Translated from the Bengali into English by Mohammad Shafiqul Islam
I have a splitting headache.
I didn’t care headaches that much all these years. No one can stand negligence, neither can a disease. When a disease figures out it’s being uncared for and therefore disregarded, it goes away in a furious mood, but in my case the opposite occurs. Neglected, my headache boosts up. Once I can understand my headache begins to descend down my backbone. It’s a compelling need to take steps urgently – I enter a pharmacy to buy four paracetamol tablets so that I can take two tablets and keep the other two in the pocket for further use.
It’s been my habit for many years that I usually read out the name of the store I get in to buy something. Sometimes, I see wonderful names that are very interesting as well. I found a stationery store named ‘Neelachal,’ another restaurant ‘Jhal-Jhol’. I’ve observed that the stores with beautiful names don’t usually run long. ‘Jhal-Jhol’ couldn’t run more than one month, and a new restaurant replaced ‘Jhal-Jhol’ – the name became New Medina Biriyani Kebab House. A bearded goat appears in the signboard – this restaurant is running very well.
What I’ve been talking about – I quickly read out the name before getting into the pharmacy. Though not new, the name ‘Prescription’ is indeed modern. The name seems not only modern but befitting as well. Prescription does actually mean pharmacy.
Four paracetamol tablets cost four takas. Very cheap treatment for an intensely painful disease called headache. As I ask, a salesperson brings me a glass of water. I instantly take two tablets but get taken aback while paying. Great wonder, I don’t find my moneybag. I’m sure I haven’t been pick-pocketed. Maybe, I’ve left home without the moneybag. I could return the tablets if I didn’t already take two of them. I fall in an embarrassing situation and can’t make out what to tell them. With a doubting look, the salesperson is keeping watch over me.
It seems the owner of the store has also been observing the matter from a slight distance. Coming forward, he says in a grave voice, “Would you come to my room?” The situation tips off that I’ve to bear some cruel words for only four takas.
I get into his room and quickly seek apologies, “I’m sorry that I can’t pay right now. But I promise to pay you early morning tomorrow.”
The gentleman assures me, “You’re so anxious as you can’t pay only four takas? Brother, you rather take two files – you don’t have to pay. Sit on the front chair and drink a steaming tea – your headache may abate soon.”
I’m thrilled at the gentleman’s behavior. Time has changed a lot – we can’t expect good behavior from loved ones whereas this person is unfamiliar. I ask him, “May I know your name, please?”
The gentleman replies, “Of course, you’ll never forget if you hear my name even only once. My name is Koyla.”
I’m astounded, “Koyla?”
“Yes, Koyla, I’m not making fun – my name is really Koyla. My skin was exceptionally fair when I was born. Overwhelmed with joy, my father said, ‘My son is as black as coal – what’s the matter?’ Since then, my name is Koyla. As of fun, everyone used to call me Koyla, but my good name is Mohammad Sanwar Hosen.”
I take a look at Sanwar sahib very keenly. The gentleman is indeed handsome given that his skin is fair. Now about forty, his hair is turning grey, and he looks more handsome probably for his grey hair – there are some people in the world who look better with grey hair.
“What about your headache now?”
“It’s abating slowly. Now I’m feeling better.”
“Would you close your eyes for only one minute?” asks Sanwar sahib in a mysterious voice.
“Why?” I ask back.
“I’ll rub an ointment on your forehead and eyelids – a Burmese ointment named ‘Tiger Balm’. Headache will flee away in three minutes.”
I follow him, and the gentleman massages the balm on my forehead and eyelids. I begin to feel comfortable, and the headache seems to almost subside after the massage.
“Have your eyes closed for three minutes – don’t open.”
With my eyes closed, I ask, “Do you massage the balm to whoever comes to your store with headache?”
“No, we don’t, but as you’re a writer, you’re special to us.”
“Really?”
We’re now served tea and shingara. Very hot shingara tastes good – this one is tastier. The tea isn’t as good as the shingara, yet it’s not bad at all. As a writer, I surprisingly get some extra care now and then. Great writers feel bored and embarrassed, but since I’m ordinary, I feel pleased though I try to keep my feeling pent-up.
I take a glimpse at the gentleman’s sitting room while taking tea. There’s a mark of good taste in the pharmacy name, so is in his room decoration – the room is trimmed so well. He has spread a carpet on the floor – various indoor plants around too. One of the plants has got a blue flower looking like a button – a very spectacular view that feasts eyes. Plants aren’t usually seen in a businessman’s house. There are two books on the table; one of them is Doomsday and Life after Death; the other isn’t certainly a novel or any story but rather a serious book. There is a photograph of the gentleman’s young age hung on the wall. With a cigarette in his lips, he leans against a bicycle in the photograph.
Sanwar sahib makes clear, “It’s my father’s photograph.”
“I thought it’s you in your youth.”
“Many people think so, but I haven’t yet dared to hang my own photograph in the office room.”
“Your father was very handsome, like a film hero.”
Laughing, Sanwar sahib says, “My father spent most of his life in quest of an opportunity to work in the film industry. He’d enter FDC in the morning and return at eleven or twelve at night – he’d go there well-dressed, sometimes also offering the assistants of directors cigarettes and doing any of their work instantly. In return, they’d give him an opportunity, though once in a blue moon, in passing shots.”
“What’s passing shot?”
“Suppose in a scene of a film, the hero and the heroine are talking. In the meantime, a person walks in a long distance, but the main story isn’t related to him or her. As the person walks in the distance, the frame appears packed. The shot of this person is called a passing shot.”
“Really?”
“But his earnest efforts to attract the attention of directors and producers didn’t turn futile. My father could attract the attention of an extra though directors and producers disappointed him.”
“What is extra?”
“A heroine has a number of confidants in a film, and they’re called extra. When the heroine goes to fetch water, they accompany her. They also participate in the waist-jerking dance this time. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I do.”
“My father’s intimacy with an extra reached climax very fast, and in one auspicious day, he married her. The only support that Baba had during this time was his handsome look and a Hercules bicycle. You can see the picture in which he leaned against the bicycle. Can’t you see?”
“I can.”
“You must be bored hearing my father’s story. The story will end within a short time. The driver has come – don’t worry, he’ll drop you.”
“Brother, I don’t need the car as I live nearby – just a walking distance.”
“I can’t let you do that; you must ride the car. My father had only one secondhand bicycle whereas I have three cars. Shouldn’t I show them?”
“Do you own three cars?”
“But I have only two cars at present as I sold one. I’m going to buy a luxury microbus soon. Don’t assume that I earn so much from this pharmacy – I have other businesses. I own a Chinese restaurant at Gulshan. I also work in the import-export sector, but I started my business with this pharmacy.”
“Really?”
“Let me finish the main story. Take a cigarette, and listen to the story while smoking – the end is very interesting.”
I light a cigarette. In the meantime, another tea is given – this tea is far better than the earlier one. I’m listening to the story while sipping the tea. Sanwar sahib’s technique of storytelling is good. He tells a story fast, pauses in an important point, and then starts again. He tells it as though he doesn’t feel interested – just telling a story for the sake of telling. He’d feel better if he didn’t have to tell the story.
“Baba would live in his distant uncle’s house at Khilgaon. He probably gave a hint to his uncle that he’d marry his younger daughter. Otherwise, this clever uncle of my father would never give him shelter. As Baba married the extra against his expectations, he drove him off the house right away. Baba fell in trouble with the newly married girl, later staying in different houses of his relatives in Dhaka, and there were no more relatives left after a certain time.
Baba began to find a job in FDC. He was desperate for any kind of job in the showbiz. He wouldn’t even mind sweeping floors, holding an umbrella for an artiste, carrying heroines’ sandals and so forth. Within a short time, he began to work as a production boy. He had to do hard work, but the salary was terribly insufficient though the meals were free. There were scopes to steal though Baba could never take any chance as he was very uncomplicated, and you must know such kind of people are honest. There’s no thief in an uncomplicated person.
In these disastrous times, Baba became the father of a son who was named Sanwar Hosen. Baba would affectionately call his son Koyla Baba.
“Are you that Koyla Baba?”
“Yes.”
“Where would you live then?”
“Baba rented a house in a shanty near FDC. The rent was not much, yet it became impossible for my father to pay. I’ve nearly finished the story. Light another cigarette. The story will come to an end as soon as the cigarette finishes.”
“You take time to finish the story – I’m not in a hurry. Besides, the story is very interesting.”
Sanwar sahib begins the story with a smile on his face, “I was born in the early morning of an Eid day. That’s why, Baba thought that his son was lucky, and he’d change his father’s fortune. They also found some indications. I began to earn from the age of only seven days. I don’t know if anyone in the world younger than me could start earning – Guinness Book should have recorded my name.”
“What does it mean earning at the age of seven days? What kind of earning?”
“Earning by acting. A newborn is often required in the film line. Sometimes a heroine in a film gives birth to a child who is stolen, and the people involved with the film look for this kind of babies. I’m that baby. It’s not necessary for the baby to act. If the baby can only move hands and legs and can cry, that’s enough. Therefore, I began to perform in a film at the age of seven days – the name of the film was Dalim Kumar. I’m that Dalim Kumar.”
“Interesting indeed!”
“Yes, certainly. The name of my second film was Kamala Sundari. I became ill when shooting of the second film was going on, and it was in a winter night. Let me describe the scene – after my birth, my ill-fated mother went away keeping me in a jungle. I was sleeping there, and wild birds and animals would come to see me. Once I woke up and began to cry. That time the king of the country came for hunting. Concerned about my cries, he took me instantly from there. Seeing me as beautiful as an orange, he gave me the name Kamala Sundari. I played the role of a girl in this film. Hope you can understand.”
“Yes, I can.”
I fell sick at some point during the shooting of Kamala Sundari. It was a winter night, and a lot of shots were taken that night. I had to remain bare skinned, and so loads of cough clogged up in the chest – it was a life-and-death situation, and I was admitted in the hospital. In the meantime, the rent of the shanty house was due. The landlord would threaten twice a day – in the morning and in the evening. To state in the literary language we fell in “deep darkness”. Then suddenly, my father got a way for good luck – someone in the film industry was murdered.”
I become both surprised and confused, “I can’t figure out the connection between someone’s murder and your father’s good luck.”
Sanwar sahib smiles, “I’m making it clear – it’s not so difficult at all. Do you know punishment is bought and sold? A person sells his punishment to another in exchange of money. The actual criminal isn’t punished – one who takes the charge by receiving money gets the punishment.”
“I’m still in the dark, can’t understand anything.”
“Let me explain more simply. Suppose you can’t answer properly in the classroom. You’re to endure a slap as a punishment, but someone else gets slapped instead of you, and you’re out of touch.”
“Is it also possible?”
“Of course, it happens all around the world. There’s a market to buy and sell punishments. If you have enough money, you can commit murders – and you can commit a murder yourself. You don’t have to get the penalty for the crime; another person will be hanged, not you.”
Astounded, I keep my eyes on Sanwar sahib. He says in a normal voice, “My father did the same thing. He told police that he had committed a murder. He also gave a detailed description of the murder. The knife with which he had killed was found in the tin box of puffed rice in his shanty house. His trial began though another person had committed the crime. In exchange, he kept behind for the family four lakh and ten thousand takas.”
“What was the verdict in the trial?”
“He was hanged, dear brother, my story is over. The car is ready – the driver will drop you.”
I murmur, “I’m sorry.”
Sanwar sahib keeps an angry eye on me. It seems he has suddenly become annoyed. Then controlling anger, he says, “The case against my father had run for four years. When he was hanged, I was only five. Taking me in her arms, my mother went to meet him just before execution. That day, my father loved me so much. I don’t have any memory about him, but I can only remember how affectionately he loved me that day. He expressed lots of love for me.”
I remain silent. I couldn’t think that the end of the story would be so dramatic. I’m not feeling good anymore to be sitting in front of the gentleman. I begin to feel it’ll be nice rising immediately in pretext of anything, but I don’t find any excuse to leave.
Sanwar sahib asks, “How do you feel about the story?”
I don’t respond, remain silent for some time. Sanwar sahib says, “You’re a great storyteller. You write interesting stories – tiny-soul-simple-words-and-small-sorrows type. Does my story hold on to the theory of your short story?”
“Dear brother, I rather rise today. I’ll come another day to talk more.”
Sanwar sahib says in a cool voice, “Something remains untold even after the end of a story – it’s called an addendum. My story has an addendum too. Please, listen to it.”
“Okay, I’ll listen.”
“My father was really fortunate. Most of the common people can’t fulfill their dreams, only the fortunate can. As my father could fulfill his dreams, he might be called a lucky person. He dreamt that his son would be established in life – I’ve become established. He dreamt to be a film hero. Though he couldn’t become one, the dream was fulfilled through his wife. My mother performed as a heroine in some films.”
“Really?”
“The person who actually committed the murder but my father took the responsibility gave all these opportunities to my mother. It’s interesting that my mother also married him. It’s not that insignificant that heroines marry producers in the film industry. What do you think?”
Sanwar sahib looks at me expecting a reply, but I’m keeping my eyes on his father leaning against the Hercules bicycle.
(Note: The story first appeared in the book Humayun Ahmed: Selected Short Stories, published by Anayprokash)
Mohammad Shafiqul Islam, a poet, translator, and academic, is Professor in the Department of English at Shahjalal University of Science and Technology, Sylhet 3114, Bangladesh.
Illustration : Dhruba Esh
