AFSANA BEGUM

When Muniza stands on the moss-covered railing and leaps onto the roof of the adjacent house, the hem of her kamiz puffs up like a parachute. As the balloon of wind deflates, I see her standing on another moss-covered carpet-roof of the neighboring house. Looking at me, she says, “What’s wrong? Why are you sticking your tongue out like Goddess Kali? Jump!”

In a voice that is almost trembling, I say, “I can’t, Mun!”

“What a coward you are! It’s so difficult to get around with you.”

In wounded pride, I feel like saying, then you don’t have to walk with me. But I compose myself; I do not want to lose her company. In fact, I wouldn’t even grow tired of wandering with Muniza day and night. Besides, I am engaged in a noble task at the request of my dearest friend, Deepro. I have to set Muniza up with Deepro. In the neighborhood slang of those days, it was called “making a line”; in simple terms, I had to fix them up. Stuck at a cigarette shop on a pouring rainy evening, smoking one cigarette after another, I had given Deepro my word that I would fix them up.

Looking at Muniza’s annoyed face standing on the green carpet-roof, I think once more: let’s give it a try! Taking a few steps forward, just as I lean over the railing at the edge of the roof, I see a narrow strip of flat ground visible between the two three-story buildings. Way down below. It rained a short while ago, and everything is muddy and slushy. When I grab the railing, my hand gets wet as it rests on the clumps of moss. Is Muniza crazy? Looking at the narrow void between the two buildings makes my head spin. If my feet miss the other roof, I go straight down. After that, it will take at least 15 minutes just to drag my body out. As these ominous thoughts cross my mind, I suddenly remember—why should I jump? Am I the District Commissioner’s daughter like Muniza? Do I have a desperate need to escape without telling anyone? I can just take the stairs down and walk right past Muniza’s driver. This is my own house; I can leave and enter a thousand times. I don’t need to take such a massive risk with my life just to slip away to the banks of the Kanchan River while leaving a car parked in front to show that I entered this house and am still here! Looking at Muniza, I make a face at her and run toward the stairs. In this area of Maldahpatti, there are eight to 10 houses of the same height lined up one after another; thick walls plastered with moss.

Descending to the street, I whistle. Muniza’s driver and peon look up, drawn by the sound of the whistle. Their eyes narrow, perhaps wondering if they have ever seen me with Muniza on the college field. Ignoring them, I try to weave a complex tune into my whistle and look ahead, watching to see which house Muniza will emerge from. A little later, Muniza comes out through the side door of the fourth house. Looking back, I see the burly peon and the driver sitting with the car doors open. It is muggy and humid after the rain; I give Muniza’s damp hand a sudden, sharp tug so they won’t catch us if they abruptly turn around. Then, we board a rickshaw and head toward the old railway bridge.

Deepro is sitting in pocket number 2 of the old rail bridge over the Kanchan River. This was prearranged. Yesterday, Deepro handed me half a packet of cigarettes and extracted a promise that I would bring Muniza there. That’s why I used my younger sister to bring Muniza to our house and went through all this trouble. We sit with our legs dangling into the bridge’s pocket. Beneath our three pairs of feet rushes the turbulent mountain current. Amidst the gurgling sound of the water, we exchange small talk. Muniza had been talking to me like a sparkler until now, but for some reason, the moment Deepro arrived, she became distracted. Her attention is focused on the white foam beneath our feet rather than on the conversation. I grew restless; after all, Muniza was brought here so she could get close to Deepro. I feel as though I almost blurt out, Hey Mun, say something! My half-packet of cigarettes won’t be halal otherwise. How did the Punarbhaba River get named the Kanchan River? Is it because of the glittering golden sandbanks all around? Muniza doesn’t even participate in our curious conversation about the naming of the Kanchan River.

Who knows how many days will pass like this? Sometimes I take Muniza to the Hemayet Ali Library next to the Town Hall. Deepro sits there, pretending to read a heavy book. Having seated Muniza, I say, “I have a bit of work,” and stand waiting outside. When I return, I find them like statues. Why is there no conversation? When I gesture to them, Muniza gestures back, pointing to a notice: “Silence is requested here.” Sometimes I take Muniza to Jamal’s tea stall. She likes thick, milk-heavy tea with a layer of cream on top. So do I. Only Deepro sits between us, drinking red tea infused with ginger and cloves. Jamal pours the tea liquor from a height of three feet into the dense milk. The cup froths up. Seeing this, both Muniza’s and my mouth water. It makes no difference to Deepro. Deepro steals glances at Muniza, nothing more than that.

One day, Deepro says, “Whatever I want to say to her, I can’t say a single thing when she’s right in front of me. What do I do, tell me?”

Scratching my head, I say, “Write a letter.”

He says, “I’m even too shy to write a letter!”

“Oh come on, you’re hopeless. Forget it then...” I feel annoyed.

Deepro grabs me tightly, “Buddy, please do something. Save me.”

I say gravely, “Alright, I’ll write the letter myself. You’ll see, she’ll come running.”

Translated from Bangla by Alamgir Mohammad. The original story first appeared on Prothom Alo. This is an excerpt. Read the full story on The Daily Star and Star Books and Literature websites.

Alamgir Mohammad teaches literature and Translation Studies at the tertiary level. He has published 25 titles in translation.