The Passenger - Saiful Baten Tito (Short story)

 There has been a technical fault, and because of this, the airline authorities have asked for twenty minutes from us. By 'us,' I mean those of us who are traveling from Chittagong to Dhaka on this plane. With earphones plugged into my ears, I am listening to music and waiting for the twenty minutes to be over. A very gentle touch made me turn to my left. I saw a beautiful girl, aged about 8-10 years. She pointed out someone nearby to me. Seeing her, I almost froze, if not literally, but close. Because I saw Neelima.

 

It was about ten years ago. We were sitting on the Tejgaon railway track, talking without purpose. Words after words, meaningless conversations. Trains occasionally passed by us, shaking our eardrums and the ground beneath our feet. We were sitting in the middle of the two tracks, on an iron plate left or abandoned by the railway authorities. People were bustling around us in every direction. From the houses in the slums in front and behind us came the damp, musty smell of rain, the strong scent of marijuana, and dim lights, along with sounds of laughter and crying. It seemed that occasionally the sounds of some intimate acts were also reaching us. Maybe the predominant crying of infants was drowning it out. Almost every day, after office, a few old friends and I would meet. Some of us would get lost in a smoky world for a while. We found a kind of painful joy there. Without rejecting the suggestion of a friend who had just become a doctor, I set out with him. Due to the rain, we trudged through a lot of mud and rot to arrive there. That familiar room, the familiar window, along with several familiar faces.

 

Several people were watching TV in a medium-sized room. Various grades of female faces were around. The sight of their scarf-less chests, excessive makeup, unnecessary closeness, and their frequent laughter made me restless. I was intoxicated. Even though I was searching for that face, that smile. I asked someone about her, and within five minutes, the boy brought her. I took her to a messy room. In my eyes, she was one of the most unique among everyone. Tall, a bit elongated, with a lean body and two mesmerizing eyes. Her complexion was like that of Anglo-Indian girls. There was a strange attraction in her well-shaped breasts and necessary hips that I had not found in any brothel in Bangladesh. Her name was Neelima. She didn’t seem older than twenty-two or twenty-three. Her schoolmaster father became desperate to get her married right after she completed higher secondary. With beauty extending from her hair to her toenails, the groom was easily found. She got married to a small-time millionaire without much fuss. On the night of the wedding, Neelima found out that her husband was homosexual. He had no interest in a woman's body.

 

Neelima tried a lot, but to no avail. Within a year of marriage, her husband hadn’t even touched her. She was compelled to return to her paternal home. Despite everyone's explanations, when no solution was found, the family’s verbal assaults began, which gradually tore her heart apart. In the end, she took the hand of someone who loved her dearly, seeking a job, and came to the glamorous city of Dhaka. At first, she found shelter in Moghbazar, then in Banani, and I first met her in Karwan Bazar, and she is still here. The first time we met was a couple of months ago. Looking into her eyes made thousands of thoughts surge in my mind. I felt like running on the railway tracks soaked in rain, waking her up at night without reason to ask her to walk on the streets. I wanted her to be always beside me. The desire choked me. One day, intoxicated, I said I wanted to build a home with her. She laughed for so long. Laughing till her eyes filled with tears, and those tears turned into a flood. After that, I couldn't say it again. I didn’t feel like saying it again to a woman of a brothel. However, I still look for her when I go to a hotel, and leave if I don’t find her. I have proposed to hundreds of women in my life. Everyone laughed like Neelima, but none cried.

 

At half-past twelve in the night, the police arrived. They took everyone to the police station. Me, Neelima—everyone. I was released that night. Despite numerous attempts, I couldn’t find out what happened to Neelima. After that, for many days and many nights, I had no words, no meetings, no touches, no warmth with anyone. The yoke on my father's shoulders was passed on to mine, and I accepted it. Since then, I have kept pulling on. I never played the role of a family man. And now I have hit the age of forty-three. I satisfy my physical desires just as before, masturbation. Whether there are any desires of the heart, I cannot tell due to the demands of the stomach, nor do I try to understand.

 

I went close and said, "How are you?"

"Very well, and you?"

"The same as before."

"The same as before? What does that mean?"

"Well, I’m still alone, working, meaning I'm the same as you saw me before."

"Haven't you gotten married?"

"Does anyone stay alone after getting married?"

"Why didn't you?"

"No girl liked me. And I couldn't make time either. Forget it, what's your news, tell me. Whose child is this? Have you gotten married?"

"Yes."

"To whom?"

"Do you know him?"

"No, it's not that. You had said you wouldn't get married. So when you did, what wrong did I do?"

"Come on, let it be."

In the midst of our conversation, the airport authorities asked for another twenty minutes with deep regret. Unlike others, I wasn't angry but happy. It seemed Nilima felt the same. As soon as the announcement ended, I asked again, "Why did you do this to me? What would have happened if you had married me?"

"Let me tell you something, don't take it the wrong way."

Nilima said, as if giving an explanation.

"Say it."

"I had a different view of you. Because you were one of my good customers. I never thought a good customer would make a good husband. The one I married now was also my customer."

"Really!"

"Listen, I'll tell you something I have never told anyone and never will. The main reason I took refuge in a brothel wasn't for hunger but for my sexual desire. And there I was looking for someone who could truly satisfy my needs. Raihan did. You never did. I got him, so I married him."

"Did he want to marry you?"

"I doubt there's anything in this world a woman can't make men do."

"How happy are you?"

"As happy as a woman desires."

 

Nilima's phone rang. She finished her call, paused for a moment, and then started searching for something in her vanity bag. After a while, she handed me something, took hold of her luggage with one hand and her daughter with the other, and started to leave. As she left, she said, "There's still time, give this to someone else, stay well, and reduce smoking, if possible, quit."

 

After she left, I opened my hand to find a shiny one-taka note, which I doubt can be found anywhere but a museum now. I had given it to her at a critical moment, saying, "This is from my first earnings in life. I love you and am giving it to you." I had thought I would give it to the one I love and marry.

 

Now, I don’t know what to do with it. I know even a beggar won't take it. And yet, it feels odd to keep it with me. Who accepts something obsolete?

 

Repeated announcements were made to board the plane. I slowly walked into its belly. The sky looked very pale. I didn't feel like staying in such a sky. I put the headphones back in my ears.