Goffar’s shop is right next to the Press Club. Across from it is the Cooperative Bureau Office, and the District Commissioner’s Office is on the other side. Many people gather around 11 o’clock at Gaffar’s shop for a tea break. In front of the Bureau Office, there’s ankle-deep water. Office staff cross the gate by stepping on a few bricks placed as makeshift paths. About a week ago, the municipality piled up the large drain wastes on one side. The rain has soaked it, spreading an awful stench. Gaffar’s shop is built over the drain with a slab covering it. Despite this, business is good. During the tea break, the gathering becomes quite lively. In fact, if one were to observe, these people may seem to have no other business in this universe except to chat and socialize.
Many people come to refresh themselves over a cup of tea and by stretching their limbs. Today is no exception. The smell from the drain waste no longer bothers them. Fahim’s boarding house is nearby. He was reading a newspaper after ordering tea. Just then, Ramiz arrived. He was close to forty, with a few streaks of white in his hair and beard. Despite being a humorous talker, anyone who spent enough time with him could sense a hidden rebel within. Ramiz worked at the Cooperative Bureau. While tearing open a cake packet, he said,
“So, Fahim? Are you covering the entire bill today?”
Without taking his eyes off the newspaper, Fahim replied, “Why bother this poor lad when there are wealthy men like you around?”
Ramiz chuckled, “You’re quite the man, brother! You landed the job and didn’t even let us know?”
“I only got to know a few days ago,” Fahim said casually.
“And then you disappeared?” Ramiz asked.
“I had to go to Chittagong, to my middle sister’s place,” Fahim explained.
“Everyone doing well over there?” Ramiz asked, still munching on his cake and occasionally wiping off crumbs from his face.
“Yes, they’re fine. Just went to see them for a bit,” Fahim replied.
Ramiz, chewing on his cake, nodded and remarked, “Good you went. If you don’t stay in touch, relationships fade. Even real siblings can become strangers.”
Fahim, a tall young man of twenty-eight, stood at five feet eleven with a fair complexion. His thick eyebrows and a small scar on his left cheek added a hint of ruggedness. Physically fit, he wasn’t overly fashionable but had an understated charm. Today, he had come out in a loose T-shirt and trousers. His face was a bit puffy, indicating he hadn’t been up for long. Despite his relaxed attire, Fahim had a magnetic personality; he could effortlessly captivate people of all ages.
The shop was filled with a few more customers, each engaged in their own conversations, yet without anyone feeling overheard. Just then, Ahsan from the DC office walked in, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He lit it from the hanging lighter in front of the shop and released a puff of smoke. Ahsan’s face was marked with deep acne scars, resembling the aftermath of a woodpecker’s relentless pecking. He also had a constant trickle of saliva at the corner of his lips when he spoke.
Fahim greeted him, “How are you, Ahsan Bhai?”
“I’m doing okay, but not like you! Living life carefree, and I heard you’ve got a job at Promila’s school too? Such luck isn’t in our fate,” Ahsan replied, laughing slightly.
Ramiz placed a hand on Ahsan’s shoulder and inquired, “How’s your daughter? Is she better now?”
Ahsan sighed, “That’s what I’m struggling with. Planning to take her to Fatima Hospital in Jessore. My in-laws are making all the arrangements; they live near Benapole.”
Ahsan’s seven-year-old daughter was suffering from a skin condition that caused severe itching and rashes. It was affecting her studies, and Ahsan also worried about her future, thinking about her marriage prospects as she grew older. Fahim, with genuine concern, suggested, “Yes, take her there. We don’t have good doctors here.”
Trying to change the topic, Ahsan turned to Ramiz and asked, “I heard your Cooperative Bureau has launched some new schemes? How’s that going?”
Ramiz nodded, “Not bad. We’re working with a different strategy compared to banks.”
– Not bad. We operate with some strategies that are different from those of banks. Our rules are somewhat lenient, you could say.
Ahsan, in agreement with Fahim’s tone, added, “All the managers are scoundrels. They sleep comfortably in their wives’ laps. You’re issuing such huge projects, and if they get two kilos of mutton, they won’t even bother to inspect the raw materials.”
“What can you do? This is a problem across the entire subcontinent. Everyone’s just out to survive, pretending to care about the country. People work from dawn till dusk, and if GDP rises even a fraction, all the credit goes to those in power. Pure four-legged beasts, that’s what they are,” Fahim responded sharply.
Ramiz laughed, “Pure four-legged beasts! You said it well. We got married and ended up in the same herd.”
After a pause, Ramiz looked up at the shop’s ceiling with a hint of disappointment and asked Fahim, “Do you think the government will change? Will the elections be held under a caretaker government?”
“I don’t know, but it should be. Which government do you have faith in? The military was overthrown to establish democracy, but what did that achieve? Looking at the current state, you can’t call it anything but a mass grave for democracy.”
Ahsan, a simple man burdened with many worries about his household, still couldn’t completely ignore such matters. Sipping his tea, he said, “You should let these thoughts go, Fahim. Think about yourself. You’re also part of society. Taking care of yourself is also taking care of the country.”
Ramiz, with a sarcastic smile, gestured towards Ahsan and remarked to Fahim, “Did you hear that logic? That’s what I call government officials!”
Ramiz paused for a moment and then asked Fahim, “Are you still applying for jobs? You should aim for something better.”
“I haven’t thought about it that way yet,” Fahim replied.
“What are you saying? If bright young men like you give up in this rat race, where will that leave us?” Ramiz lamented.
Fahim turned his gaze towards the small television playing in the shop. “Success, Ramiz Bhai? What is the definition of success? Look at the non-stop praise for the government on TV—is this our success? I think just staying alive is the real success these days. The other day, right in front of the Press Club, there was a human chain protesting against the invasion of Indian products, and the police came and fired tear gas. When silencing freedom of speech becomes the goal of democracy, what more can you expect? And here we are, eating, drinking, and relaxing without a word of protest.”
Ramiz put his hand on Fahim’s shoulder and spoke in a despondent tone, “Do you think the world will change with just words? Once, I was deeply involved in student politics. I’ve seen life up close, and I don’t want to step into that filthy, rotten sewer again.”
“But does that mean we shouldn’t protest?” Fahim asked.
“Your protests seem useless to me,” Ramiz replied.
“Many people have tried to change society, and in the end, everything goes astray. Look around, the whole area is now infested with misguided Naxals. But what manifesto did they start with? Was this plundering and looting their goal?”
An elderly man, wearing glasses, who had been sitting quietly in the shop, wiped his nose with the corner of his lungi and chimed in, “You know what this country needs? A Hitler-like regime. Unless you beat the skin off their backs, this politics of laziness won’t stop.”
The old man spoke so naturally that it seemed as if he was one of the young men in the discussion. Whenever politics came up, everyone wanted to contribute something. Even if they didn’t have deep knowledge, everyone felt entitled to speak.
Ahsan chuckled at the old man’s words. He removed one of his sandals and crossed his leg, casually running his hand over his bare foot. “Uncle, you’ve hit the nail on the head. I hear there’s another hartal coming up soon? Even if there is, we’ll still have to go to the office. My daughter has her term exams, and even if not, I’d still have to check in at the school.”
Ramiz sighed, “What can we do if there’s a hartal? We just have to accept it. I understand many things, Fahim, I do. I’ve witnessed so many corrupt acts, and there’s so much bitterness in my heart, but I feel powerless. I have a family to take care of. You’re young, without those responsibilities. It’s up to you to try.”
Addressing Ramiz directly, Fahim asked, “Did my words hurt you?”
Ahsan playfully patted Fahim on the back, “Hurt him? You killed him! You’ve given him such a big wound. Do you know what a fierce student leader he once was? Anyway, I better get going; my tea break is over.”
Paying Gaffar, Ramiz and Ahsan got up and left. Fahim stayed behind for a bit. The cook at his boarding house hadn’t come today, so he thought he might go to his sister’s place for lunch. He felt lethargic, though. Maybe he would just eat some bread and go back to sleep. He was stuck in indecision. His new job at the school was set to start next week. Just then, the familiar beggar came in. His uneven teeth stuck out like a sickle, as if ready to take a strong bite out of anything. Gaffar handed the beggar a banana. Fahim tore off a piece of cake and placed it in the beggar’s hand, telling Gaffar to “write down” before walking out. The beggar immediately sank his teeth into the cake, biting off nearly half of it in one go.
Read Chapter 2 here.
