Is there anyone who will not tremble with fear when suddenly the person hears his or her name pronounced by the announcer at a huge international airport? Usually since you are waiting as a transit passenger when the announcer's booming voice calls out your name, isn't it usual to be scared even before knowing anything about it?

I was not particularly alarmed when I heard my name. Of course there is a reason behind it. I had already made sure I had my passport and ticket. I had checked the time. No, the person who could have inquired about me, his flight had already left half an hour ago. Not only have I not seen the man (and I doubt whether I shall ever see him in my life), but I also do not have any inclination to meet him. I have only one desire now, that the unseen, unknown man returns to his country to see his mother alive.

It is not an illogical wish: It took a man twenty-two years to go back to his country because of some problems with his papers. Now, quite anxious, he is going back to see his ailing mother. And it is more undeserving that even though he was near home, he would have to wait at the airport for a twentyhour connecting flight. It was sheer good luck that he wisely appealed to the waiting passengers at the airport. And that his sad story reached the ears of a large-hearted person like me. I thought, so what if I had to sit in this airport for twelve more hours. If that makes a man reach his sick mother even a wee bit early, then so be it.

On hearing that announcement I walked towards the counter. There was no problem at all. He got my flight number and I got his seat on the next flight. The man was not at the ticket counter, he had only left his ticket for me. The woman at the counter looked at me strangely. Her glance told me that only idiots did this kind of thing, that only fools willingly shoulder the annoying task of sitting at an airport. Perhaps, I am a moron, or else why I did I choose to take up this burden?

The voice of the announcer reverberated loudly. This is a request to this passenger of this flight number to go to the duty free shop with the ticket. Now the announcer said "La Espanola” and announced it in Spanish. Then again in “Parle Francais”, requesting

Aran Aziz to go to that shop.

When before I had gone to exchange tickets, I had left my small journal in the safe custody of the couple sitting next to me. Actually, I had wanted to strengthen my temporary claim to the convenient place where I was seated. This too was an example of how man becomes selfish at certain times. I looked at them with imploring eyes, asking for their help. Who knows where these 60-70 plus-years-old were headed off to? Tallish, with beautiful but serious faces; melancholic faces that would arouse anyone's pity. The lady was wearing a black ankle-length skirt, a maroon top and her head was half-covered by an embroidered, beaded black scarf. The gentleman was wearing a regular suit. The man seemed aware of his surroundings. The lady looked detached.

The man became very eager to talk when I looked at him. Even before I could request him to keep an eye on my seat, he asked me, “Did you hear the announcement?”

“Yes, that's why I am going. Is it okay if I keep my journal here?”

“It seemed to me that they are calling my name and you are going?”

“Why would they call you?”

“Yes, yes, why would they call me, I…I ...am…”

The man seemed distressed and distracted; he was unable to finish his sentence.

“What is your name?”

“Aran Aziz.”

That made me stop. Was it his name that was called? Did I hear wrong?

“Which flight is yours?” I asked.

“One to Zagreb, Croatia.”

“Oh, then it's not you, it's me who has been called. Let me go and see.”

The gentleman immediately heaved a sigh of extreme relief and again became selfengrossed. Perhaps they were Croatian Muslims. I suspect whether, had Yugoslavia not been divided, there would have been so much bloodshed over religious identity. Remarkable that men do not carry the stamp of their religion on them, only the stamp of racial identity. That stamp identified these two as Europeans.

When I reached the place where I was called, I was astonished as well as vexed. A bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates had been sent or kept there for an unknown

beneficiary from an unknown beneficent. I felt cross that I have to carry an extra burden.

On returning I kept the flowers and the chocolates on the table in front. The two of them glanced at me. The gentleman looked a tad bit curious, the lady was nonchalant.

I opened the box and offered the chocolates to them. The gentleman told me politely that he couldn't eat chocolates any more. The lady picked one up, but did not eat it. In a dejected tone she spoke, as if to herself, “My son would also open packets of chocolates in front of me like this.”

“If you have near and dear ones, then they send things to you at the airport also, how nice,” the gentleman remarked. I thought of telling them that I didn't have anyone who would send me gifts at the airport. Maybe it would make them feel less isolated. Then think, why bother. They have taken care of my seat, so I have offered chocolates, why waste words? I simply smiled at them.

When the man returned he had three paper cups of tea in a small box in his hand. The lady picked up one cup of tea and offered it to me. I took the cup and thanked her.

The lady was looking at me but there was

a vast emptiness in her eyes.

The gentleman sat in the middle seat between us with his tea. He looked at me, “How long are you going to be here?”

“Nearly seven hours.”

“Going back to your country?”

“No, I am going to Nairobi on work. Are you going on a holiday?”

The gentleman looked around very carefully and replied in a barely audible whisper, “We are running away, that's why your name was suspect.”

Aran Aziz and his family lived in a small town with people of different nationalities at the foot of a mountain. Away from the commotion of the central city, it had a military training centre, with a small airport for military use and a small school. Aran Aziz was the mathematics teacher there.

Most of the physically well-built boys in this town dreamt of being a soldier after finishing school. The army, with its uniforms and upright bearing, tempted the young boys no end. Aran Aziz's only son yielded to that temptation at the end of school. They felt proud and happy when their intelligent, strong son was inducted into the air force. The first six years of the nineteen-year-old boy in the armed services passed without any disturbance. Preparations for his

wedding were afoot when war broke out. He went to war, and never returned.

The war went on for a long time. Many more people went to war from this town.

Because of the military training centre in this city there were many other army families there.

Aran Aziz's one-time student David belonged to one such family. His father, a doctor, was also an officer in the army.

A wave of grief swept the city in the wake of the death of Aran's son. David came with his father to see him. No one had said a word.

Each one had just wanted to touch the other's grief-stricken heart in silence.

David liked Aran very much. Quite a few years ago he had brought a simple slingshot, an elastic band attached to the wooden 'Y' of the English alphabet, and had taught him how to chase off magpies with it. All his friends would get together in the fields near their school and amuse themselves by shooing off magpies with it.

Since it was a hilly city, there were times when magpies flocked there in huge numbers. Each year Aran would bring that slingshot and teach them how to use it. This amiable teacher was always in a buoyant mood. He was also a good mathematics teacher, well-liked by his students. After he had retired from his job, David would sometimes come to visit him.

When today he saw Aran's face he became sad and whispered to his father, “It seems someone has stolen the smile from his face.”

Then David had wanted to know: “No one has attacked our borders, so why are we fighting?”

His father had stroked his chin and replied absent-mindedly, “Yes, it is wrong, very wrong.”

In the meantime David received a call to leave for war. An air of dejection hung over the impending departure. At this point, David's father committed a scandalous thing. There was only one topic of conversation in the town: What would happen to David's father. Even if he did not go to war, would he be saved? Would he be court-martialed?

It was learnt that David's father's would face court-martial. He was not allowed to come back home from his army office. There was a strong rumor in the city that David's

father would be taken to army headquarters for trial.

During this time David paid a few visits to his favorite teacher. He would quietly sit beside him, then, after some time, take his leave.

It was during one of these days that he said, “They are not letting my father to come back . Do you think my father will be sent to war by force?”

Aran did not know the answer to this. So he kept silent. Then David said, “Would you give me that Y toy for driving away birds? Yesterday a magpie bit a boy on the ear at school, and made him bleed. Some of us are going to drive off the birds.”

Aran Aziz handed him a dozen catapults for chasing off the birds. David said, “We shall target the birds with marbles.”

After two days David came running with news: “Tonight they are flying my father off for trial. Mother came back crying after meeting him.”

That night a strange incident took place. All the traffic lights went out one after the other with a splintering sound. Then the street lights were also smashed. The traffic became chaotic. The small town became ghostly in no time at all. That night the plane did not take off. Rumors went round the city that it was the work of terrorists. All that the police could find were a few marbles. The police searched high and low for the pistol where the marbles had been fired from. They were eager to find out where noiseless pistols were to be found.

Aran became worried. Those birdshooting catapults had been given to him by an Indian friend. Aran told him about the incident. After hearing the story, the man became almost speechless with fear.

He said, “Run, run. Your son also died in war - they will suspect that you are the agent-provocateur.”

Dilruba Shahana is a young Bangladeshi writer. Supreeta Singh is currently in Dhaka from Kolkata.