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​A bit of an argument followed; then he found himself inside a perimeter of five policemen, being led to the station—a five-minute walk. He stopped arguing. If he had given them the 500-taka note in his wallet, it would be over. He didn’t. It wasn’t that he refused; he simply didn’t remember to.

NASIMA ANIS

​We know Body Selim. If you look around, you’ll find that after this incident, many people came to know him through the newspapers. You may have known him in an official capacity, and you may hear of him again. I know him personally; he used to come to Suhrawardy Udyan, almost regularly, to “take the stuff.” We used to ask, “Selim bhai, how many push-ups can you do at once?” Selim bhai would laugh—a naive, innocent laugh. Then he’d say, “Not many, I’ve got no shokti!”

​Before taking the stuff, he was quiet; after taking it, he became an incredible chatterbox. To put it simply, he was unmatched at spinning tall tales. It’s true that by working as a bodyguard for powerful industrialists and bank chairmen, and by becoming an accomplice in their countless misdeeds—acting as a part-time supplier of alcohol, drugs, and women—he had reached a certain “special” level. He found relief in vomiting out these stories to us. Perhaps it was for this added release, along with the marijuana that he left his own neighborhood to come to ours. He always tried to prove that his neighborhood wasn’t beneath him, but we understood why he came here. After pulling on the stuff together, we didn’t really have much contact; none of us wanted to take this relationship home to our families. Even if someone shared something personal while high, no one kept it in mind. Yes, we kept his phone number just to exchange news on the availability of “the stuff.” By “stuff,” you understand, right? Tobacco, tobacco... ha ha ha!

​After the incident—or perhaps a small one, really—occurred, Body Selim called me. He said, “Brother, I have your number memorised. Inform my wife. Tell her to arrange to get me out. Tell her to go home first. Saba is alone in the room.” Before I could ask where his phone was, the line cut. I called back and learned he was at the police station. The crime: caught with drugs.

​In the afternoon, his wife had gone to her sister’s house with their two eldest children. Saba, two and a half years old, had a dentist appointment; Selim was left with her, since the wife would be back by night anyway. After bringing her back from the doctor in the evening, he put Saba to sleep by giving her Tofen, as per the doctor’s advice. Niru told us all this later.

​My guess is, how long can an unemployed man watch television? While guarding the child, a craving must have kicked in. A winter evening can’t be passed without a hit. As evening faded, he probably realised he didn’t have a single stick left. Oh, how will I manage today? Niru might not be back until 10 PM—then what? Yes, Niru is his wife—foul-tempered, slightly promiscuous, and terrifyingly beautiful. She stayed under the same roof despite almost leaving several times. Even after having three kids, she had nearly walked out.

​One afternoon, a year ago, in the scorching heat, I got a call from Suhrawardy: “Kajol bhai, can you come for a bit?”

“In this heat?”

“I have some business!”

I went and found his face flushed, a brown envelope in his hand. He held it out and said, “Read this to me.”

​Opening the paper, I was stunned. A lawyer’s divorce notice. I read it aloud—as he could not read. I said, “Brother, your wife sent a legal notice. She won’t stay with you anymore. She won’t take the kids either; she’s giving them to you. What happened? Where is bhabi now?”

Selim bhai started crying—crying like a child, tears streaming down his cheeks. I felt bad. I said, “Tell me everything. We’re here, don’t worry!”

​I didn’t say out loud: Hey, you married her by force after getting caught red-handed. These things are bound to happen. I said nothing. I’ve learned not to take advantage of someone when they’re down.

​I stayed there until evening, ditching my own work. I called Topu and Atiq with their bikes, and Rehan and Sojib too. I told them, “There’s a small job to do after evening. Tonight, I’ll treat you to a full belly of kacchi biryani.”

Body Selim was still sitting with his head bowed. I said, “Brother, call your wife. Track her location.” Niru didn’t pick up. Selim said, “She’s probably at Sutrapur, at Rajib’s house. That Rajib ruined my family!”

“Do you know the house?”

“I do. The scoundrel used to be my friend.”

​Six of us arrived on three motorbikes. With a toy pistol and a few punches, it didn’t take much to overpower the frail Rajib. The next day, Niru showed up with the three kids. We gave some Humayun Ahmed-style dialogues on the field: “There are vitamins in beating, Selim bhai. Give us a hundred push-ups.” Selim bhai did the push-ups and let out a roaring laugh: “I’ve got no shokti!”

​Niru didn’t like me after that. No matter how much I said, “Selim bhai, don’t stay out at night. Bhabi manages three kids, it’s hard.” We used to head home around nine. Selim bhai would stay back to brag to someone else—descriptions of how many types of perfumes were in Atiq Muhammad’s toilet, the bathroom fittings in the bank chairman’s house, or about the Jamil Group. He had plenty of time to talk. Talking was perhaps his primary entertainment; we truly had less time. However, this wasn’t every day—two or three days a week. He had his own work schedule too.

​Once or twice a month, he would bring expensive bottles—gifts from his bosses. Why wouldn’t they? He was the one who collected these shipments from various places at great risk. If he ever got caught, those powerful parties would get him out in an instant. If caught with the goods, he used to laugh and say, “Pick up the phone, Sir. Just talk to them!”

​A night or two in lockup was just a minor inconvenience for him—he’d get treated like a son-in-law there. The sentries would think, what luck, even in jail! He didn’t show off his muscles; they just stood out on their own as he walked out of the station—like Mr Bangladesh! Some bosses would even send a car. The police would look on with respect. A grand life indeed!

​But a winter evening doesn’t pass easily. After two or three hours, he saw it was only 7:30 PM. Three-year-old Saba was asleep. Pacing back and forth, Selim gathered the courage to step out. It’s a 15-minute walk; he took a rickshaw. Five minutes to go, one minute or less to buy, five minutes to return. In 11 minutes, he’d be back; the girl wouldn’t realise a thing.

​It took a bit more than five minutes to get there, but only seconds to get the packet. He had let the rickshaw go. Before looking for another, the world felt like his own; he shook his shoulders and looked at the sky. Everything was shrouded in fog; no planets or stars were visible. People brushed past him—he liked them too. He felt a bit cold; he realised that in his excitement, he hadn’t taken his winter clothes. He had just wrapped the red muffler around his neck as he left. He tried to remember: was he wearing winter clothes inside the house? He couldn’t recall.

​He hailed a rickshaw. There was a light jam on the main road. He thought of his daughter—just two more minutes! Before the main road ended, someone suddenly grabbed the rickshaw handle. The rickshaw stopped with a heavy jolt. Two policemen surrounded him from both sides.

“Get down!”

“What do you mean, get down?”

He got down. He wanted to say, “I am Body Selim, everyone knows me. How dare you!” Before he could say anything, they barked, “Hand over the stuff!”

Only then did he realise he hadn’t brought his phone.

This is an excerpt. Read the full story on The Daily Star and Star Books and Literature’s websites. Translated from Bangla by Alamgir Mohammad.

Nasima Anis is a Bangla Academy Literary Award winning writer.

Alamgir Mohammad teaches literature at the tertiary level and has published 25 book titles.