I had fallen asleep. Suddenly I saw eight to ten missed calls on my phone. Two from Mother, three from my sister-in-law, one from my niece, and another from an unknown number.
My heart started pounding the moment I saw them. I'm on a bus right now, heading to Dhaka for urgent work. Everyone at home knows this. So why all these calls at once? A message would have done the job. These people will never have any common sense. I checked my phone again and saw a message had come about an hour ago that I'd missed. For some reason, I didn't feel like reading it. My heart was telling me something bad had happened at home. But even if something had happened, what good would it do to tell me? I'm so far away now, almost reached Savar.
After quite some time I checked the message. My niece had written: "Aunt, your Rahman uncle is no more. The funeral is after Maghrib prayers, come quickly."
Oh! That's all it was? People are bound to die, what's all the drama about? Besides, he was only my uncle, not my father!
Trying to say this to myself, I felt a shock. Rahman Uncle is gone! My Rahman Uncle is really no more? After Father passed away, I had come to think of this uncle as my father. My father is gone! From today I'm an orphan!
For some reason, I couldn't cry at all. When I'm deeply grieved, this is what happens to me. I become very normal in those moments, my head becomes even cooler.
I told the bus conductor, "Let me off, I'm not going."
- Why, sister? Where will you get off here? Just ahead is Savar bus stand. If you get off there, it'll be easier for you to find a bus. - All right.
I got off at Savar stand. Crossing the street, I saw a man selling old books. I went through them all, looking at everything. I have all these books at home already, but still I'm looking. I'm deliberately wasting time. Why I'm doing this, I don't know. Standing in one corner of the shop, drinking coffee, eating chocolate. Looking at me, there's no way to tell that my most beloved person died just a short while ago.
I took my bags and got on a bus from Savar to Chandra.
I couldn't find any direct bus to Bogura, so I got on the Chandra bus. Or perhaps I actually wanted to delay my return. I don't understand why people rush back to houses of the dead? And why do people crowd around to see the corpse of their closest loved ones! There, 'corpse'—I said it so easily? My voice didn't tremble, no tears came to my eyes!
Getting on the bus, I was thinking about which seat to take. Yes, really! During the most worrying times of my life, for some strange reason my head becomes very cool, my whole body relaxes. My mind reaches such a state, as if nothing has actually happened.
I got on and put my bag on the second seat on the right. The bus was crowded with passengers. Of course it would be, it's a local bus after all! Adding to the crowd were hawkers too. Just as I was about to sit, I saw on seat number four on the left, a girl was sobbing. Just a child really. How old could she be? Nine at most, certainly no older! Seeing her cry, I gestured from my own seat to ask what was wrong, because this wasn't normal crying. The girl just kept crying, couldn't say anything. Her parents were busy arguing with the conductor about the fare—normal life for low-income people! Neither of them had even looked at their daughter yet.
As soon as I stood up from my seat, I could see the girl crying and repeatedly looking toward a man standing at the very back of the bus. I stared at the man's face for a while. He was twisting his lips strangely with his hand, and every now and then looking at the girl in a very disgusting way. I don't know why, but seeing him made me suspicious right away. You know what kind of suspicion? Middle-class or lower-class women have probably already figured out what happened!
For those who haven't understood, let me explain. That man had inappropriately touched the little girl's body somewhere. Why did he do it, you ask? I'll explain point by point. Check it out.
1. She's a girl from a lower-class family—you can tell from her clothes. Because the girl's parents and she would squeeze together into two seats, her father had been haggling over the fare for ages. Parents who shout themselves hoarse to save fifty taka in fare—surely their daughter is public property! How could he resist laying hands on her, brother!?
2. The little girl is terrified! Ha ha ha! Such a small child—who would she tell? And why would anyone believe her anyway!
3. Oh, she's a 'girl-person'! She has to endure such things as she grows up! What's so surprising about this, I don't understand!
4. The self-respect of middle-class and lower-class people is often so perversely excessive that they accept inappropriate touching, sexual or psychological abuse in weird gestures and hints, even rape if it happens to any girl in their family—they accept it silently, don't make a sound! Because what will people say if they hear about it!? That's why girls from these two classes become victims more often. Though girls from these classes are now speaking up and protesting equally, their numbers are still very few.
So, back to where I was. Being a middle-class young woman, I've been familiar with these things for a long time. Now these things are like rice and lentils to me.
Oh, speaking of which! Here I'll answer some more questions myself that I know are spinning in many people's heads!
In such cases, a huge number of people have one memorized question: "With so many girls around, why does this happen to you specifically!" Even when such an incident happens to a girl, you'll see her own parents ask her this same question!
Now let me talk about myself.
Why did he touch her and not me? Let me explain this quite clearly, shall I? Big and little sisters, listen and remember, learn if you don't know. You can thank me later.
1. First, my clothing. I was wearing a western-style dress. These types of guys—I mean 'sons of pigs'—understand that a girl in such clothes won't sit quietly and cry if touched. This is a huge advantage for me. Due to my studies and work, I have to run around many places. When such animals see a girl in jeans or other foreign clothes, they usually stay away.
2. Second, my way of speaking. I always make eye contact and speak with drivers, conductors, or men sitting in nearby seats in such public places. When there's any problem on the bus, I don't believe in the policy that 'men should stand up and shout.' I get up myself and announce my problem loudly.
3. I never give anyone information about where I got on or where I'm going, and I never speak a single word about unnecessary topics or anything outside of work with any woman or man on buses, trains, or other public places.
4. Now let me come to my secret weapon. Growing up with lessons in honesty, it was very difficult for me to take up this 'secret weapon.' I always carry a fake ID card with me. Yes, a forged card where only my name and photo have been placed on the ID of a high-profile woman. I'm just a first-year honors student—apart from a student ID, I shouldn't really have any other special identity. Only a man with some brains could tell that the ID is fake by looking at it.
The swine who grope women may have other things, but they certainly don't have brains in their heads, nor courage in their hearts. Maybe the bastards have some certificates. Well, fake certificates like my ID can also be made. Go to Farmgate or Nilkhet and you'll find plenty! In this country, brother, everything is possible! Most importantly, I hope no one will be foolish enough to judge someone by their certificates. Even if the pig's children get expensive certificates, they remain pig's children!
Now tell me, did any of you brothers find my words amusing? Did I seem like a fraud to you? Keep all your laughter and trust tucked in your own pockets, will you?
So yes, sisters, as I was saying, this is how I tried to keep myself in the safe zone, and I still do. I can't call myself completely safe either, but I'm safer than many others. Those from middle-class and lower-middle-class families have no other option but to travel by bus.
I realized this girl wouldn't say anything, wouldn't protest at all.
I came up with a plan. From my own seat, I started screaming loudly, broke into tears. What you'd call theatrical crying! Acting can sometimes become an infallible weapon of war.
'What have you got against women?' 'Do you think I'll stay quiet? Never!'
I took her incident upon myself. I was certain she wouldn't admit to anything out of fear. How could I break women's age-old conditioned habits in a single day?
Hearing my commotion, the driver stopped the bus. The gentleman in the front seat asked, "What happened, madam? Anything wrong?"
Now look, tell me, why did he call me 'madam'? Why didn't he say 'Hey girl, what happened?' or 'Sister, why are you shouting like this?' Yes, you've guessed right—because of my appearance, my courage to protest, and that kind of bold attitude. Without mastering these things, in men's eyes you remain a 'maid' like that girl, and no one listens to you! In this Bangladesh, only if you become a 'madam' will people listen. This has become the rule of my beloved country. A maid is only a maid here, not a human being.
I immediately pointed to that man in the back and replied that he had touched me inappropriately. Meanwhile, that 'bastard' was completely stunned by my words! He couldn't have imagined such a thing could happen! He quickly came running!
: When did I touch you? : You did, you son of a bitch! : Why are you speaking so rudely? Maybe there was a bump while getting on the bus. Come on, sit down, madam! Don't play the woman card everywhere. And you're such a refined madam, what are you doing on this public bus? If you went in your father's or husband's private car, no one would touch you. All these landlords getting on buses! Hey driver, start the bus. A woman made noise, and you stopped the bus in the middle of the road. Go on, move! : No, don't start the bus. I shouted loudly, Hey you pig, why did you touch me? : I touched you—do you have proof? Did any of you see it?
Everyone shook their heads no. Now that scoundrel looked into my eyes and threw that crooked smile again, asking that age-old question!
As I said, these pigs roaming around with shit for brains don't know there could be anything substantial in a head. They commit crimes like memorized pages from textbooks. The same kind of wrongdoing every day! Even in crime, these Bengali bastards have no creativity in their heads. They eat to shit, shit to eat. They're born for no reason just to weigh down the pages of history with scoundrels. Usually no one says anything against them, so they don't have to go beyond their memorized tricks and excuses.
Thinking that a woman would never answer this question standing in front of everyone, he asked,
: Madam, tell me where I touched you? Exactly which part of you did I touch? : You touched my breast, you son of a bitch, my breast!
I said this much in clear pronunciation with a calm voice.
Now the silence broke. A respectable woman had said this with her own mouth—it seemed no one could believe it! Hearing this, first everyone else in the bus fell silent. As soon as they came to their senses, all the passengers pounced on that 'son of a bitch.' Some with sandals, some with belts, some just with their hands—they gave him a proper thrashing.
I gestured to that girl to come to me. I saw the girl had changed in an instant, as if she had been looking for a friend like me for a long time. She walked over comfortably and stood beside me. Meanwhile, that bastard was almost breathless! The bus conductor dragged him to me. He said, 'You'll hold madam's feet and apologize!'
Now I returned his crooked smile to him, and with wide eyes gestured for him to hold the girl's feet and apologize. Then he begged forgiveness not only from that girl but also from her parents. Everyone in the bus was looking at each other over this incident. I said, after getting beaten up, the poor guy's head isn't right. Ha ha ha!
While getting off the bus, he looked this way once more. I was about to say something when the little girl spoke up.
: Hey you! Will you ever touch anyone again? : …………………………… : Hey, will you ever do these things again? : Sorry…sorry…
The bastard had been beaten so badly that he couldn't say anything except 'sorry.' Even saying that much was very difficult for him.
: Go, now I'm letting you off! But I won't spare sons of bitches like you anymore. Go, get off! Get off right now, you animal!
Everyone in the bus now clapped together. I don't know why they clapped, but I understood this much—even if I couldn't change the system, I had made the right start. In everyone's life, making this start is always the hardest part. I didn't realize when I had become so brave. Perhaps my grief had gradually transformed into strength this way.
As soon as I leaned back in my seat, I remembered Uncle Rahman again. I let out a long sigh. Now, for some reason, I felt very light. How grown-up I had become! What an incident I had caused today! If Uncle were alive today and heard this story, he would have told me, 'You're not a girl, my niece has become a tigress!'
I was going to see my father-figure uncle's corpse.
But why was the bus going so fast? I wasn't in any hurry. I wouldn't look at Uncle's corpse. That's why I wanted to be very late on the road…very, very, very late!
I'll return home and act completely normal. I won't cry even a little. After everyone's asleep, I'll make two cups of tea and go sit in Uncle's room. I'll tell Uncle today's story in detail. Uncle will pull me close and say, 'My dear child, what courage you have! What a thing you've done today! I have no worries now! From now on, you'll be able to manage just fine even without me!'
I'll leap into Uncle's arms and cry my heart out, and I'll say, you're not going anywhere, you'll live forever! Otherwise, who else will I tell these world-conquering stories to?
💛💝