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The fugitive bird
by Hasan Mostafizur Rahman
Photo by Shibu Kumer Shill
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Part I
ONE
‘Speak up, please! Speak just once!’
I remain silent like before. Very slowly I exhale, concealing the sound of my breath so that she couldn’t hear me exhale.
‘How much, how much more punishment will you give me? Isn’t my penance over yet? Please, speak!’
I’m silent.
‘You love me, isn’t it? Oh...you don’t love me anymore, that’s it. Now you hate me. Okay, talk to me a little, hating me.’ As Putul says this, her tone becomes numb.
I’m still silent.
I press the receiver more on my ear because I know that Putul will start to sob right now. What a charm it is to hear the sound of sobbing!
Putul’s sobs started. She says sobbing, ‘Please...please...please speak up even if it’s only for once! Don’t punish me any more like this!’ She continues to sob.
Silent, I press the receiver harder to my ear. Ah, what a grand feeling I enjoy!
‘I beg you, speak up a little! Say anything! Please, speak!’ As she says this, Putul starts to weep without restraint.
I cut off the line, pushing the cradle down softly and then put down the receiver.
The boy of the phone-fax shop is looking at me with curiosity as he does each day. Treating it as of no importance I push the telephone set to the lad with the grave face. He’ll tell me the bill by checking the time, and after paying the bill I’ll get out of here.
On the first day, the boy, very astonished, said, ‘Even my grandfather’s grandfather hadn’t seen a strange customer like you!’
Another day he said, ‘Brother, if you don’t mind, can I ask you a question?’
‘Ask.’
‘Is there a lot of grief in your mind?’
‘Tell me the bill.’
‘It’s good to tease a loved one. But it’s not good to do this excessively. Just as a lemon turns bitter if it’s twisted excessively, like that, the relationship turns bitter if it’s strained excessively.’
What the hell the boy says! Premature and tiny! If I don’t scold him right now he’ll make problems later. Thinking this, I said in a very grave voice, ‘Where’s your employer?’
The lad replied, scared, ‘Why, brother!’
‘It’s necessary to tell him that one can’t run a business with someone so prematurely clever.’
Since then the boy hasn’t raised any objections, even by mistake. Now he only remains looking with curiousity, saying nothing. As our glances meet, he looks away, confounded.
Paying the bill, I step out the shop.
When the evening falls silently in this remote town I don’t know. The shops and markets in the surroundings are dazzling with lights. There’s a quiet and serene state on all sides, and this condition will no longer remain when night falls, shoving aside the evening. The streets and the markets will be filled with din and bustle. I’m enjoying this dazzling beauty of evening standing on a side of the footpath. By the way, what is Putul doing right this moment? Is she standing on her veranda now? Is she thinking of me watching the evening with a mournful glance or crying, jumping on the bed with a thud? I don’t know and there’s no way to know. Surely I don’t want to know. Whatever she does, it doesn’t matter to me. I’ve smoked a while before and don’t feel inclined to smoke. Yet I’ll smoke now thinking of Putul. She couldn’t bear my smoking at all and was always very vocal about this, doing a lot of strange things. Often while talking on the phone, many times she’d put down the receiver in anger. She used to entreat very much to give up the bad habit, used to make me understand. Even used to entreat me with letters too! In one letter she wrote, ‘Is this thing dearer to you than me? Why am I defeated by this trifling thing repeatedly? I feel like I’m very unimportant!’ Long after this day, one day I gave up the bad habit. How happy she became! She used to say joyously, ‘See, man can do anything if he wishes.’
No, man can’t do everything if he wishes. I started smoking again within a year after giving up, being compelled, offended, suffered and tensed. For this neither Putul nor I were liable. The person accountable was my to be father-in-law, I mean, her father. Before the context comes let me give you the detail. Putul’s honours result was out then and she got the desired second class. How glad she was! What jubilation she expressed over the phone! I too wasn’t less happy than she was in any way but still said in a grave voice, ‘Very delighted, aren’t you?’
‘Shouldn’t I be?’
‘Can’t you feel the danger?’
‘What danger?’
‘You have been avoiding marriage till today with the excuse of your results. Now?’
Sinking, she said, ‘Yes, it is! I forgot – I was just delighted!’
‘The result is out. Your father will be up and about now.’
And it happened just like that. The situation was stagnant for about two months and then it turned restless. Marriage proposals started coming from all sides. Those kith and kin were lying in wait so long, but now they started to raid their home with bio-data of bridegrooms in their hands, with smiling faces. You didn’t choose this bridegroom? Don’t worry. We have a more eligible boy in hand.
The situation turned complex. Yes, it’s good that the process of cancelling bridegrooms one after another is going on. But what if suddenly one is chosen? What would be the solution then? At that time, the excuse of completing Masters wouldn’t stand. Because, at once, her parents would say, what’s the problem with continuing education after marriage? The wedding ceremony will have been completed, if necessary the bride will be seen off from her parents’ house after Masters. So it won’t be correct playing thief-police anymore. After counselling Putul I settled that we had to surrender to the police. No more playing truant. She disclosed my existence to her parents.
Once they knew all, my to be father-in law and mother-in law were struck with amazement. Their daughter was having love affairs secretly! Okay, swallowing that fact, but with a boy of such low social status! How could they ever accept it! Impossible! This marriage couldn’t be! Never! If they gave their only daughter in marriage with such a boy, how could they show their face to kith and kin, and neighbours too!
Comments: hasmost@gmail.com
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