by Kayes Ahmed

As he got off the train, he realized that it was not the right station. It was dark everywhere, only a dim oil lamp flickered in the square glass dome of the lamp post. Around the open platform was a wired fence that was hard to locate in the darkness. Beneath the fence was a ditch, and on the other side, as high as the platform was a dense grove where trees brushed against each other.
   Speaking of people, there was none on the platform except for himself and one other man cloaked in a shawl who walked past swiftly. He thought everything was dead on this cold November night. He wanted to call out to the man because he could not recognize the station at all. The train had also left the platform and was now moving away—one could only see the red tail-light; the rest had mingled into the darkness. The grinding of the wheels on the steel rail tracks was gradually fading into the distance.
   But what kind of a station was this? There was no other passenger, no signal man, no ticket checker, no station master, and no sound or movement anywhere!
   The black sky loomed above, a biting cold wind blew, a fog shrouded the desolate darkness, and in these dead surroundings, he wanted to call out to the stranger, “Please, brother, what station is this?” He stopped short and could not ask the question, wondering whether it would be appropriate to do so in this deserted, dark, and unknown territory.
   The man was moving further and further away; from behind, it was hard to see anything except a grey shawl and part of a plaid lungi. In the darkness, his restlessness and distress were intensifying, so he finally called out, “Please, brother, listen!” The man, cloaked in a shawl, probably did not hear. In this desolate dark world, his call echoed into a thousand pieces and shattered into the air like a glass plate that falls on the floor with a jangling sound.
   That sound reverberated in the darkness, blended with the foggy cold wind, and then entered his chest and rose with a murmur. In that sound loomed fear, danger and love. At that moment, the image of his mother, of his younger brother who had given his life for the love of his country, other familiar faces, childhood, youth, the visible and the imaginary of the vast earth all awakened in his mind. He remembered how he had escaped the raised bayonets of the attacking hyenas who had stormed in, how he swam across the river, and took shelter in a village mosque, and realized with every atom of his being how much he desired to remain alive.
   Suddenly he was surprised to hear a crow cawing. It was still dark everywhere, which meant it was still night, yet there was a crow cawing. The crow drew his attention back to the man. The man had reached the end of the platform, and was about to move down the slope. He called out desperately, “Please, brother, listen!”
   The man wrapped in the shawl had halted. Nothing was clearly visible, but the silhouette of a human form could be discerned. He began to walk rapidly, and by the time he reached close to the man, his heartbeat had grown louder and he could feel the sweat on his cheeks and palms. He tried to look at the face of the man, but could not do so because he was wrapped in his shawl up to his head, and his face was turned the other way in the darkness. He asked the strange and indifferent man, “Where will you go?” He could hear the tremor in his own voice, the tense dryness and anxiety. Without speaking, the man pointed his finger towards the vacuum of the foggy darkness. He grew even more distressed.
   The man had started to walk again. Helplessly, he followed the man, and tried to recall exactly which station he had planned to get off at. He could not remember the name at all. He kept on sweating profusely. Even in the cold of November, his forehead, chin, palms, chest and underarms were all wet. Beside the rail tracks, the path was rugged, dusty and desolate—one could feel the weeds sticking out; sharp pebbles under his feet stumped him again and again. But he persisted behind the stranger whose face he had not yet been able to see. As he walked, he saw that going down from the path was a slope that ended in a ditch full of still, black water. Across the ditch, where the man was pointing, was a large, empty field, like a marsh. Now the man was going down the slope towards the ditch. He helplessly followed that obvious uncertainty. As they reached the ditch, the man held out his hand towards him, but even now he could not see his face. He stopped abruptly. The man continued to hold out his hand. He moved forward and was picked up as if he was a child, and lodged on the man’s shoulder. He squirmed in embarrassment and said, “What is this? No…no. What is going on?” The man did not reply and continued to wade through the black water of the ditch with the load on his shoulder. His fear intensified: this man will surely drown me. As he was being lifted, he had suddenly noticed that the man had no eyes, no nose, just a few big and small holes, and there was no flesh on his face. He was numb with terror; his whole body felt cold. But there was nothing he could do. His strength had evaporated, and his two dangling arms were in the forceful grip of the man.
   The water in the ditch was not too deep. Yet he felt sure that he would be killed and this ditch would become his burial-ground. He wriggled in the man’s grasp and tossed in unease. Love cried out from the very core of his being. The man did not say a word, but in the desolate territory, he made sounds on the water, and kept on moving towards the vast vacuum of the foggy darkness.
   
   Translated by Parveen K. Elias