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Short Story

The Poet

Humayun Ahmed Translation: HELAL UDDIN AHMED
Sirajul Islam, owner of the 'Town Press', was sitting with an angry expression. There were several reasons for his anger. Proofreader Jobed Ali had not arrived yet. The machine man was sitting idle. The sky was overcast. There was much likelihood of a rain or thunderstorm. Sirajul Islam would have to go home if there was rain. But he was hoping to spend the night with Binti. He stays with Binti for sometime once every month. The girl is quite decent. Does not make any fuss. Sirajul Islam does not want trouble at this age.
But it really began to rain in the evening. A minute later Jobed Ali arrived, drenched in the shower.
“I am late, Mr. Islam. My daughter has been suffering from fever.” Sirajul Islam did not reply. His mind was somewhere else.
• “The doctor has prescribed her a bundle of medicines".
• “Really?”
• “Yes, sir.”
• “What ailment?”
Jobed Ali described the ailment in detail.
Sirajul Islam was not interested. Even then he maintained a pretence of interest in his face and eyes.
Jobed Ali said, “Sir, I want to go home early tonight.”
“What the hell are you saying? Work delivery is due tomorrow morning. The
party has reminded us twice. Take tea, then sit down at work."
Jobed Ali sat down. The man was an expert proofreader. Sixteen pages were finished in no time.
-“Jobed Ali”.
-“Yes sir”?
-“Will it rain again”?
-“Difficult to say”.
-“Why difficult? You are a poet. Aren't you concerned about the rain?”
A faint smile passed through Jobed Ali's face.
“You are happy folks. You write great poems even when mishaps like rain occur.”
This time Jobed Ali smiled. He hated Sirajul Islam from the core of his heart. But only this man teases him by calling him a poet. That teasing seems sweet to Jobed Ali.
“Sir, I need to go home early. My daughter, sir”.
“You will certainly go. How much longer will it take to finish your job? See the spellings also."
Jobed Ali looked at the spellings with rapt attention. Sirajul Islam looked at the rains. He could not understand why rains occurred on those designated days which he kept reserved for merry-making. To him, the number of unresolved mysteries in life was rising continuously.
The girl named Binti was black. But black
girls were generally soft and tender. Sirajul Islam felt a kind of hunger for a soft black girl. His wife's colour was white, excessively white. Their marriage had taken place mainly because of her colour.
“Sir, I will do the rest of the job tomorrow morning”.
“Are you mad? The party will come in the morning. Please finish it now. How much longer will it take? Would you please take tea?”
“No, sir”.
“Please take it. Hey, give him a cup of tea. So, Mr. Poet, what new poems have you written?"
"Wrote some lyrics last night.”
"Really?”
"Would you like to listen?”
"No, please. Please carry on with your work. No poetry when you are working."
Keeping his eyes on the proof, Jobed Ali said in a muffled voice, “The poem will be published in 'Desher Mati' magazine”.
"Really?"
"Yes sir, the Editor was all praise for it.” “Good, good. You should now go for publishing a book.”
As he spoke, it seemed to Sirajul Islam that the rain was coming to a halt. He felt a tinge of excitement in his blood. The girl Binti had a sexy accent. She must be from Jessore or its surrounding areas. But he had
never asked that question. There should not be too much of intimacy with that kind of girl. A distance should always be maintained.
Jobed Ali got up after finishing his work. Then he stood before Sirajul Islam gloomily and scratched his head. Sirajul Islam knew this pose. He blurted out in a serious voice, “No receipt yet from the party. Business may have to be wound up, don't you see”?
“Give me ten taka. My daughter has asked me to buy her a banana.”
With a gloomy expression Sirajul Islam brought out a ten taka note. He does not like giving away notes in the middle of the month.
“See you sir.”
Sirajul Islam did not reply. His face was grim. The rains had again started pouring.
When Jobed Ali returned home, his daughter's fever had remitted. The girl was waiting for her father. She wanted to have her rice with the banana. But it was late and so the banana could not be bought. Jobed Ali felt very bad.
“I will bring you a banana tomorrow morning, baby.”
“Okay, father.”
“Shobri variety or shagarT’
“Whichever you like.”
“Okay then, as you say.”
After taking his food, Jobed Ali sat down
with his notebook. There has been one advantage since his wife's death. Nobody protests even when he sits down to write late at night.
The rains were falling in torrents outside. Sleep was not justified in this kind of heavy monsoon.
Jobed Ali's daughter could not sleep. Her fever was rising again. Covering herself with a blanket and with eyes wide open, she looked at her father. She whispered, "Papa”. Jobed Ali did not hear. A beautiful line had filled his mind, “How lovely it rains tonight!” But the next line was not forthcoming. Only this line reverberated in his mind over and over again. Jobed Ali's face was soaked with emotion.
The girl's fever was rising. She again murmured, “Papa”. That murmur was buried in the sounds of the raindrops outside. Through her feverish eyes, the girl could see the tears coming down her Papa's face. But she could not understand why. Children can grasp many things. But they fail to fathom so many others.
Humayun Ahmed is a leading novelist and playwright.
Helal Uddin Ahmed, a senior civil servant, is an author, essayist, translator, poet and fiction-writer.
He can be reached at hahmedl960@gmail.com .