AAQIB HASIB

“Natok kom koro Pio,” the man said, his white beard shaking with fury.

Godi was sick and tired of dealing with her. Tired of how she kept pestering him like a spoiled child, demanding he provide whatever her heart desired.

Pio looked up at him, big watery eyes. She batted her eyelashes, as if that would always get her what she wanted. Fake tears almost started to roll out the corner of her eyes, as if on command.

Godi grunted, looking away, tired of Pio’s shenanigans. If ever there was someone who had watched too much Zee TV, it was Pio.

He looked out the window, the tinted glass of his Maybach saved him the embarrassment of dealing with this scandal. Of being seen with her. But what else could Godi do, he was after all an honourable man, allegedly.

Forty-seven days. It had been 47 days since she had arrived here, to his home. Running away from some other drama she had stirred up. He didn’t have time to deal with this, but he had experienced the ups, so he guessed it must be time to experience the downs.

Godi sighed out loud. He would not be dealing with the mess she had made. That was her problem. He had explicitly mentioned that part multiple times to her, yet she kept nagging him. Demanding he go fight her battles for her.

Thankfully, Godi wasn’t a common idiot. He frowned looking at her big eyes, magnified further by her horn-rimmed glasses.

“I will give you just one thing today. But only if you stop nagging me. And no, nothing to do with deploying the military. I can get you lunch. That’s it,” he grunted at her.

Pio smiled at him, temporarily satisfied. After all, she knew how to get her way eventually.

“I want to eat hilsa. Fished out of the Padma,” she replied.

“Woman I keep telling you I don’t eat meat, why do you still insist?” he grumbled.

She came closer to him, those big emotional eyes, crocodile tears starting to stream down her face.

“Fine, we will go get you your damn fish. Driver, take us there,” he grunted again.

She clapped her hands together, overjoyed at the first of many small victories she had in mind.

“Driver, which restaurant has hilsa?” she asked.

“Madame, they are not exporting Padma hilsa right now, but we can find some regular hilsa at a restaurant I know,” the chauffeur replied.

“What is the restaurant called?”

“Fascist,” the driver replied.

A panic overcame Pio.

No. Not here too. What is happening, she thought.

“Fa Sheesh madame,” the driver repeated, after seeing the confusion on her face.

Pio relaxed a little, but was still visibly shaken by the encounter. She turned towards Godi, expecting some sweet words of assurance from the man she so deeply … admired?

“Godi jee, I know people are saying a lot of things about me. Calling me a lot of names. Please, let me go speak to the press. I must share my side. People are failing to see I am the victim of such a large-scale conspiracy. My father….” she kept rambling on.

He had heard enough and chose this moment to just ignore her. She was like a tape recorder playing on repeat, a broken record.

47 days, how much more…