# A New World
The year was 2014. I had been at Caritas for four months. A new job. Alongside work, I was pursuing an evening MBA from the IBA at Dhaka University. I had hope that once the MBA was done, it would come in handy when promotion time rolled around. Back then, my world consisted of books—stacks of them—academic studies, and poetry. Occasionally some prose. That was it: my days, my nights, my ordered little universe. From childhood, I had grown up within tight boundaries, in the groove of routine. Read your books, eat, finish eating, then sit down to read again. That was the whole of my world. I had never really ventured far beyond this prescribed existence. Or rather, I’d never had to.
Whatever time remained after my academic work, I spent it reading books, watching films, listening to music. If I felt like it, I’d write something. To me, that was what the world meant. So in walking the world’s paths, I had taken few detours, seen little, and consequently knew even less.
I lived in the IBA hostel. On Greenroad. Room 203. Everyone joked that I lived in the house of two co-wives! While my friends would finish classes and gather together for gossip, sports, wandering around, sitting on park benches with girlfriends cracking nuts—at those moments I would think, let me just finish this book and start another, or write something. Writing brought me great joy. Or I’d sit in front of my laptop watching some classic film I’d left unwatched on my hard drive for months. My world was very small—books, cinema, music, writing. I was terribly withdrawn, keeping myself locked away indoors. That was me!
My friend Joyant was different. Spirited, restless, mischievous, and chronically foolish by nature. He saw life in color, not through the eyes of books like I did. He knew many of the world’s alleys and street corners well. By temperament, outward-looking—my exact opposite. He lived four rooms down from mine. Room 208.
One afternoon, as evening was creeping in, I was half-reclined by the window, lost in Somersh Majumdar’s *Moner Moto Mon*. I never really kept my door locked. Joyant came up from behind, placed his hand on my shoulder, and with a mischievous tone began to say something. Friend, you can’t keep the whole world locked away inside books, come out and see, see where things are, which gardens have flowers blooming, which street corner has which banyan tree standing still, which alley has which flag flying! Hearing such words from him, I was a bit startled and asked, What’s wrong with you? Why are you like this? Just say what you mean, out with it! Don’t be a nuisance, just tell me the business and get out of here! I’m reading, don’t bother me!
Then came that mysterious smile again! With hungry eyes, biting his lip, he began to say, Come on, I’ll take you somewhere new today. Let me make a man out of you today! You’ll really like it.
Joyant was my college friend. He works at a bank now. He pulls this kind of foolishness all the time. I didn’t pay much attention to what he was saying, turned my eyes away from his face, and buried them back in my book. I tossed him the packet of salted cashews and told him, Don’t make trouble, just eat and go. There are apples by that pot, eat one if you want. I watched as my friend, munching on nuts, gently patted my back and began to say in a hushed voice, Come on, man! Let me show you a whole new world today.
# Promise, You’ll Love It!
I was getting annoyed now. I told him, Friend, I’ve no burning desire to see the whole world. When the time comes, the world will show itself to me soon enough! If you want to see it, go ahead and see all you like. But leave me in peace—stop dragging me around! Once I’m done with this book, take it with you, read it, you’ll enjoy it. . . . Hearing this, Joyant removed his hand from the book, placed it on my shoulder, and pulled me toward him. Come on, get ready, he said. Today I’m taking you to a beautiful place, more beautiful than all your books put together—a mysterious world. Come on, man! You’ll rot away here like a lifeless corpse—what good will that do? And yes, bring some money with you.
Now I felt a flicker of curiosity. Well, let’s see where my friend takes me! I got ready. I closed the book, left it on the table, and went with my friend, holding his hand. I didn’t know exactly where he was taking me. But I could sense we were heading somewhere I’d never been. We both got into a rickshaw. Even though I’d left my reading table, my mind was still stuck on Swapnasish’s cricket bat. The rickshaw pulled us toward that unknown world. I asked Joyant several times where we were going. He said nothing, only “Hey man, just look around!” As we rode, the rickshaw stopped in front of house number 14, block 4, road 2 in Dhanmondi. I got down from the rickshaw, stepped into the lift, and Joyant pressed 6. Flat 6-B. The moment I rang the doorbell, a gentleman in his early forties, named Robin, opened the door and invited us in. I understood he was the one Joyant had called on the phone during our rickshaw ride. The flat was furnished with wicker furniture. There was taste and order everywhere. As I stepped inside, I saw Akshay Kumar brutally punching Shakti Kapoor—punch after punch, relentlessly! His face was smashed, blood pouring out in a ghastly mess. On a 32-inch TV, G-Cinema was playing. Dhishhum-dhashum!
I saw Joyant grinning mischievously now. I truly understood nothing. Robin sahib shook hands with us. Joyant pointed at me and said, Yes, this is Rokib. I told you about him. Robin sahib was very cordial, gentle, and polite. He was just over five and a half feet tall, his complexion dark as storm clouds, his face marked with pockmarks, his eyes seemed sunken in their sockets, and his hair, henna-dyed and salt-and-pepper, fell naturally. I whispered to Joyant, What’s the real reason we came here? Explain it to me, will you! His answer: “Look around, why don’t you?” Meanwhile, snacks had arrived—lemon juice, cake, apples, chips.
Now Joyant spilled all the secrets. There are fairies here, man—fairies! You’ll spend time with them, have fun, enjoy yourself, and pay them. I understood then: this flat ran a brothel. When the realization hit me, shame and embarrassment shattered my entire world! After a while, I began looking around nervously, trying to see who inhabited this realm, what was actually happening here. I saw the flat had three bedrooms, lined up next to each other. Robin sahib and Joyant led me to the first room. On the bed sat three girls. Their faces wore smiles—forced smiles. When they saw us, they stood up and greeted us. One of them sat with her head bowed; my eyes found her first. The other two seemed more composed. The room wasn’t very neat. It seemed only the drawing room had been kept orderly.
One thing struck me: in that house, Joyant was perfectly at ease, completely unself-conscious.
She knew everyone there too, laughing heartily as she spoke with them. She seemed to know the rooms as well. I could tell she came here regularly. I was cowering in embarrassment and fear. What was I doing in a place like this? What if the police showed up? What if they tried to blackmail us? What if there were hidden cameras? God knows what else was running through my head. I kept staring at the floor, counting the tiles with intense focus as though the answer to every mystery, the solution to every problem, lay there in those patterns.
I’d already started calling Robin Sahib “Robin bhai.” There was an older woman in the flat doing odd jobs around the house. Coming up to Joyanto, she said with a smile, “Son, you have to give me a hundred rupees today! You forgot to give me fifty yesterday.” There was a young boy running errands. Robin bhai came over to me. Looking at me, he seemed to understand something—as if a storm was passing through me. He said, “Brother, everything in this world has a first time. You haven’t done this before, so now you will—what’s the problem? It won’t kill you, will it? From today onwards, you’ll see a kind of confidence growing in you. You won’t be so afraid anymore, your privacy won’t be compromised. There’s no security issue either. Enjoy yourself without worry. There’s no shame in it. You’ll do this sooner or later anyway, won’t you? Don’t mind it—we’re like friends, really. Let me be frank: in this world, lights off and all men are sons of pigs! As long as there’s light, a man stays decent. A man who can keep his head straight when he sees a woman—he’s either a great soul or a eunuch. I’m speaking from experience, brother! I’ve seen a lot, you know!”
I understood then—the man was a pimp. Robin bhai went on: “Brother, I’ve been in this line for many years. I’m a pimp. Some of my clients call me MD Sahib out of affection! That’s my code name! You get it? Ha ha ha! This business is my original trade. Everything else I’ve built came from this. I have a share in a petrol pump, I own a restaurant, and I have some money in the stock market. That’s all! Allah has been good to me! No complaints, though there was a time, you understand? Such poverty, brother. I lived on just bread and water for days!”
He drifted off for a moment, lost in thought. I could see old memories turning over in his mind. I asked him, “How did you get into this line?” Coming back from his reverie, he began: “There was a time when I didn’t have two rupees in my pocket. I was in university then. Third year, I think. I met a big brother while wandering around. Good fellow, he’d give me money sometimes, take me out for biryani at Chankharpul. Back then I was poor—whoever gave me money was a good man to me. But eventually I understood something: his character wasn’t particularly good, though he had plenty of money. Does it matter if a man with money has good character or bad? Being a rich man without character is infinitely better than being a poor man with character. Because here’s the thing—even that poor righteous man has to hold out his hand to the rich one eventually. If some dependent bastard’s son starts preaching morality in front of me, I feel like grabbing him by the collar!”
Anyway, that man—he was first-class as a human being. Good heart, generous soul. If anyone got into trouble, whether anyone else came or not, Kabir bhai would always show up.
Brother, he used to give money to poor people every month. So one day that brother offers me to get into this line of work. Good man, really—better to go to hell with a good man than to heaven alone. I said yes. Spending time with him, I picked up the trade. No investment needed, just guts and a complete absence of shame. The money’s decent too. You can’t let what anyone in the world says get to you, and you can’t trust a soul. Those are the two cardinal rules of this business. And here’s something else I’ve learned in this line. Ninety-eight point five percent of the men in this world have no character to speak of. The rest are mostly cowards, every one of them! The ones who look like respectable gentlemen when you see them—leave them where they stand, and you’ll see their true face. You can’t know people in the light; you have to know them in the dark. Ha ha ha…
Later, I started the business myself. Rented a small flat. The landlord charged me twelve hundred taka more than the actual rent. I had to pay the caretaker and the gatekeeper extra too. For every guest who came to my flat, I had to give them fifty taka each. If I gave my name and flat number, they wouldn’t make an entry in the register. Now, let me tell you how I sourced the girls—you’re not my competitor, so there’s no harm in telling you. From working with that big brother, I already knew some girls’ contacts. Most of them are poor; some aren’t poor but do the work for extra money. They use that money for all kinds of hobbies. Brother, they take flights to Dhaka-Chittagong, won’t wear anything under ten to twelve thousand taka, use Mac cosmetics. Think about it—pretty good, right? Better than spending days and nights for free in the name of love with someone, then breaking up and suffering afterward. Why not do the same work in this line, make money, and be happy? What’s this love business? It’s all just freeloading! I tell the girls: instead of giving it away for free in the name of love, take money for it—that’s much better. Love in this world only leads to breakups. Sleeping with one man a hundred times or with a hundred men once each—it’s the same story! With the first, if it doesn’t work out, you’re a total loss. With the second, there’s no question of commitment—it’s all profit! Of course, that’s just my personal observation.
Some girls study; they have to pay semester fees and manage their own expenses, support their families too. Some girls can’t find work anywhere, but there’s no one else to run the household. Many girls like that are in this part-time profession. There are girls from schools, colleges, universities in this line. They need money, they’re not begging from anyone, they’re selling their beauty and youth. There’s honor in it, really, if you think about it. The society that lectures you doesn’t give you a single taka when you’re in trouble. I’d hunt out girls like that. Many came looking for me on their own. You get contacts for one girl from another. You also get leads on girls from the clients. Girls are very happy when you set them up with rich, generous clients. Some girls do it just for the fun of it. If they don’t like a client’s face or figure, you could offer them millions and they still wouldn’t sleep with him.
# The Business
There are plenty of models, plenty of actresses in this line—I’ve got my connections! But their rates are astronomical, they won’t work just anywhere, you have to take them to nice, secure places. Getting hold of any ordinary girl is no trouble, but finding a young, beautiful one—that’s not easy. Still, that’s how I got into this business.
So I gathered that the esteemed Managing Director, Robin sir, was quite the ‘humanitarian.’ Helping all sorts of girls, looking at it from every angle.
Robin sir called the three girls into the drawing room. Just before they arrived, he tried to put courage into us. “Brother, you know Jayanta sir knows my business. I have connections with high-ranking officials in the administration. Even though I’m a small man, I can manage everything. The police? No problem—many senior police officers are my regular clients.” The girls came in. They sat on the sofa directly across from us. One of them wasn’t looking our way at all—she was busy on her phone, probably chatting on messenger. Whatever she was looking at made her smile a little now and then. This was the same girl who’d been sitting with her head down in the other room. Robin sir came close to me and whispered in my ear, pointing her out. “Brother, this girl is new to the game, absolutely fresh. Take her—she’s only been here one and a half, two months tops. You’ll enjoy it, and her service is excellent. Very well-behaved girl, no complaints from any clients. She’s not a regular—works very rarely, and she’s educated too.” I listened to Robin sir in a daze while he pressed two packets into my hands and went on. “If you want, you don’t have to use the packets, there’s no problem. She’s completely fresh, so there’s no issue, but it’s good if you do use them. Demand for her is quite high, you can see for yourself—young, tall, slim, beautiful.” He said all this right in front of the three girls. They didn’t seem to find anything strange about it.
I looked up and stared directly at the girl. She was looking straight at me, a faint smile playing on her lips. Jayanta and Robin sir saw a call girl. But I—I saw two large, taut eyes brimming with untold stories, unsaid words, spreading pain. Those eyes spoke volumes in silence, without utterance. The girl had a round face, a slim figure, a raw golden complexion, quite tall. To be honest, I liked what I saw. I wanted her for myself, wanted to make her mine, but I couldn’t bear the thought of her being common property. In this crude quarter, beauty is the greatest qualification. The second qualification is that a woman should have everything nature gave her in full measure. Her body must contain all the elements to satisfy a man’s hunger.
Robin sir gestured for the girls to leave the room. All three of them went back to the first room. I asked Robin sir to step away for a moment. He went to the veranda and started talking to someone on his mobile. Jayanta came up to me and said, “Friend, you saw that beautiful girl? Let her be yours today—I’ll take the one in the blue sari.” I gripped his hand and said, “Buddy, leave me out of this today. I really can’t do it—my heart won’t let me. You go in with that girl, I’ll wait here. Please!” “Bloody bastard! Enjoy yourself!” With that, he pulled his hand away and, whistling cheerfully, wrapped an arm around one of the other girls and disappeared into a room. Robin sir came back and led me to what he called the ‘VIP room.’ “Brother,” he said, “you’ve got those two packets in your pocket, yes?”
If you need anything else, just let me know—you can tell him too. I’ll slip the packet under the door. But it’s the first time, so two should do the trick. Though there’s always the chance thing, you know. I listened to Robin Da like a robot, just nodding my head this way and that, agreeing to everything he said.
Within three minutes of stepping into the room, the girl knocked and called out, “Coming in!” before pushing the door open. I said hello with a smile, but this time I nearly broke into a sweat. The embarrassment of it! The room was lovely—neatly arranged, well-kept. AC room, a big LED TV, a made bed, a tissue box on top of it, fresh towels. I went into the bathroom. There was new soap, shampoo, shower gel, liquid soap, a disposable brush, toothpaste, toilet paper. Everything in its place. An air freshener in the room, a Good Knight mosquito liquid vaporizer plugged into the socket. I went and sat in one corner of the bed, curled up. I looked like a newlywed bride. I pulled the sheet up to my chest. Not looking at the girl, not looking anywhere really, I sat staring straight ahead at the TV in front of me. The remote was in my hand. I was watching the Animal Planet channel with intense interest. I’ve never watched this channel in my life, but today I was loving it. It felt like I’d survived all these years without Animal Planet—how was that even possible? A herd of elephants running, running somewhere. I was deeply anxious. Where were they going? Why were they going? Why run like that anyway? What was wrong with walking? What was the point of all this running around? Remarkable!
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the girl was probably doing something on her phone—maybe Facebook—and glancing at me now and then. It was winter, the AC was off, the fan was on, and I was sweating all over. She got up from the sofa and sat down next to me on the bed. I shifted away from her a bit, further along the bed, and focused on the TV. Now a tiger was chasing some deer, and it had caught one of them. Pure bloodbath! I got excited—how the tiger tears and eats the deer, I’d never seen this before. Why hadn’t I seen it? Extraordinary, absolutely extraordinary!…The girl probably thought I’d come to this room just to watch TV. My TV back home had broken, so I’d come here. I turned away from her and watched with undivided attention. The funny thing is, I’m not someone who watches TV at all. But today, this urge to watch had seized me!
Suddenly, interrupting my beloved TV time, the girl burst out: Hello Mister! I jolted awake as if from a trance, stammering a bit before blurting out, Hi! And immediately I turned back to the TV. This went on for about ten, fifteen minutes. She listened to three songs—two by Atif Aslam, one by Sonu Nigam. I felt completely stupid. I honestly had no idea what to talk about, how to start, nothing. Silence seemed best. On the TV now was CNN, something about the American President’s healthcare policy, protesters were out on the streets somewhere in the US. They were shouting a lot. I felt sorry for the President. Poor fellow!
The girl broke the silence again. With great confidence, she said: Sir, should I take off my clothes? Do you have any special demands?…When I heard her words, I literally jumped up! Looking straight at the girl, I said: Stop! You don’t need to do anything. Just watch TV!
# Come On, Let’s Watch TV
“Come on, let’s watch TV, yeah?”
I looked. A sweetness to that face, can’t be more than twenty, twenty-one perhaps. A mole on the left side of her cheek. Dark kohl thick around her eyes. Thin lips painted a pale pink, like the petals of a freshly bloomed rose. Her golden eyes kept darting toward me, again and again, like fireflies. Long hair, reaching nearly to her waist, stirred by the slow ceiling fan, swaying this way and that. The front strands kept brushing against her eyes, nose, cheeks, then falling away. Her skin had that pale golden glow—the color of turmeric, or of some distant kingdom’s radiance. Around her neck, a string of pearls or beads the color of ghee. A golden bracelet on her wrist. A small black dot at the center of her forehead beneath the vermilion mark. She wore a thin black georgette sari, and over it a deep red blouse with a high neckline. Against that black drape, her slender frame seemed a canvas for a thousand colors—a living kaleidoscope. She looked like a butterfly, as if the moment wings were attached she’d flutter away to some distant flower garden. She was staring at her phone now, biting her lip, a hint of irritation crossing her face.
And on my end, the spell was deepening. I was really seeing her for the first time—truly seeing. This beauty, these eyes, these cheeks, these lips, this form—it all reminded me of a flame of the forest in fresh bloom. Why was she here, I wondered? Why had she come to this place? I was sweating steadily. I got up, switched off the fan, set the AC to 27 degrees, and let it run.
She broke through my enchantment. “Sir, it’s been almost forty minutes now. You can get started.”
With that, she was already busy, pulling the edge of her sari away from her chest, beginning to unbutton her blouse. “Sir, new to the line, are you? Listen, you can’t be shy in a place like this. Save all that shame and courtesy—keep it in your pocket for after you leave this room. Here, not being shy is the rule. Here, rudeness is ordinary decency. The self-conscious gentlemen who come through that door—they shed their masks in here and pick them up again on the way out. You understand? Don’t worry, my figure’s good. You’ll like it.”
I pulled out my handkerchief and wiped the sweat from my forehead, looked away to the corner of the room, and asked her—my voice trembling with embarrassment—not to unbutton her blouse. She stopped. She pulled the edge of her sari back over her half-exposed chest. And then I saw it: her eyes widened as though they contained all the world’s wonder, fixed on me with that startled gaze. “What do you mean? What do you want? You don’t want to go through with it? You don’t like me? Should I call someone else?”
I’m a man who always carries chocolate. A Snickers was in my pocket. With trembling hands, I pulled it out and offered it to her. “Here, eat this. Have a Snickers.”
She snatched it from my hand with a sharp gesture, threw it onto the carpet in front of her with anger and irritation, and then leaned closer to me, her eyes piercing. “Are you messing with me? Are you some kind of romantic looking for a girlfriend? Or are you trying to score a freebie next time? Did you come here to make love, or just to waste my time? Get down to business, brother. I’m a professional. We play, you’ll enjoy it. Game ends, goodbye. That’s it. Stop the theatrics. Take your shots. Do what you need to do. If you’ve got sexual problems, I can do the holding and squeezing too. No problem. But the account settles when you’re done. One shot means one game finished! I’ve got other clients after you. I need to go somewhere else. Robi bhai will call soon to book me.”
I appreciate your instruction, but I notice you’ve provided only a fragment of text — what appears to be the closing lines of a piece (“Begin your work. Do what you’ve come to do”) followed by HTML markup for a verse block.
To provide you with a proper literary translation, I need the complete Bengali text that requires translation. Could you please share the full piece you’d like me to translate from Bengali to English?
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– The author’s distinctive voice and intent
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I’m ready to begin whenever you share the full text.