One afternoon, Shamir Saheb arrived at Atu's rental house in a sweating state, his pushcart loaded with all his belongings. Shamir Saheb was around forty years old. I estimated this by comparing him to my older brother's age, finding some resemblance.
I first met Shamir Saheb at Dhaka Medical. I'd been suffering from a toothache for several days. My older brother was reluctant to spend money on doctors for someone as useless as me. It had been years since I'd passed my BA, and I still hadn't managed to secure even a teaching position. I ate my two handfuls of rice and lentils at my brother's household, and in return spent my time carrying little Bachchu (my brother's youngest boy) on my shoulders and hips, running errands for groceries and rations. Occasionally I'd make the rounds to newspaper offices, petitioning for positions in the "Situations Wanted" sections. Being the younger brother, my brother couldn't exactly throw me out either. Besides, city households need someone to run errands and handle chores.
After trying cheap tobacco leaves pressed against my gums for days with no relief, I was forced to seek help at the medical college. The verandah was awash with spit, nasal discharge, and various wet reddish-blackish substances, their nauseating smell enough to make even someone as useless as me reluctant to venture in that direction. It felt like my breath would stop. Though I often felt like dying, when actually faced with the prospect of suffocation or anything close to death, the desire to die would vanish. Covering my mouth with my right hand, I stepped onto the verandah. My eyes were fixed downward as usual, searching and navigating around the various substances scattered about.
Suddenly, at the sound of a feminine voice crying "Oh my God!" my eyes shot forward to see a woman holding her head with both hands, swaying as if about to collapse! Looking around, I saw no one nearby except a man in black pants and a brown shirt, facing away from us. The woman was indeed falling, one hand clutching her stomach, the other groping desperately at the wall. The poor woman was feeling along the wall, about to collapse. Fearing her head might crack open, I rushed forward and caught the woman. With great difficulty, she pointed toward that man. Within a minute, understanding her gesture, I called out to him. "Hey there, brother, are you listening?"
That was my introduction to Shamir Saheb. He had come with one of his two wives—she had stomach pain. I never got the chance to really get to know what kind of man he was. But I heard his curses from that first day until the last. The woman was writhing in pain—when her vision was darkening and she was groping, trying to clutch at the wall, that was when I had caught her arm. In all my years of experience, I'd never really had the opportunity to think seriously about women. For someone useless like me, even dreaming of such things was a grave sin! But at that moment, somehow I completely forgot about my toothache. In that state, the woman seemed like something from a movie. I was watching her face contorted with unbearable pain, her eyes closing—perhaps that's what I was seeing.
At the sound of "bastard"—the ultimate curse—I turned sharply from the woman's face to see Shamir Saheb. Seeing me, the man narrowed his red eyes and said, "Don't you live in Lalbagh?" I nodded, and seeing the man, I remembered the pushcart with all his belongings, his sweaty face, Atu's rental house—I recognized him as that same man.
That day, perhaps because it was our first meeting or for some other reason, he didn't resort to words like "bastard" again. But later, because our homes were close by, such dialogue could be heard at any time. Whether returning home at noon or at midnight, it would begin—the strange and bizarre use of profanity. And occasionally, the beating of his two wives. Why he did such things, though I wanted to investigate, I didn't dare venture in that direction. Being useless in my brother's household as it was, and then getting involved in something that might lead to a commotion where trouble was most likely—oh dear! I invoke my father's name several times day and night. But that direction, never, not even by mistake.
Shamir Saheb probably did some kind of contracting work. Occasionally, one or two outsiders would ask "Where is contractor Shamir Saheb's house?" I never spoke more than a few words with the man. Despite all my desires, I wouldn't speak, thinking of my own situation. Though I didn't speak, the desire to see those movie-like beautiful moments I'd witnessed on the hospital verandah would arise in my mind. Sometimes in the afternoon or during the quiet of noon, I'd take Bachchu in my arms and walk on the road beside Atu's house. I'd watch the woman. Sitting on a table in the verandah, leaning against the house wall, staring at the sky. When she'd suddenly notice me, she'd stare back at first. Then gradually, along with the staring came smiles and various gestures. Sometimes I'd wonder what I was thinking of myself. But whenever I remembered the man, my body would shudder.
Scoundrel, thug, drunkard, marijuana smoker, and the worst thing I heard—which made me remember my dead father for three days straight—was that those two wives weren't really wives but women, and they were bad—terribly bad. Even mentioning their names would supposedly keep one's mouth impure for seven days. Therefore, that path was forever closed.
Gradually, these scandalous talks spread from mouth to mouth throughout the neighborhood. Everyone was saying the man needed to be driven out of the area. "Needed, meaning it's absolutely obligatory," commented the mosque's imam. But yes, there was a "but." That "but" became an obstacle, forcing itself as a barrier against the neighborhood people's united "driving out" and the imam's "obligatory" decree. The man was a thug, a scoundrel—so who would step forward to say anything? One couldn't speak up; the times being what they were, there might even be trouble regarding one's own safety!
The neighborhood whispers and murmurs continued nicely. Excited speeches from middle-aged young men. "All sorts of things will happen in our neighborhood and we'll just keep quiet? No, this absolutely cannot be allowed."
"Yes, I say too, come on Nantu, that bastard today..." Emran couldn't finish the sentence. Immediately Tulu spoke up, "Today, meaning right now, this very moment, let's grab that son of a bitch by the neck and finish him off!" Tulu stopped right there.
For several days, I didn't hear anything more. I don't know why, but unlike others, I could never judge the man using terms like thug, scoundrel, drunkard, marijuana smoker. Whenever I thought of the man, that movie-like face would float before my eyes. The man was the husband of that picture-face—perhaps there was such a weakness too—not the profanity, not the elders banding together to drive him out, not the imam's commentary about it being "obligatory," not the heated speeches of the neighborhood's middle-aged young men...no, none of these. I was quite busy these past few days. Actually, after running around with this kind of busyness for years, I had become somewhat lethargic. But recently, this busyness felt like those first days again.
Petitioning at the necessary places described in newspapers, I was getting a somewhat hopeful and encouraging scent, more than other times. I was invoking God a hundred times a day. Oh God, free me from this uselessness. My college friend Amin, a meritorious student, had been very close to the college principal.
- Hey, is that you? What's the matter? Gosh, you look even older than your age. Then suddenly remembering something: Come, come, sit down.
At first, I couldn't say anything in response to Amin's words. I had difficulty recognizing him. That same Amin who always came to college in one pair of pajamas and one blue shirt. Amin was an excellent student. The professors always praised him.
Black thick-framed glasses, white Terylene shirt, tie—how bright Amin's complexion had become, how good his health looked, what a serious demeanor.
Coming home from Amin's college, I'd spend time thinking about that old Amin and the present Amin. My college friend was now a lecturer at a government college. That day I couldn't say anything in response to Amin's words. I just held both of Amin's hands and said, Yes brother, it's me. I've come...I've come (after all these years, I felt like crying)...give me this job, brother.
Job? Oh...! Saying this, he glanced at my somewhat soiled patched pajama-punjabi and two worn-out sponge sandals, then looked toward his files and became even more serious. After thinking for a long time about something, he finally asked about my current situation, and I told him everything. Amin served me tea and biscuits, told me to submit my application to his desk on a specific date, and bid me farewell. Though I left, I couldn't wait for those few days before the appointed date. So sometimes walking, sometimes by bus, I'd go to the college to meet Amin and let him know that if this job didn't work out, I would... Amin didn't get annoyed, he just kept looking at me. Finally, on the appointed day, the happiness of my entire life overflowed. I...I got the clerk's job at Amin's college.
After wandering here and there all day in happiness, I returned home toward evening. As soon as I got back, I took Bachchu in my arms and went outside. I bought him a lozenge for two taka, and while walking near Otu's house, that picture-perfect face suddenly came to mind. Going a little further, after so many days, I felt a strong desire to see that face again. But no—wasn't anyone home? Everything around seemed so dark!
Back home, I urged my sister-in-law myself today—Come on, sister-in-law, give me some rice! And yes, make breakfast a bit early tomorrow morning, I have to go to the office again.
- Oh my, is that so! Has our younger brother-in-law finally found some work after all this time? So where is this job?
My sister-in-law had never been unkind to me. Yet today she seemed somehow new to me. As if she was speaking to me anew today.
"You know, that gentleman died suddenly in an accident this morning," my sister-in-law said while serving rice. "Gentleman? Which gentleman?" I turned to look at her while washing my plate. "That tenant of Otu's... the gentleman who had two wives!"
- What! Shamir Saheb? Inna lillahi wa inna lillahi...
- Yes, and both wives have apparently gone off with some man from their village. Truly, whatever anyone might say about the gentleman, no one ever caught him doing anything really bad! His only fault was that he used to scold his wives... that's all! But such things happen between husband and wife anyway.
The sweaty face with all his belongings on a pushcart, Otu's tenant Jamir Saheb. Thug, scoundrel, drunkard, cannabis-smoker Shamir Saheb. And now that he's dead... how strange... gentleman Shamir Saheb! Ha ha... Shamir Saheb a gentleman! But beyond all these scenes, only that picture-perfect face trembles and rises in the pupils of my eyes! Ah, golden wife! My love! I will never be able to see you again...!