The Darkness (Based on a true story) - Saiful Baten Tito

 For the third time, I ignored the phone call. I didn’t pick up. Lately, even calls from familiar numbers irritate me. Talking on the phone has become an unbearable chore.

The same number flashed on the screen again. I considered answering this time—perhaps I’d say, “Brother, I’m in an important meeting. Can you call me later?” But the moment I received the call, the voice on the other end uttered a name that instantly disarmed me.

"Hello, Dada. This is Shishir—Shishir Adhikari from Satkhira. Adhikari Bookstore…”

For a long time, I had been unconsciously searching for Shishir Adhikari’s number. I had taken it from him when we met but lost it somewhere along the way.

"Namaskar, Shishir Da. How are you?"
"I'm managing, Dada. And you?"
"I’m well. I’m sorry—I lost your number, so I couldn’t call. Thank you for remembering me.”
"Dada, I’m in Dhaka now."
"Oh God! Really? Come over to my place right now. Where are you staying?"
"At my sister’s, in Basabo."
"Great! My house is in Dakshin Banasree. Just take a rickshaw and come over right away."
"Sorry, Dada. I can’t make it now. I’ll come in the afternoon. My sister has cooked a feast, and if I don’t eat, she’ll throw a tantrum. You know how it is—her only brother!"

I gave him my address and hung up. Before disconnecting, Shishir confirmed he would be at my place at exactly four o’clock.

I had met him in Satkhira, a few months back, when I visited a friend in Kaliganj. I had forgotten my writing notebook and went to the market to buy one. That’s how I found his store—Adhikari Bookstore. I had asked for a lined notebook, but every shopkeeper kept handing me handwriting practice books meant for children. When I reached his store and asked for a proper notebook, he first inquired what I needed it for.

"I’m a writer. I need it for my writing," I had replied.

He promptly got up and handed me two beautifully bound 300-page notebooks. I loved them instantly. As I paid and turned to leave, he hesitated before asking,

"Dada, if you don’t mind me asking—what’s your pen name?"

When I told him, I was taken aback by his reaction. He recognized me. I never imagined that a bookseller from a small town like Kaliganj would know me. I had no published books yet—just a few stories in literary sections of newspapers, some online magazines, and my Facebook page. I was hoping to release a short story collection at the upcoming book fair, but publishers seemed uninterested—short story collections, they said, didn’t sell.

Shishir insisted I have sweets and tea before leaving—Satkhira’s fresh, thick milk made for rich tea and delicious sweets, thanks to the fact that milk there still cost only thirty-five to forty taka per kilo. I had no choice but to give in.

He had studied Islamic history at Khulna BL College. I had seen many Hindus major in Islamic history before. It was hard to guess his age from his face, but he was certainly not younger than forty. He was the fourth generation in his family to run the bookstore, and since no one else was left to continue the trade, he had taken up the mantle of selling knowledge. He had read everything I had ever written. He had even wanted to contact me to share a story but never expected to meet me in person.

Time slipped away in conversation, and it was only when my friend called that I realized how late it had gotten. He and his newlywed wife had prepared a special meal for me.

Before leaving, I promised Shishir I would return the next day to hear his story. We exchanged visiting cards, and I left for my friend’s house, where I was greeted with mild scolding and a sumptuous meal.

That evening, as I watched the news on TV, I learned that an indefinite political blockade would start the next day. I had a workshop in Dhaka in two days—I had to return. I had wanted to stay another day, but the blockade forced my hand.

Blockades terrified me more than general strikes. Strikes were one thing, but blockades—those were deadly. Moving vehicles became targets for petrol bombs. People either burned to death or died of sheer terror. Some survived but were left scarred for life.

I left for Dhaka that very evening and, amidst life’s chaos, forgot about Shishir Adhikari.

Weeks later, during a bout of writer’s block, I suddenly remembered him and his story. But when I searched for his card, it was nowhere to be found.

And today, he called.

At exactly four o’clock, my doorbell rang.

Looking through the peephole, I saw Shishir standing outside, holding two large bags in his hands. These days, I never open the door without checking first. I’m a writer—you never know which story might have offended whom. You never know when someone might decide to silence you with a machete.

Shishir had brought yogurt, sweets, and fish.

After some conversation, he finally asked, “Shall I tell you that story now?”

"Of course. Please, go ahead."

"You see, something happened to me 21 years ago. It has stuck in my throat like a fishbone ever since. I can neither swallow it nor spit it out. I’ve never been able to share it with anyone. But I’ve read your work. Every single piece of yours that I’ve come across, I’ve read. Now, after hearing my story, whether you choose to write it or not is entirely up to you. But if you do, I request that you change the names of the people and places."

He looked at me, waiting for an answer.

"Shishir Da, I write stories about people. That’s what I do. You must know that by now. If I decide to write it, I will honor your request. Please, go on."

At that moment, my housemaid entered with sweets, curd, and fruit.

"Shall I bring tea now?" she asked.

"In about fifteen or twenty minutes," I replied.

Shishir Adhikari took a sip of water, placed the glass down, and began.

*"Listen carefully. This is not a recent story. It happened back in 1991, when I was a student at Khulna BL College. Although I am Hindu, my closest friends—including my best friend—were Muslim. Even now, though I live in a predominantly Hindu neighborhood in Satkhira, 80% of my friends are Muslim. Since I was studying Islamic history, I was deeply immersed in Muslim culture—not out of love for the subject, but because I had no other option.

At college, my best friend was Sattar. We shared a hostel room and cooked our meals together. I had a habit of going home every weekend, and Sattar loved my mother’s cooking, so he often accompanied me. One day, he invited me to visit his home. I agreed, but there was a condition—I was not to reveal that I was Hindu.

Sattar’s father was a devout Muslim, almost fanatically so. To him, people of other faiths were not even human.

I agreed to keep my identity hidden, not because I feared him, but because I never cared much for religious divisions. My beliefs lay beyond caste and creed, and they still do. I believe in a higher power—call it Allah or Bhagwan. I eat both beef and pork. Religion never dictated my friendships.

Besides, my name—Shishir—was ambiguous. It could belong to anyone.

Sattar’s village was deep in the heart of Pirojpur, a remote place with no electricity. When we arrived, there was an air of festivity. His elder brother’s wife was expecting a baby—after twelve years of marriage.

The entire household was in celebration.

But five days later, the festivities turned into horror."

The first few days at Sattar’s home passed in joyous celebrations. We ate lavish meals, played card games, and enjoyed the simple pleasures of rural life.

But on the fifth day, the storm arrived.

The morning brought relentless rain. By noon, the household had indulged in a grand feast of fish and rice, and we gathered in the kachari house—a separate guesthouse detached from the main home—where visitors and male guests stayed. We were playing cards when suddenly, a whisper of urgency rippled through the house.

Sattar’s sister-in-law had gone into labor.

Excitement spread like wildfire. This was no ordinary childbirth. It was a long-awaited miracle—after twelve years of marriage, she was finally about to give birth. A previous miscarriage had left the family devastated, and now, after years of prayer, their hopes were finally being fulfilled.

Sattar’s father, Rashed Khan, had been preparing for this moment. Having returned from Hajj a few months earlier, his religious fervor had intensified. He walked around the house with a bottle of attar and a stick of surma, ensuring he was spiritually prepared to recite the adhan into the newborn’s ears the moment it was born.

A midwife from the village was summoned.

Meanwhile, two large goats were tied up in the courtyard, awaiting sacrifice. There were preparations for a feast—pulao made with kalijira rice, fresh fish, and other delicacies. The air was thick with anticipation.

But the rain grew heavier.

At first, none of us suspected anything unusual.

Then, just before evening, hushed voices turned into hurried movements. Something wasn’t right.

We, the men, were kept out of the inner quarters, so we didn’t know exactly what was happening. Sattar’s father, however, remained calm. In his mind, everything was in Allah’s hands. He had complete faith that the midwife would handle the delivery.

But by nightfall, the whispers turned into alarm.

Sattar came to us with a grim expression. “There are complications,” he said. “The midwife says it’s twins.”

The news should have been joyous, but instead, it brought tension.

Sattar reassured us that the midwife had delivered twins before, that she was experienced, and there was nothing to worry about.

But then, at around 9 p.m., panic set in. The midwife admitted she couldn’t handle the situation—there was excessive bleeding. If the mother and babies were to survive, they needed immediate medical attention.

Sattar turned to his father. “Abba, we have to take her to the hospital.”

Rashed Khan’s reaction was instant and furious. “Hospital?” he spat, his face contorted in rage. “You want to take my son’s wife—our family’s honor—to a place where strange men will touch her?”

I had expected resistance, but not this level of fanaticism.

Sattar argued. He pleaded. But his father was immovable. “What is written will happen. If Allah wills her to live, she will live. If not, it is His decree.”

A local maulana was called instead. He arrived with a large brass bowl of ruqya water—water over which he had recited verses from the Quran. He began sprinkling it around the house, chanting prayers, muttering under his breath.

I could barely contain my frustration.

At one point, I leaned toward Sattar and whispered, “This is madness. Convince him.”

Sattar tried again. This time, his brothers and uncles joined him in pleading. Finally, after endless persuasion, his father relented. But only after extracting a promise—“She will remain covered at all times. No man will lay eyes on her.”

A makeshift stretcher was arranged, and a small wooden boat was prepared. It was 11 p.m. when we finally set out, navigating the rain-swollen canals toward the nearest hospital, twelve miles away.

The Journey Through Darkness

The boat was covered with cloth on all sides, ensuring no one could see inside. Apart from the midwife and another woman accompanying the patient, the boat carried Sattar, his father, two boatmen, and me.

A second boat followed behind, carrying male relatives armed with sticks and knives. Apparently, this was how Rashed Khan always traveled—with his private security.

Inside the covered boat, Sattar’s sister-in-law moaned in agony. The sound was unbearable.

Someone inside was reciting the Quran.

Sattar’s father kept muttering prayers, sprinkling more ruqya water into the river as if to ward off evil spirits.

Then, as if the night wasn’t cruel enough, a storm struck.

Rain lashed down in torrents. The wind howled through the darkness. The boat rocked violently. Water seeped in.

Sattar and I jumped out to pull the boat forward with ropes, wading knee-deep through the murky floodwaters. My feet were soon cut and bloodied by hidden thorns and jagged stones, but pain was irrelevant. We had to move forward.

By the time we reached a larger canal, the storm had subsided, but a fierce upstream current slowed us down.

Finally, at around 2 a.m., we reached the hospital.

We rushed to find a doctor. The place was eerily quiet, the corridors dimly lit.

After much searching, we located a female doctor. Relief flooded my chest.

The doctor took charge immediately. As she and the nurses wheeled the patient into the operating room, Sattar, his father, and I stood outside, waiting.

And then, in a moment of sheer exhaustion, I made a mistake.

I turned to Sattar and said, “Now, we can only hope that God looks upon us with mercy.”

But I didn’t say Allah.

I said Bhagwan.

t was a slip of the tongue—an innocent mistake.

But Rashed Khan’s head snapped toward me as if struck by lightning. His eyes blazed.

"What did you just say?" His voice was deathly quiet.

I froze.

He stepped forward, his towering figure looming over me. "You’re a Hindu, aren't you? A goddamn mal’un?"

I was speechless.

His hand shot out and grabbed my wrist in an iron grip. Sattar's face turned pale.

"Tell me the truth!" he bellowed. "Are you a Hindu?"

Panic gripped me. My mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. I looked at Sattar, silently begging for help.

"Abba, what are you saying?" Sattar tried to defuse the situation. "You’ve seen him praying with us, eating with us. He eats beef, for God’s sake! Why would he be Hindu?"

But Rashed Khan was not convinced. “If he’s truly Muslim, let him recite the Four Kalimas. Right now.”

Silence.

Then, he did the unthinkable.

He reached for my waistband, attempting to strip me right there in the hospital corridor—to check if I was circumcised.

I recoiled. And in that moment of sheer horror, I confessed, “Yes, I’m Hindu.”

The next second, his palm collided with Sattar’s face—hard. The slap echoed through the hall.

He turned on me with unfiltered rage. "You filthy liar! You unclean bastard! How dare you step into my home?"

I had never seen such pure, undiluted hatred in anyone’s eyes before.

But before I could even process what was happening, a nurse ran toward us, shouting, “The patient is losing too much blood! We need one unit of O-negative blood immediately!”

I felt a jolt.

"My blood is O-negative," I blurted.

The nurse’s face lit up. “Come with me, then!”

But before I could take a step, Rashed Khan grabbed my collar and threw me outside.

"I would rather let my daughter-in-law and grandchildren die than let the blood of a mal’un pollute my lineage!"

I stumbled backward, my breath catching in my throat. Rain dripped from the edges of the tin-roofed hospital veranda, the night air thick with the scent of damp earth and antiseptic.

Sattar’s father stood before me, eyes burning with a fury that defied reason. His entire body trembled—not from exhaustion, not from grief, but from sheer, unrelenting rage.

"A mal’un’s blood will not taint my family!" he roared. "Over my dead body!"

Inside the hospital, a woman was bleeding out. Two unborn children clung to the last threads of life.

And the only available donor stood outside, unwanted.

Sattar, still reeling from the slap across his face, turned to his father in disbelief. His lips quivered as if searching for words that wouldn’t come. Then, with sudden clarity, he stepped forward and said, "Abba, you will regret this."

But Rashed Khan had already made up his mind.

"If you stand here another moment, Sattar, I will bury you alongside your brother’s wife," he spat.

The threat sent a shiver down my spine.

I had never felt more powerless in my life. I could have saved them. My blood, my life essence, could have saved three lives.

But I wasn’t allowed to.

Sattar grabbed my wrist and pulled me away from the hospital entrance. We ran through the dark, muddy paths, our breaths coming in short, desperate gasps. Behind us, the hospital lights flickered like distant stars—cold and indifferent.

We stopped near the boat, rain-soaked and defeated. The weight of the night pressed down on us.

We didn’t speak.

There was nothing left to say.

At dawn, we returned to the hospital, our feet dragging as if we had aged a lifetime in mere hours.

A few villagers stood outside, murmuring in hushed tones. The atmosphere was heavy, suffocating.

Then we saw him.

Rashed Khan, sitting on the hospital steps, his head buried in his hands. His white beard looked grayer than it had the night before. His pious, unshakable faith—so rigid, so absolute—had finally encountered something immovable.

Death.

His daughter-in-law was gone.

The twin babies, too.

The same nurse who had pleaded for blood walked past us, shaking her head. “If we had gotten the transfusion even twenty minutes earlier, we could have saved at least one of them,” she whispered to a colleague.

The words struck me like a physical blow.

I turned to Sattar. His face was expressionless, as if drained of all emotion.

Slowly, he walked up to his father, knelt beside him, and whispered something.

Rashed Khan didn’t respond. He didn’t even look up.

Sattar stood, turned, and walked away.

He never went back home.

I returned to Khulna that very day, my soul burdened with something I couldn’t name.

For weeks, I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t write.

The memory of that night haunted me—Sattar’s sister-in-law writhing in pain, the boat battling the storm, the moment when my blood could have made a difference but wasn’t allowed to.

I wanted to forget. I wanted to move on.

But then, a month later, I received a letter from Sattar.

It was brief, scrawled in uneven handwriting, but every word was like a knife to my chest.

"My father is dead."

"He returned home after the funeral, shut himself in his room, and refused to eat. The next morning, we found him hanging from the rafters of the kachari house."

"He believed he had brought Allah’s curse upon our family. That he had lost his son, his daughter-in-law, his grandchildren—all because he had unknowingly allowed a mal’un into his home."

"I don’t mourn him, Shishir. I don’t even hate him. I only pity him."

"He thought he was protecting his faith. But in the end, his faith destroyed everything."

Shishir Adhikari paused.

The room was silent except for the distant hum of city life outside my window.

He picked up the glass of water, took a slow sip, and exhaled deeply.

"That is my story, Dada," he said at last. "I have carried this weight for twenty-one years, unable to let it go. But tonight, I have finally spoken it out loud."

He looked at me with tired eyes, as if seeking some kind of judgment.

But I had none to give.

What could I say?

That I understood? That I didn’t? That the world had changed? That it hadn’t?

Instead, I said, “Shishir Da, do you know the actor Shankar Shawjal?”

He nodded. "Of course. He doesn’t act much anymore, though."

"Do you know his wife is Muslim?"

His eyes widened. "Really?"

"Yes. And not just that—she prays five times a day. She fasts during Ramadan. They have been together for decades. She follows her faith, and he follows his. Love, respect, and understanding keep them together."

Shishir stared at me for a moment, then smiled faintly.

"Perhaps," he said, "not all stories end in tragedy."

Shishir Adhikari left that evening, but he handed me a large package before he did.

When I unwrapped it, I found an old edition of the Mahabharata, printed in Kolkata.

I held it in my hands for a long time.

Then, I thought about what I could give him in return.