I have never been fond of bus rides. I prefer the train. While visually pleasing, the aesthetic offered by a bus drowns out quickly when the backdrop is a smelly bus seat that screams out dust at the slightest feather.

If saturation was ever to be displayed with tangibility, it would be these sweat-soaked bus seats. The train, though, has a filter, almost like a world splitting into two. An entire microcosm of Dhaka rides the train, some sitting on the floor, on the roof; one might even be hanging onto whatever rod they could cling to. As if the floor had landmines, once you have placed your foot on enough empty spaces and walked past that compartment, a sudden burst of air caresses you. And then, you thank yourself for booking the AC compartment. The air seemingly hugs you. The lack of hugs is reminiscent of the boiling frog, while hugs themselves sometimes remind me of hypoxia.

As therapeutic as hugs are, one simply does not realise how deprived they are of one until they finally get one. Silent hypoxia works similarly, when a person suffocates dangerously but never realises until he finds fresh air. As Shorif’s head throbs from the heat and suffocation, he hugs his bag like the world ends in a minute. Temptations of seeing the red cloth once again fill him up, but he is scared to show anyone that he is carrying money.

The city lights took over by the time Shorif reached Dhaka. He gets off the bus and walks another four kilometres. The area is remote, so remote that dogs sound like wolves here. He finally decides a rickshaw could do him well after such a long journey. As he seemingly dozes off on the rickshaw, he sees the dogs running after a man, who climbs over the colony walls to escape. Shorif assumes it must have been a case of robbery. He’s twisted between thinking about how lively this new colony will be and how lovely the thieves would be to a new guard like him.

As he nears the house, a man in a lungi and a tight blue shirt stares at Shorif while shoving a toothpick into his mouth. He greets Shorif and introduces himself as Atik. He doesn’t offer his hand, but shows him the room. It’s a room for one. It makes sense since one of the two guards is always outside on duty. Shorif’s turn is from the morning to late evening, so he gets to sleep now. The bed is essentially just a mattress and a bunch of jute sacks. There’s a small table to the right of the bed and a window connected to the gate with no curtains. Shorif does not wait much and lays down.

An everyday visitor at this point, the memories of his wife fill his mind just as he closes his eyes. He thinks of the first time he saw her, when she walked across the small fruit shop he had set up. Her bangles clanked into one another every time she moved. He could barely think of anything else, forget the bargaining episode. His mind drifted to the sight when he found her body on the floor that night. Nothing that showed physical harm, perhaps a heart attack or a stroke? The question forever lingered in his mind. Back in his village, he’d visit her grave beside the house and speak to her. There’s something very therapeutic about speaking to someone who does not exist anymore. Every time you ask something, they answer in exactly the way you want them to. It feeds the mind with affirmations that the person is with you, almost in a ghostly yet tangible way.

The bustling of the city does not reach this particular road, but the sun does, especially through that window in Shorif’s room. He wakes up and finds Atik preparing food. A pot filled with rice, eight in the morning. Amused, he asks Atik if all that rice is for lunch. Atik answers by sitting down with a bowl full of rice and practically pushing it into his mouth the way people push themselves in a typical local commuter train at 8 am.

On his first day in Dhaka, Shorif is sent on a trip to the market by Atik, who has relieved himself of his position as chief grocery buyer. The sun tirelessly beams over his head, but a distant dark cloud glooms a sense of anxiety in his walk. He moves towards the cloud, and the clouds march towards him, and they meet at the market. The heavens open up, barely allowing Shorif to pick up enough groceries to last today’s lunch, perhaps, given how Atik shoves himself food the way one’s grandma would only. As the crowd rushes towards shade, Atik hears a familiar voice. Suddenly, the moment freezes and the metaphorical thunderbolts hit Shorif.

The voice surrounds him, banging like a clanging bell. He hides from it. But then he looks for it. The tone is as sweet as honey, but it sends jolts across Shorif. He turns his head towards the noise and, just as the face is to appear, Shorif goes into a blur with a drop of rain hitting his eyes. He looks around every passing second, but the seemingly cleansing drop perhaps leaves behind the realisation that the voice was perhaps never there. Shorif still seeks for it, for what a blessing it is to have something to yearn for endlessly, and what an equally tormenting curse it is never to find it again.

Read part 1: https://tbsgraduates.net/writeup/fiction/hazel-rinds-part-1/