in Badrul
Alam's household. His work was to tend Yunus. This work was not to his
liking because by this time Yunus could not feed himself. He had to feed
him. Majnu felt like throwing up in disgust.
Majnu said, “That Yunus is a rascal.”
Badrul Alam looked at him. “Why?”
Majnu replied, “The maulana sahib made him do taoba twice, but the rascal did not say the taoba even once. Whatever the maulana asked him to say, he said the opposite in his mind.”
“Who told you this?”
“He told me so himself. One dies after saying the taoba, that is why.”
“What are you saying?”
“He is a real rascal.”
After magrib prayers, Badrul Alam dropped in to see Yunus. There was a stick next to Yunus. The hurricane lantern was lit.
“How's everything? I hear you haven't said the taoba.”
Yunus remained silent.
“Why didn't you say it? Are you joking with God? You're a real rascal.”
Yunus murmured softly, “I don't wish to die.”
For a long time Badrul Alam kept
looking at Yunus. One of his legs had swollen up like a bolster pillow.
Most likely the jackal had bitten that leg.
Yunus said, “If you insist, I'll say taoba once more. Properly.”
“Never mind, there's no need for
that any more. If you are so eager to live, let me see what I can do.
Come, I'll take you to Mymensingh . . . . Let's see what happens.”
Yunus did not quite understand. He kept staring blankly.
Badrul Alam arranged for a bullock
cart that night. First they would have to go to Netrokona. From
Netrokona to Mymensingh. If the doctors couldn't do anything there, they
would have to take him to Dhaka.
The bullock cart started at eight
that night. Badrul Alam surprised everyone by accompanying the cart
himself. A lot of running around would have to be done. It would not do
to rely on others.
“Yunus?”
“Yes?”
“Hang on there. Don't give up. I'm here.”
Yunus's eyes grew wet. He tried to hang on with all his might. The cart started to gain speed.
____
Tabizwala
Dr. Syed
Manzoorul Islam (born 1951) teaches English in Dhaka University. His
interest ranges from Shakespeare to Postmodern literatue, cultural
studies and literary theory. Besides academic articles he has written
extensively on Bangladesh art and culture, and contributes a regular
column for the daily Prothom Alo where he comments on political and
social issues.He is an award winning fiction writer who has published
five volumes of short stories and four novels. He received the Bangla
Academy award for literature in 1996 and one of his short story
collections, Prem O Prarthoner Golpo received the Prothom Alo best
fiction award and Kagoj literature prize in 2006.
.................................................................................................
Dr. Syed Manzoorul Islam
Selling
Tabiz
(locket with holy Verses, supposedly does miracle) was not Ubaidul
Mabud's primary profession. He was a hardware trader, selling
hammer-anvil, nail-screw, nuts-bolts, locking wire and sand paper.
Having a shop at Purbodhola
bazar (market), his earning was not
negligible. It was enough for two souls; his mother and him. He had
some extra cash that he saved in a local Shonali Bank in Islamic way.
Selling Tabiz was his
passion, or can be said to be an obligation that he found in his dreams.
One night, his dead grandfather, known in the market as Umedul Bepari,
who also was the founder of Ubaidul's hardware shop, appeared in his
dream. In the dream, he said to his grandson “take the Tabiz!” A surprised Ubaidul asked “why grandfather?” Umedul replied “because I said so – take one for yourself and also for others.”
“For others too?” A surprised Ubaidul asked.
Umedul yelled at his grandson in
the dream, and said “dummy, do I have to tell you everything? It is for
the people around you, the ones who are in pain, distress and in
trouble. But not for free, nothing works for free, free food puts in Char in your stomach, go start working.”
Ubaidul took advice from the
madrassa teacher, Abu Bakkar, about the dream. He gave him few holy
verses from the Quran, and also explained which ones do what kind of
miracle. But, he was not approving the fact that no money would be taken
for the Tabiz. He mentioned that it is not fair to take money for Tabiz especially from the needy – he even used the word “inhuman”.
Ubaidul told Abu Bakkar that in
his dream his grandfather had said “anything free is not good, free food
puts in Char in your stomach”.
“What is Char?” Abu Bakkar wanted to know.
Ubaidul looked around for a moment and admitted that he didn't know either.
Ubaidul studied in the madrassa
for a few years, and then went to Purbodhola high school. He finished
his School Certificate from there but didn't study any further. His
writing in Arabic is not bad.
Later, he went to Mymensingh to get supplies for his hardware store, he also bought a few Tabiz lockets; some were square and some round shaped.
2
It is a common saying, and he also read in the books that a “a baker doesn't eat his own bread”. That is why he never got a Tabiz for himself, even after his dead grandfather's advice to do so. He didn't have any problems in his life anyway to have a Tabiz for himself.
People from all are around were buying Tabiz
from him. He was selling at least two a day – even five to six during
examination times or when there was a outbreak of a disease in the
villages. To respect both his dead grandfather's wishes and the good-man
Abu Bakkar's advice, he didn't charge much for the Tabiz he
sold. He saved the money he received from the sale, but not in a bank
anymore, inside a small hole of a bamboo pillar of his house. The saving
was for his sick mother. Within two months, he found the saving had
become quite large. So, he paid his respect to his heavenly grandfather
and to the madrasah teacher, Abu Bakkar. He was the one who campaigned
in the villages, saying “buy Tabiz from Ubaidul, he has received the Tabiz divinely in his dreams.” Therefore, Abu Bakkar was the biggest contributor for his large client group.
Ubaidul thought, may be it was
because of his mother that his dead grandfather appeared in his dream.
His mother, all her life took care of the old man. At the end of his
grandfather's life, for at least a year, Ubaidul' mother became the sole
care-giver of his grandfather. His grandfather was not unfaithful,
maybe this was his payback. Otherwise, why would his Tabiz gain such popularity in such a small period of time and at such young age of his? He was not even married yet.
3
He still didn't take the Tabiz
his grandfather advised him to take – he didn't feel the need to. It
made him worried sometimes, and then he forgot all about it. He was a
busy man – there was a lot in his mind.
But suddenly, one day he clearly realized why his humorous grandfather wanted him to take up the Tabiz.
It was actually Rowshon Ara who gave him the realization. One day she came to his hardware store to buy nails and wire.
For the readers, the “behind the
story” should be known. Purbodhola Bazar was not Bashundhara shopping
mall, where a 20/22 year old girl would show up by herself to buy nail
and wire, driving a car wearing jeans tops swinging car keys.
Rowshon Ara or Rowshon was a singer of a Jatra (village drama) group. It was no more proper to call it Jatra. The word “Jatra”
carries an anti-religious connotation. It was therefore, preferred to
call it a “cultural group”. Cultural groups were usually invited by the
local officials or by the youth supporters groups of the government in
power. It served both the villagers and the organizers. Villagers
enjoyed music and dance while the organizers had their pockets full with
by selling tickets. Rowshon was in the village to sing in her maternal
uncle's “cultural group”. Her uncle was a good person - took good care
of her. They were preparing the stage for the program to be held soon in
the village.
Seeing Rowshon, Ubaidul's heart
started to beat faster. Is she merely a girl or a fairy? Rowshon threw a
sweet smile towards him. That smile made her even more appealing to
Ubaidul. For two straight days Ubaidul attended the “cultural show”, but
eventually, Rowshon left after it. But, during these two days, Ubaidul
gathered all the information about Rowshon; her hometown, her father's
name and almost her full “curriculum vitae”. It was not fair to say that
he decided, rather, he promised to himself that he wanted to see the
end of this – his infatuation towards Rowshon. He started to tell his
dead grandfather “I don't need Tabiz” – he started to laugh out loud.
4
Like every night, after dinner,
he sat beside his mother to talk. He started to say “listen mother, my
blood starts to dance when I look at Rowshon, I go insane. I want her in
my arms. What should I do? Oh! mother, how appealing is her eye, her
nose, her neck, her cheek and her breast. Even you would go insane had
you seen her beast. Feels like fondling them with my two hands. Her
belly is like the one of a Boal (Catfish); white and soft. And, her
waist is like the one of a lizard.”
He continued to say, “honestly,
mother, I have never seen such a beauty in this earth. What should I do?
I am having wet-dreams thinking about her. I just can't take it
anymore”.
His mother just kept gazing,
like she had been doing for the last three years. She was in a
vegetative state, couldn't speak, only made groaning sounds through her
vocal cords. Three years ago, she slipped and fell on the concrete floor
of the pond ghat (quay), and broke her hips. From then, she was in this
condition – the lower half of her body is paralyzed – the bed was her
world.
5
The next day Ubaidul told his
mother his plan. In a week, he was going to go look for Rowshan. Her
hometown is in Oshtogram in Kishorganj.
Who was going to take care of his hardware store?
Who else but Altab, Ubaidul's
cousin, almost same age as him, or could be a year or two older than
him. Altab was the lazy type, never had any education – he loafed around
with a fascination to fashion. But, he had no money to realize his
passion for fashion. Ubaidul gave him a job in his hardware store, let
him live in his house, and paid him some pocket-money. Altab loved
Ubaidul's paralyzed mother. He regularly used to rub oil on her mother
and also took good care of her.
Ubaidul's
father died the year he was born. Without a father, his grandfather
raised him. He has no memories of his father – all memories are about
his grandfather. He once said to his grandfather that he would give
Altab a
Tabiz, which would lead him to a straight path.
One night, while speaking to his
mother, Ubaidul realized that his mother wanted Altab to get married. A
girl at home will be a great help at home, taking care of his mother.
He kept the one-way conversation
with his mother “Altab should get married? You are saying so mother?”
He kept laughing out loud saying that. There are reasons to laugh. For
the last four years Altab himself tried to get married but with no
avail. What kind of father would give away his daughter to no-good man
like Altab? How can a man take care of a wife when he is living on the
mercy of his cousin brother?
Unwillingly, because of his mother's wishes, Ubaidul gave Altab a Tabiz. But, it was not for a better future but for marriage. A Tabiz, that was full-proof. He told “get rid of all the dirty thoughts off your mind. Men with dirty thoughts never get married”.
Ubaidul knew, what he said was
not true. It was actually people with bad thoughts who get married
having grand ceremonies. And, people with pure thoughts like Altab, sits
at home sucking their thumb. Once, while rubbing oil on his aunt's back
Altab said “my skin is becoming a wrinkled paper, and there is fire on
each groove. Still, I can't get a wife, what a life I have!”
6
Grandfather Umedul Bepari was
was always proud of Ubaidul for his wisdom and bravery, and also for his
street-smartness. The readers too, should be proud of Ubaidul for his
quick success of having Rowshon Ara in his life. How was it possible? A
girl, only six months ago came to Obaidul's store with her uncle to buy
nails, gave him a neutral smile looking at Ubaidul's his lewd look
–agreed to a proposal of the man. Wasn't Rowshan Ara Pretty? Didn't she
have a heavenly voice? Then what fault did she have that she could not
deny such a mid-income man like Ubaidul? Rather, in the second day, she
said “you are a good man, I like you”.
If it were you (readers) or I,
unlike Ubaidul, we would've done something drastic knowing that Rowshon
had agreed to the proposal. But, Ubaidul was a responsible man – he
approached in a practical manner. No matter how eager he was to have
Rowshon in his life, he kept his cool. He told Rowshon's uncle, “give us
gifts of any kind, I have no demand”.
Some political leader of a
government supported youth group wanted to marry Rowshon. She would
never agree on a marriage like that. She would've been kicked out of the
marriage within a week.
Rowshon Ara wouldn't do the same
mistake three times. She was married twice before. Her first marriage
was with a contractor from Kishorganj named Nabiullah. Second one was
with a Homeopathy doctor from Ostogram named Anasuddin. Her first
marriage lasted only for three months. At beginning of the fourth month
of the marriage, Nabiullah came home drunk, beat her with Khorom (wooden
slipper), and kicked her out. Even in the second marriage, within few
days her husband's other wife kicked her out.
Rowshon Ara's uncle wanted
Ubaidul to know about her past, but she insisted he didn’t do so. She
knew the world. Life was hard singing in a “cultural group”, most
demands in life can't be met.
One rainy day, Ubaidul brought
Rowshon Ara from Ostomgram to Purbodhola. The journey for him was like
walking through clouds on rose petals. Having her sit beside his mother,
he said “look mother this is your daughter-in-law, my Rowshon”.
Rowshan startled touching her
mother-in-law's feet, it was stone cold. She took the duty to start a
new life on those stone cold feet. Ubaidul watched in amazement that
Rowshon was going to devote her time to his mother; rubbing oil on her
body and feet, giving her baths, combing her hair and feeding her,
sleeping with her for the afternoon nap.
He prayed to God with heart full of debt. He told Altab, “brother, marriage is a gift from god – it fulfills one's life.”
Taking a long breath, Altab said, “what is the use of telling me all these? I will never be able to get married.”
Ubaidul felt ashamed, and thought about giving him another Tabiz,
this time he would take the least possible fee. He remembered what his
grandfather had said “free food puts char in the belly”.
At night he brought the matter
of Altab's marriage to his mother. “The helpless guy, Altab, should be
getting married soon, don't you think?” asked Ubaidul to his mother. He
is burning inside, anymore of this burning will turn him into coal – he
will not remain a human being anymore. Mother! What a pleasure, having a
life partner at home. Every night now, I am in a trance. Whenever I
touch Rowshan, I feel electricity in my body…”
Seeing Rowshon entering the room, Ubaidul stopped talking, he felt shy. To hide his shyness, he started to talk about Altab.
Rowshon smiled politely and said “It would be great if Altab Bhai gets married, I will gain a friend to hang-out with.”
Ubaidul brought the issue of his
mother's illness into the conversation. In the month of Poush-Magh
(Bangla calendar months), he will take his mother to Dhaka. “A proper
treatment will surely make her able to walk and talk, I am sure” he
said.
Rowshon felt pity for Ubaidul –
she combed his hair with her fingers and said “it requires a lot of
money for that kind of treatment.”
“I know that, but I have saved enough in my bamboo bank” replied Ubaidul.
Rowshon started murmuring a song. She knew, whenever she sang the mother shuts her eyes off.
Maybe the mother once liked
songs or to sing. She has to ask Ubaidul about it, but not now. Now he
was in a trance, holding her tightly with his mouth near her neck.
She saw, Altab peeking at them from a cover with tear in his eyes.
7
One morning, Ubaidul woke up
from sleep a bit late. He felt a heightened sensation from the Oghrayon
(Bangla calendar month) air. Moreover, he had a splendid night with
Rowshon. They decided to have a child after treating his mother from
Dhaka. He felt sorry for missing the Fazar prayer.
It was not going to happen again
tomorrow, he said to himself, and laid his hand on Rowshon – or he
thought he did. But, she was not there – nowhere. Springing up from bed,
he laughed at himself thinking Rowshon was in the bathroom. Then, he
looked around for her for a while, and realized she didn't go the
bathroom– she went to with Altab – they eloped.
Eloped with Altab?
Yes, readers. We are not
exaggerating any bit. Rowshon eloped with Altab in the early morning.
Neither Rowshon nor Altab was found at home. Also, with them, gone was
the saved money in Ubaidul's Bamboo bank. He couldn't tell how much
money was saved, not less than 4,000 taka for sure.
No, it was more than that. When Altab was counting, we (readers) saw, it was 4,820 taka.
8
Few days went by after the incident. Don't ask Ubaidul how those days
went by, but they did fly away. Like he always used to, one night he
sat beside his mother. There were a for few days gap in between the
sitting with his mother. The mother must've been worried and surprised
not to see her son sit beside her. Ubaidul said, “mother, I am feeling
very happy now. Do you know why? My Tabiz has worked on Altab. He is now a married man.”
Whatever the mother replied was
not understood, but Ubaidul said “Don't worry about me mother.” Like my
grandfather told me, I will get one Tabiz for myself now. And
it will not be for free. I will save that money in my bamboo bank. What
do you think? It will not take time to fill up a bamboo Bank.”
“If you ask me mother, I am
really not into slim women. Didn't you see Rowshon? She was thin as a
stick, not an ounce of fat in her body. Thin women like she have small
breasts, they produce little milk for a baby. My Tabiz will be
for a healthy woman – they are good wife and mother. They produce lots
of milk, a baby can drink as much as it desires.”
Illustration by Ujjal Ghose
Translated by Zia Nazmul Islam
