By Abdul Mannan Syed
translated by Abdus Selim

SO, AFTER a long interval Abdul Mannan Syed has started writing short stories once again?
   I read a few of his stories recently published in a number of magazines and newspapers. One was a biographical story on poet Jibonananda Das; another on a young painter; and quite a few on love.
   As far as my knowledge goes he has completed 72. I bought his first storybook Sattyer Moto Badmash paying three times more than its actual price from a bookshop at the stadium. The bookshop was called Ideas. I had to pay more because the book was banned at that time. The salesman brought it out from the hiding from one of the shelves. I presume that way quite a good number of copies of the book that was proscribed on the ground of obscenity were sold. I still have in my possession the rare first edition that had a red and black cover.
   It was published forty years back. I also had read his stories published in several magazines and newspapers of that time. There was a magazine called the City Dwellers. Dhaka was steadily growing into a city then. Thus, the name of the magazine itself proclaimed Dhaka’s status. However, I had read a story titled Bewildered Farmer published in the City Dwellers. I had gone through another amazing story by Abdul Mannan Syed in a different magazine called the Contemporaneous. Call it surrealistic? It was titled Soul Searchers – a paranormal story of a woman who possessed three breasts. At that time his stories were filled with linguistic experimentations that were left to be appropriately evaluated. Though there was novelty in his stories, it appeared he had a covert tendency to pull a stunt. More often than not as the writer grows old his language and form lose brilliance along with the subject matter. A few days back I finished reading his Best Stories. In the book it became evident that some new messages had been augmented in his stories or perhaps he modified his original ones. Conversely, a few of my favourite stories were missing. Even then the ones that I read from the book I can say, being an old and avid reader of Abdul Mannan Syed, most of the central characters of his early stories either suffered from the psyche of self-destruction or were whore-mongers or perhaps both.
   In the past I had read a few love stories by Mannan Syed.
   But his recent stories that centre round love appear to be different to me.
   I have read a predominantly discourse-oriented story – where there is no mention of any male and female names. Referring to no names of the characters – is it to make the story intrinsically generalised? Is it the depiction of the changes that have taken place in our society? Thirty years back this kind of story would appear to be unrealistic – but now no more. Society within has radically metamorphosed. Has this transformation influenced Mannan Syed’s latest stories too, and his very own singular metaphors? Or is he vaguely slipping off as he explores through his stories? I have never seen him using so short sentences. Often one single word serves the purpose of a meaningful linguistic unit. Is it an example of his controlled use of language?
   Yes, a short story is a literary genre that endeavours to reach the peak of its artistry by means of brief statements. That is why the compactness of short stories can satisfy assortment of tastes. The king of short stories Premendra Mitra named one of his edited compilations as The Taste of Ocean. Manik Bondapadhay’s story Taste of Sea perhaps has ably manifested the real meaning of short stories within it.
   But of course social awareness is never obvious in Mannan Syed’s story. Individual person dominates there. Why is it that the society he belongs to is still not seen in his stories – every critic might be confronted with this question?
   
   YOU swine! An old haggard as you are, still can’t change your habits! At this age too you run after girls like a heated dog! Son-of-a-bitch!’ Minu was shaking in anger. Abul Kashem was having his breakfast at the dining table. His office was at nine. He had taken his bath at eight. Then within eight-thirty Abul Kashem usually finished his breakfast and by nine or nine-thirty reached his office.
   It was not even a year Abul Kashem retired from the government job. Immediately after his retirement he got this offer of another job. After retirement he had not bothered to shave. He had greying bristly beard. He used to shave only when he had to go out. Abul Kashem, who had loved to be dressed well all the time, was really surprised to get the offer of a job. Minu was overjoyed. She started nagging, ‘Why not take the offer, please do.’ He was at a loss to understand what made them to offer him this job. He was professor of English, used to practise writing in English, wrote Bangla short stories too, published three-four story books, at times wrote stories in magazines and newspapers, and wrote articles on stories. He published a long essay on DH Lawrence’s short stories in Bangla Academy journal Uttaradhikar. He never wrote reviews. Some writers occasionally gave him books to write reviews for them. But on principle Abul Kashem avoided writing on Bangladeshi writers and also reviewing books. That did not mean that he evaded reading stories by Bangladeshi writers. He never did. But he was not ready to put down his comments in black and white. However, Abul Kashem joined an office as director. It was almost a year now. That was his second year running. Abul Kashem was dignifiedly garbed once more. He wore newly tailored suits, trousers, and ties. He bought expensive shoes too. The person who used to sleep until ten in the morning went to bed at ten thirty in the night and got up between six and seven in the morning now. Abul Kashem developed a habit of going to the office within nine and nine-thirty. Things had been going on like that. Meanwhile, over-delighted Minu gained some weight too.
   But what made her behave like a possessed person presently!
   Minu hissed at him and hurriedly ran into the room only to bring back Abul Kashem’s diary. The briefcase was lying on the bed in their bedroom. He was getting ready for the office. The diary was inside the briefcase.
   Holding the diary in front of Abul Kashem she irately ripped off a few pages from inside, and then furiously shredded them into tiny pieces. The small torn pieces scattered over the dining table and the floor. A few of them also fell on Abul Kashem’s favourite vegetable curry.
   Minu shouted, ‘Who’s this whore? You scribbled Bulbuli pages after pages. Bulbuli! What a name! Nightingale! Isn’t it? If you like that Bulbuli bird of yours so much then leave me alone, you swine!’ Having said that she banged on the table with her fist. The water jug, the glass filled with water, empty glasses, breakfast plates, tea cups and bowls on the table – all of them were as though caught by surprise.
   Abul Kashem was about to say, ‘Believe me, Minu...’
   ‘I don’t believe a word of yours, you bastard!’ Saying so, she threw on the floor the cup that he was drinking tea from with great relish. The cup broke into innumerable pieces and the tea spilled all over the floor.
   What was happening so early in the morning!
   The doorbell rang.
   Pervin sneaked a look from the kitchen.
   She wanted to know if she should open the door.
   ‘Open it,’ Minu screamed staring at her. ‘Give him the tiffin career with the food of his final journey to heaven.’
   Taking the tiffin career from the kitchen Pervin proceeded to open the door. As she opened the door she found a woman standing instead of the driver. She did not know what to do.
   ‘Who is it?’ asked Minu as she came to the door.
   She found Rabeya at the door. Rabeya happened to be distantly related to Abul Kashem. She usually visited them on the eve of Eid festivals every year. She worked in a garment factory. When she came for customary visits she was fed and paid well. But if it was the night of Eid-ul-Adha she would also be given meat of the sacrificial animals. But this time Minu shouted at her saying, ‘Get out! I don’t want to see any of my in-law’s family here anymore.’ So saying she shut the door with a bang.
   Thereafter she once again fell on Abul Kashem and bellowed, ‘All your sons and daughters are married now. Even then you can’t give up your roguery! You son-of-a-bitch!’ So saying Minu hurriedly left the place.
   Abul Kashem remained seated flabbergasted. His face and eyes started burning, turned crimson and hot.
   After a while the doorbell rang again.
   Minu, presuming that Rabeya returned back, angrily rushed to the drawing room. Pervin opened the door. But no, it was not Rabeya. It was Hasnat, the driver from the office. He was standing mutely in front of the door.
   Minu checked her fury with some effort and said, ‘Pervin, give him the tiffin career,’ and vanished into the kitchen again.
   Pervin handed the small tiffin career to Hasnat. As the driver left without uttering a word, Pervin shut the door.
   Pervin had been working for this family as a domestic help for quite a few years, right from her childhood almost. Now she had grown up. Her father came to see her every after two three months and collected her salary. They came from Sherpur of Mymensingh. After his retirement Abul Kashem used to chat with Pervin’s father sometimes when he visited them. Though he was a villager, Pervin’s father was an intelligent man.
   He insisted that Pervin’s wedding arrangements had to be done by Kashem Shahib’s family. He advised them to visit their village. ‘Don’t you think you should go to your village and see how it is? You need to see your birthplace,’ he used to say. He said it in a rural yet pleasing dialect. Language did not matter, yet Abul Kashem was impressed by its intensity. But presently as he joined the institute he had no time to talk to Pervin’s father.
   Abul Kashem managed to pull himself up. He put on his shirt-trousers-jacket-tie-shoes, then placed the diary in his briefcase, opened the door and slowly got out.
   In a gloomy mortified tone he said, ‘Pervin, lock the door.’
   Routinely, it was Minu who bade him goodbye. Abul Kashem could never get back from the office before dusk. Some days he would be back in the night even. He phoned home every after one or two hours – either by land or cell phone.
   Though Pervin had been working for this family for a long time, she never heard the name before. These days this name was being uttered over and over again – ‘Bulbuli’. And all the time it was being mentioned by Minu when she was either angry or in tears. Who was this girl?
   
   FICTION writer Boshir Alhelal in his introduction to an anthology of Bangladeshi short stories published by the Bangla Academy apathetically defined Abdul Mannan Syed’s stories as nihilistic. Though this categorisation did not hold good in his successive stories, it appears now that he is deviating from his earlier position. A flash of light is being traced somewhere in the deep darkness that he was immersed in. Yet when Mannan Syed’s short stories are seen in their entirety Boshir Alhelal’s remarks can never be ignored.
   
   HASNAT, pull over here. Have your lunch when it’s time. For now take this money and have tea.’
    Hasnat did not utter a word. He just nodded, took the money and hid it somewhere.
   Abul Kashem could never understand his driver. Selim, the office microbus driver, on the other hand, happened to be an inveterate talker –fond of slandering the past directors. Abul Kashem knew it well when he would leave the job Selim would do the same about him. But Hasnat was a very cunning and secretive person.
   Once he felt unwell at the office and called Minu. She seemed concerned, ‘You took the medicine in the morning for your pressure all right. I personally gave it to you – clearly remember. Don’t waste time. Take someone from the office to accompany you to the Sarwardi Hospital. I’ll give a call to your cell phone after a while. Inform me if anything’s wrong. Should I come?’
   ‘No. It’s not needed now. I’m going with Rashid. Call him if you want.’
   Rashid took Abul Kashem to hospital.
   They went to the emergency section. Hasnat stood unmoved by the side of the car. Minu fed him well many times. Abul Kashem occasionally tipped him too. That day he was surprised to see Hasnat standing mum by the side of the car. He did not try to extend any help at all. Remained unmoved and nonchalant. Abul Kashem once asked if Hasnat was grossly involved in any manipulative practice regarding consumption of petrol. Hasnat answered, ‘No, Sir. Not anything grossly unfair.’
   Abul Kashem said, ‘It’s fine. Unfairness within the limit is okay. But don’t cross the line.’
   It was Rashid who once told Abul Kashem that Hasnat’s own elder brother happened to be a deputy secretary.
   When he asked Hasnat about it he merely assented by saying, ‘Hmm….’ At the ministry he was unexpectedly introduced to the deputy secretary Mr Khairat in a meeting. Two brothers had similarities too.
   After the introduction Abul Kashem with some slight hesitation asked, ‘Mmm, well, our office driver – is he your younger brother?’
   Mr Khairat’s eyes instantly flared up. He said, ‘Sir, don’t mention him to me. We’re three brothers. He’s the black sheep of our family. He grabbed our parental house all for himself. I put up in government flat, at Azimpur. My second brother lives in Germany. That scoundrel took hold of the house swindling all our brothers and sisters. Would you believe that? He even sold that house by means of a fake deed.’
   From that day Abul Kashem lost all his trust in Hasnat. He said it to Minu too. Minu opined, ‘He doesn’t look like such a mischievous person – however, you better be careful.’
   Abul Kashem became very cautious about his discourse and behaviour with Hasnat since then. Selim seemed to be a better person than him.
   But there was no other way. Abul Kashem had no car of his own. Now that he came to this ship-shaped hotel away from Dhaka city with Bulbuli, he had to use the car driven by Hasnat.
   Bulbuli and Abul Kashem strolled around for a while and had lunch together.
   Half of the office time was spent in attending meetings in the ministry. Almost every day he needed to go back to the office after lunch. Sometimes Abul Kashem, Rashid, computer operator Akhter, his personal office-aid Zaman and one or two security men downstairs stayed in the office until five, six, seven and even eight. Whenever he could make time he called Minu over cell phone. Some days Minu too called two or three times.
   Today Abul Kashem held his normality with some effort.
   Bulbuli was beaming with ecstasy.
   ‘You know, I’m out with you after so many days! Enjoying it so much!’
   Abul Kashem sipped from the coffee cup.
   He did not know how to tell her what he wanted to.
   He was glum. He finally spoke out, ‘Bulbuli, I don’t know how to say this. See, how foolish I am! Overpowered by emotion I scribbled your name in my diary. Several times on the same page. But before that I could sense that she had been speculative. One night perhaps I uttered your name in my dreams. Next morning she started behaving indifferently. After we had breakfast she asked, “Who’s this Bulbuli?” I said, “What do you mean?” She smiled, “Last night in your dream you uttered that name.” I laughed and said, “Oh, that? They want me to write a story. It happens to be the name of a character of my story. I’ve already started writing it. My brain is reeling with that name.” Minu smiled once again, “Better watch out! Don’t let your fiction character turn to be your real life heroine.” From then on I have noticed whenever you call me, either over cell or land phone, she rushes into the room on some kind of a pretext. And then…’
   Bulbuli was not angry. She laughed. Then with a depressing smile she said, ‘Do you consider me a child? Don’t I understand anything? Ain’t I married too? Isn’t my husband apprehensive either?’ Abul Kashem got up and said, ‘Forget it. We’ve come to this place for a day to be cheery – why spoil discussing this mundane thing. Let’s get out and see the steamer, the river and the people around…’
   ‘Yes, let’s go,’ Bulbuli said.
   It was night before they got back.
   Abul Kashem then felt as if his life touched the height of consummation. He never realised that he had been missing so much in his life until he met Bulbuli. As if he had lived a life merely going to the office, looking after his family, making love and then falling asleep, and at one time waking up traversing through the stillness. But it was nothing, no physical relationship, just an accidental touch of fingers perhaps. With that tiny little thing they got into romanticising. Heart! And it is so precious! Even more valuable than costly stones!
   It really got late when he reached home dropping Bulbuli at her place.
   Hasnat opened the car door and remained standing. The garage was in the office and all the cars were parked there. Hasnat usually left for his home parking the car there. He lived in a rented house with his family.
   Normally, when Abul Kashem got out of the car Hasnat would carry the briefcase-file-etc home. Today it appeared he intended to say something.
   Noticing his attitude Abul Kashem asked, ‘Want to say anything?’
   Hasnat was apologetic, ‘I’m short of cash, Sir. Five hundred would do.’
   ‘Ok, here you are, take it.’ Abul Kashem was surprised but nevertheless he took out a note of five hundred taka from his pocket and handed it to Hasnat. Hasnat saluted him and drove away to the office. Seeing his docility Abul Kashem thought as he climbed the stairs, was it to be called blackmailing?
   It was Minu who opened the door.
   She said, ‘Look very tired.’
   Did she sound sarcastic?
   Next day Bulbuli called. Abul Kashem was prattling on. At one time Bulbuli seemed to have said, ‘You’re very unkind.’ Abul Kashem could not get it then – somebody entered the room – and he said, ‘Talk to you later.’ They talked once more the same day but he forgot to ask what Bulbuli meant by his being unkind.
   
   I WISH to cite an excerpt from Mannan Syed’s interview on his own stories. In reality this quotation does an in-depth study of the stories.
   A sharp young female journalist once asked him, ‘How would you evaluate yourself as a story writer, a husband or a human being?’
   The writer answered, ‘A story writer doesn’t focus a familial look at life. His look is personalised. But of course family is part of our society. So is an individual. I believe in women’s liberty. I know a so-called progressive story-writer whose wife is extremely religious and prays five times a day. When her writer husband gets sick she even goes to the pir (holy man) to bring holy water for him, and the husband drinks the water too, but all these incidents are nowhere to be found in his stories. I feel, as a husband and a human being, I’m not bad at all.’
   With a brilliant smile the young female journalist said, ‘Sir, thank you very much for making a confession of truth.’
   
   ABUL Kashem woke up.
   He could not sleep anymore. He went to the washroom. Came back and switched on the light. The wall clock indicated 2 o’clock in the morning. Didn’t he go to bed at eleven? He had a hectic day. In the morning he had a meeting to attend at the national museum. From there he had to go to the ministry. As he returned to the office Bulbuli called. No sooner was it over Minu phoned. Somehow she could intuitively sense it. It was dusk by the time he returned back home. Even after that why did he wake up?
   A multi-storied building was being built next to his house. Bricks were being unloaded from a truck. It generated a lot of sound in the stillness of the night. Every moment the hands of the clock were moving forward they made a feeble sound. Were they moving second by second? Along with them life too was moving ahead, towards death.
   Abul Kashem did not dream any more in the night these days. He dreamt at dawn instead, when his sleep remained in the initial stage. Was it because he took barbiturates? Did that cause his dreamless night? Or night sans Bulbuli? Once more there could be heard a strong sound of brick unloading. Another truck? Then there was a sudden rush of wind and gone again. Alas, city night could never be quiet!
   He was lying on bed. A few days back he met Anwar Malik in New Market. Minu was with him. Anwar Malik changed a lot. He was wonderfully healthy person! They were colleagues in Rajshahi. Perhaps Abul Kashem would not have recognised Anwar Malik if he had not called him. He introduced Minu to Anwar Malik, ‘We worked together in Rajshahi. Girls were crazy about him. One even wrote a love letter to him.’ He knew that much only and stopped. Presently the noise of downloading of rubbish came from outside. A rhythmic soft sound of water drops from the tap could also be heard. Then the truck left. And now only the recurring sound of water drops that fell in the bucket was audible. So long it was not. One sound enveloped the other – the strong always overpowered the weak. Did it apply to love as well? Bulbuli, be well. I had come a long way. I could not go to sleep. Soon it was four in the morning. He switched off the light. Had he not to go to office in the morning? The night was over. A dog barked somewhere. A rain like noise could be heard from a distance. As it came nearer it was recognised to be a truck. Did the truck also sound like rain in the night?
   
   A PHONE call came from the ministry.
   Nasrin, senior assistant secretary, called, ‘Sir, we’re arranging a picnic from the ministry. At Moinamoti, Comilla. Next Friday. All departmental heads would be there. And their wives too. All of us from the ministry would be going.’
   Abul Kashem said, ‘That would be wonderful! But my wife doesn’t want to go anywhere…’
   Nasrin laughed, ‘No, Sir. We won’t accept that. She has to go. Madam wants it.’
   Madam meant the minister herself.
   Nasrin went on, ‘Next Friday at six in the morning. Two buses would leave from the Public Library. Of course, you can take your own car if you wish, Sir.’
   Abul Kashem laughed, ‘My car is an old one. Can’t run that far.’
   ‘Well then. On Friday exactly at six the buses will leave from Public Library. Please bring your wife, Sir.’
   ‘Ok,’ Abul Kashem agreed unwillingly.
   In fact, Minu did not like to go anywhere.
   But this time she readily agreed. Abul Kashem had no time for Minu since he joined the institute.
   Hasnat brought the car on time.
   They were out at dawn after a long time – Abul Kashem and Minu. It was winter. Minu wrapped herself in a shawl. She looked wonderful. She was really delighted. Abul Kashem put on a travel dress – a jacket over a turtleneck sweater instead of a tie. Shrouded in heavy December mist they alighted in front of the high-rise stairs of the Public Library. The sun was trying to penetrate through the mist. Minu and Abul Kashem were wandering about. He was introducing Minu to some people around. A cameraman from some ministry took a few snaps standing Minu and Abul Kashem in the sun. Abul Kashem did not ask his office cameraman to accompany. The joint secretary came alone. The secretary came in his own car with his wife. It was seven when the minister arrived. A small fleet of cars finally headed for Comilla.
   Minu was genuinely gleeful. She was sitting by the side of a window. Abul Kashem was next to her.
   It was tremendously crowded at Moinamoti.
   They strolled around.
   There were relics of the past.
   There was a museum too.
   At noon a table was fixed in the open and they had their lunch.
   After lunch Abul Kashem walked away to smoke. What a crowd! He went quite far, alone! When he came back Minu was nowhere to be found.
   What an inconceivable crowd!
   People were moving from one place to another unpredictably. Abul Kashem could not talk to anybody in the crowd. He went to the tiny museum too. Nobody cared to listen!
   Finally he went to the minister’s retire room. He found Minu talking to the madam minister there. The secretary and his wife were also there.
   Abul Kashem greeted the minister respectfully. Then he asked Minu, ‘What’s up! You’re here! I’ve been looking for you.’
   Madam minister smiled and said, ‘She’s here for quite sometime.’ The minister was ever-smiling.
   After an exchange of brief socialisation Abul Kashem came out with Minu. They found a solitary place and sat there.
   Later Minu said, ‘Someone was looking for Mrs Kashem and when he found me he led me to the minister.’
   Much later Abul Kashem was suddenly struck by an idea. Did the minister somehow anticipate that Bulbuli often visited him in his office, or he went out with her by car, or frequently talked to him over phone? Was she informed all this by somebody? Was it because of that she wanted to meet Minu? Minu was still a beautiful lady. Was she relieved seeing Minu?
   
   FICTION writer Hasan Azizul Huq mentioned in one of his essays that during sixties they used to consider Abdul Mannan Syed to be the most modern story writer.
   But can it hold good at the beginning of the twenty-first century too? For this Mannan Syed needs to bear the responsibility himself. We have not received what we expected from his short stories. But at the same time this is also true that he never stopped writing stories. The problem is he has not written stories incessantly. The exact number of stories he has written so far is perhaps unknown to him even. Moreover, he concurrently writes in renowned magazines, popular newspapers and little magazines. On the other hand, the limited number of story books published so far is now out of print. Truth is there is a dearth of laid-out information on Mannan Syed for an unbiased evaluation of his real achievement. Because time to time he still publishes stories.
   Hasan Azizul Huq made this comment three or four decades before the sixties was over. The reality is critics need to wait.
   
   MINU was arranging her hair standing in front of the mirror fixed on the steal almirah that day.
   Abul Kashem was reading a book lying on bed.
   Once done with her hair Minu sat close to Abul Kashem. Then she said, ‘Listen!’ Abul Kashem looked at Minu.
   Minu looked straight into his eyes and continued, ‘You’ve changed!’
   Abul Kashem did not answer.
   He just realised that there was truth in that. There was no reason whatsoever, yet he was moving away from Minu’s world, and it became crystal clear to him all at once. They had been together for quite a long time. Perhaps that was the reason why this realisation suddenly came upon him. A feeling just the way the noon slowly enters into afternoon, the sun wanes, and the afternoon gets submerged into the evening. A feeling of deep remorse touched Abul Kashem the way shadows of huge trees gradually get longer in the open under the sun. He did not talk. The book remained open in front of him. He looked at the alphabet. But Abul Kashem was not reading. The dark alphabet, the dumb alphabet merely stared at him.
   
   YOUNG story writer and critic Ahmed Mostafa wrote an introduction to Abdul Mannan Syed’s Best Stories. Though he did one of the best analyses of Mannan’s stories, I cannot fully agree to what he said. There is no denying the fact that looking at them holistically there is a philosophy of life in Abdul Mannan Syed’s stories. As far as I understand, though there are a few sudden flashes of optimism in them, they are dominantly nihilistic. But there too exists some kind of inanimate truth. Nobody is safe from it. That is his limitation. At the same time that is his characteristics too – his singularity.
   
   IT WAS one o’clock in the morning.
   Abul Kashem was writing a story lying on his chest in the bed.
   Minu was in deep sleep holding him close.
   Abul Kashem was writing.
   Time to time Bulbuli’s face kept appearing in his mind’s eye.
   As he was prattling on that day he had forgotten to ask why Bulbuli said, ‘You’re very unkind!’ Later when he did Bulbuli laughed out and said, ‘I don’t remember now why I said that.’ But Abul Kashem could not get those words out of his mind, ‘You’re very unkind!’ Why did she say that? Bulbuli happened to be very reticent, very subtle and intelligent, and she definitely remembered those suddenly uttered words of hers. Abul Kashem was so preoccupied with his own talking that he forgot to ask what she really wanted to mean by that. Bulbuli would never explain it to him.
   Abul Kashem was writing his story late in the night. It was Friday the next day. No office. So no problem if he got up late.
   It was four in the morning.
   Minu held him tight with her arms. ‘You’ve changed!’ ‘You’re very unkind!’ Those two sentences kept coming back in his mind.
   Slowly Abul Kashem went on writing his story.
   Abul Kashem did not know where this story would finally take him.