EQMM, March-April 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Chauhan looked at them for a moment, then back to Mohit.

  "Do you know who that is?"

  "I'm not sure ... perhaps I have seen him on the beach."

  "He will be taking Hasan's place tomorrow, as senior cutter on the ship. The sorrow of Hasan's family means great opportunity for him."

  "But his hand—” Mohit stopped. “He is not crippled."

  "No, of course not.” Chauhan frowned.

  "I'm sorry, saheb. I do not follow your meaning."

  "Life is complicated, that's all. Actions and results may not be what one would expect.” Chauhan sighed and took a glass from a shelf beside him. “We don't know the dacoit. He has probably fled, gone back to the country.” He drank, replaced the glass, and regarded Mohit, who had not responded. “Your ghush is surely gone also. You will not recover your money."

  "Five years,” said Mohit softly. “Five years breaking my back for it."

  Chauhan shrugged. “You are still young."

  Another downpour rattled the roof. Two men came in, soaking wet, and a draft fluttered the lamps; the carrom players settled themselves and began again; Chauhan's attention moved on to other matters.

  "Thank you, saheb.” Mohit backed away.

  "Go with God, mashai."

  * * * *

  Although it was not late, the alleys were dark and empty, only a few people still out. Mohit stumbled through muck, feeling it splash up his legs. He pulled his lungi higher. Somewhere a generator chugged, probably for the grinding machines of a piecework reclamation shop, but the buildings and hovels all around were unlit. Candles were too dear; anyway, most of the inhabitants would be up before dawn for another day of toil.

  In the dark, and distracted by his concerns, Mohit lost his way. He stopped, leaning against a wall of boards stripped from container pallets. He remembered his first nights in Bhatiary, arms too exhausted to lift, shoulders in raw agony, but thrilled simply to be among so many people. So many marvels to see. He never considered going back, though others did—perhaps because he had no family. He would make his way, or die.

  The rattling sounds of trucks sharpened as the rainfall relented, and Mohit oriented himself to the main road. Once there, the passing headlamps illuminated his course, flickering across the shuttered stalls and tiny salvage yards along the verge.

  Closer to his hostel, Mohit passed the concrete block housing elite employees from his breaking yard. He slowed. Farid's window was still lit, thin yellow light through the screen, and on sudden impulse Mohit went over and tapped at his door.

  "Mohit, ashen! Come in!” Farid wore only a lungi, his torso bare in the sticky humidity. The cinder-block walls of his room were damp, and cooler night air entered sluggishly, if at all, through the small window's shutters. “You are out late."

  "I am tired, but I cannot sleep."

  "I understand. Hasan—it is difficult."

  "Ji."

  Farid gestured him to sit in the only chair, a stool before an ancient wooden desk that had once served in a sea officer's cabin. A decorated reed mat covered part of the cement floor. “I'm sorry, I cannot offer cha, the kettle is empty."

  Mohit shook his head, it did not matter. Farid lowered himself onto his charpoy rope bed and they sat in silence for a time.

  "You are, of course, welcome to continue in the carrying team,” Farid said eventually. “Indeed, I would be grateful."

  "Dhonnobad." Mohit nodded his thanks. He looked at the photographs on the wall—studio snapshots of Farid's daughter, posed against painted backgrounds of gardens and villas.

  "She is well,” Farid said, following his gaze. “In the madrassa already. I have trouble believing she has grown so fast."

  "It is hard, being away from your family?"

  "Of course.” Farid lifted his shoulders, just a bit. “But how am I to support them, otherwise? School fees alone take nearly everything, forget food. It has been another difficult year. Aii, you know."

  "Yes.” Ghorarchar, like the rest of the northeast, had suffered even more than usual during the season known simply as Hunger.

  "Bhaiya, I went to the jua shala just now."

  Farid frowned. “You did not gamble, did you?"

  "No. I spoke with Chauhan."

  Farid coughed in surprise.

  "Yes.” Mohit described his earlier visit to Hasan's widow, and how he'd gone for help in seeking the housebreaker.

  "But I fear he is escaped, with my money, and all of Hasan's."

  "Insha Allah." Farid looked sad. “It is God's will."

  Mohit started to brush off the mud streaking his legs, then remembered he was inside. He looked up at Farid. "Bhaiya, is it possible that the explosion was ... arranged, somehow?"

  "Arranged?"

  "Not an accident. Set up. How else could Hasan, the most able of cutters, have made such a mistake?"

  Farid considered. They heard a pair of men go by outside, fading voices complaining of the rain, their awful luck, the labor awaiting them in the morning.

  "The gunda who robbed Hasan's family, I doubt he would have had the ability,” Farid said. “It would be complex. To guess where Hasan would begin his vent, to place an incendiary of some sort—too much for a common thug."

  "Perhaps not him.” Mohit thought of the drunken cutter, celebrating his promotion.

  "I don't know.” Farid made an unsure gesture with one hand. “Possible, yes, by someone with much knowledge and luck. But to what end, I cannot see."

  Mohit looked down again and said nothing.

  "It was a terrible misfortune,” Farid said. “For us all. You need not make it worse."

  "Perhaps."

  "Go home, Mohit. Sleep. Life goes on."

  "Does it?"

  Farid's lamp guttered, and Mohit noticed the tang of burnt kerosene.

  "Do you remember when I recruited you?” Farid said. “In Ghorarchar, I needed just four men that spring, though thirty at least had already asked me, and more came every hour. You were young. Many others were stronger, or older, or, to be honest, more desperate. But I could see that you had the more important quality—you had courage. In five minutes I could see that."

  Mohit shook his head, embarrassed.

  "It was true,” Farid continued. “Anyone can lift steel for a day or a week. Some endure long enough to become accustomed to the work, and fewer still can make a living of it. But the rare ones, they can look beyond, and plan for another life."

  "Hmm."

  Farid sighed. “You are still strong, Mohit. This is an enormous reversal, I can barely imagine how you must feel. But I know you will come through.” He gestured—at the room, at the rain, at the shanties and mud and broken ships and tens of thousands of men of Chittagong. “You are better than this,” he said.

  After a while Mohit nodded and stood, feet and back aching, his shirt scraping painfully where the cable had wounded his shoulders.

  "I wish you were right,” he said.

  * * * *

  Friday the rains stopped, the sun broke through for a few minutes, and Bhatiary took on a tenuous holiday feel, almost giddy. It was the week's day of rest. Most people wore their best clothes, shirts scrubbed clean and white, the breaking yards put out of mind for a few hours. Men stood in the open air, cheerful and dry, talking with friends. Some were the worse for alcohol, of course, and others squinted in the morning brightness, weary already. But most ambled along, glad to be out and free on a pleasant day.

  Mohit, though not particularly religious, had gone to services that morning. He hadn't paid attention to the imam's long sermon, but the chants were nostalgic and comforting, and when he'd stretched out his arms and placed his head to the carpet—damp, yes, and suffused with the faint, inevitable reek of the beach—he'd felt more at peace than he could remember.

  "Khodahafez," said one of the mosque's acolytes as he left. “Thank you for coming this morning."

  "It was a pleasure,” said Mohit, and he meant it.

  Outside he stood
in the lane, glancing at the sky to see if the overcast might clear again. Perhaps. He lowered his gaze to the street and wondered, where now?

  A crowd formed down the road, a cluster of onlookers suddenly achieving the critical number that drew more and more in, irresistibly. All right, thought Mohit, and followed the rest.

  As he approached, he heard the flashover of rumor through the crowd: “A dead man—head smashed in, right here, can you believe it? Lying in the street, and no one saw him! Where are the authorities? Where is Chauhan?"

  Mohit's mood collapsed. He hesitated, then pushed ahead, working his way to the front with muttered apologies.

  The body was as described, a man facedown at the mouth of an alley—a narrow walkway, really, dark, between shuttered industrial shanties. A police officer had already appeared, tired and sweat-stained in his gray uniform, but a figure of uncontested authority nonetheless. He pushed back at the onlookers, snapping at two men so close they seemed about to roll the victim over for a better look.

  Mohit stared. The dead man's arms were flung out, suggesting he'd been struck with great force from behind and fallen immediately. He'd come to rest on gravel spilling from a heap alongside one factory's wall, the back of his head a mass of gore and hair and bone. Blood pooled darkly on the damp stones.

  His left arm ended in a stump, all four fingers missing. The thumb alone stuck out, pointed directly at Mohit like an accusation.

  "We don't know who he was. How could we? Are we the police? Do we keep track of every single man in Chittagong? Solve every crime? Bah."

  Chauhan stood outside the cinema, glaring. The sky had closed in again, and a slow drizzle showed no inclination to diminish.

  "I'm only asking, saheb,” said Mohit, glancing at the muscled cohort around him.

  "People get hit on the head every day. Every night. This is a world of violence. Two gadah have a falling out over some woman or a game of tash, and you come to me? Why is that?"

  "Dukkhito. I'm sorry."

  "Thhik achhey." Chauhan abruptly calmed down. “Never mind, mashai."

  Twenty or thirty men had lined up under a long eave of corrugated roof, waiting for the cinema's next showing, and they were watching with open fascination. Chauhan swung his gaze past them, cowing several, then turned away.

  "Come,” he said. “We'll talk inside."

  The jua shala was still and damp, a sour smell of tari hanging in the unmoving air. Some of the crew began to straighten up, brushing off tables and opening windows.

  "I know as little as you, truly,” Chauhan said.

  "People think you are on top of everything.” Mohit felt oddly disconnected from the situation, able to talk to the most dangerous man in Chittagong like he was the next laborer in the carrying gang.

  Chauhan barked a short, grunting laugh. “And that's a useful reputation, to be sure."

  "I'm sorry,” said Mohit again.

  "Insha Allah."

  Someone called from behind the hammered plank that served as a bar, asking about inventory, and when was that layabout bringing over more Bangla Mad, anyhow? Chauhan started to shout back, then paused, returning to Mohit for a moment.

  "I don't say that I know him.” His voice was quiet. “I don't say that I know anything about how he came to his end, or who did it, or why. But I will tell you one thing."

  Mohit watched him, waiting.

  "He had no money when he died,” said Chauhan. “And if one were to follow back all the places he'd been recently, he was not spending much. A little extra than usual, perhaps. No more."

  "But Hasan—"

  Chauhan held up one hand. “I say nothing of Hasan. I only tell you what I know.” Then he turned away, and Mohit knew he was dismissed.

  * * * *

  With nowhere to go, Mohit wandered around until he encountered Sohel, who was waiting in a long queue for the telephone stall. The government offered cheaper service, but that was a half-hour away in Chittagong proper. As for the post, even if both the sender and recipient could read and write, it could take six months for a letter to make its way across the country. Most of Bhatiary's inhabitants kept in touch with their families at the stall, where an entrepreneur kept a cell phone available twenty hours every day. Friday, naturally, was the busiest time.

  "It's been three weeks since I called,” said Sohel. “And that time I only reached a neighbor. He'll have passed on the news, of course, but I miss talking to my family."

  "They are well?"

  "By God's will. We hope the next harvest will be better."

  A boy walked down the queue, hawking fried groundnuts from a folded palm leaf. Mohit shook his head at the solicitation, but other men bought small handfuls, perhaps more from boredom than hunger. The drizzle sputtered on.

  "The dead man—you heard?"

  Sohel nodded vigorously. “I went by, but the poolish had already taken him away. Typical of the police, so efficient only after the crime is over."

  "He was the thief, the one who robbed Hasan's house.” Mohit described what he'd learned.

  "You spoke to Chauhan?” Sohel tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. “So directly? And he answered you?"

  "He speaks straightforwardly,” said Mohit.

  "And why not?” Sohel decided. “He is too powerful to be concerned what you and I might think. He says what he knows, and then goes on with his business. Did you believe him?"

  "Yes—about the money, I mean."

  "Hen."

  "I don't understand, though."

  "Perhaps Hasan's wife had taken it already ... or the thief didn't find the real stash."

  Mohit remembered the widow, sobbing in grief and anger, and the grim-faced relatives surrounding her. “No,” he said. “I don't think so."

  "A conundrum, then,” said Sohel with the satisfaction of one who knows the world runs on secret plans and hidden motivations.

  "Perhaps there is nothing to understand.” Mohit stepped forward as the line advanced, gaining some shelter by the wall. “An accident, no more, and a crime of opportunity. Then the thief meets another blackguard. Just bad luck all around—as simple as that."

  "No, no, no. Life is never simple. All events have reasons, or causes."

  "Not always,” said Mohit. “Not here."

  When they reached the stall, Sohel retrieved several takas from a small cloth sack, holding the worn bills in his fist.

  "Where are you calling?” the vendor asked. He sat bored under an awning of plastic, one wire running up to an aerial overhead and two others down to an automobile battery under the table. The current customer was still talking, rapidly now that he saw the vendor indicating his time was up, trying to say far more than the last few seconds could hold.

  "Ghorarchar, in Rajshahi,” said Sohel. He recited the number.

  "Wait, wait,” grumbled the vendor. “Here now—five minutes, ten takas."

  "When he's done. What if the battery expires?"

  The vendor shrugged. “Then you get your payment back. But why worry? I charged it fully this morning."

  Neither man took it seriously, but they argued while the current caller finished up. Mohit watched. Finally the caller stood and left, Sohel sat down, and the vendor collected his fee.

  "It will take a few moments to connect,” he said, tucking the cash into his belt.

  The money, thought Mohit.

  A damp breeze ruffled the plastic sheet. The vendor glanced up as he finished dialing and put the phone to his ear.

  Mohit put his hand on Sohel's shoulder. “I have to go."

  "What?"

  "Tell your wife—I don't know.” And he left, almost running, as the wind increased and a smell of smoke and rain rolled over everything.

  * * * *

  By the time he arrived at the row of concrete housing, the monsoons had burst again, a downpour slashing the muddy alleys and flimsy walls. A hundred meters away he came across another group of men, still out though most everyone had sought shelter. Mohit stopped l
ong enough to exchange a few words, then ran on ahead.

  He hammered the door with his fist and it swung open, unlatched. Farid, dozing on his charpoy, sat up in surprise.

  "Ki? Mohit? What is happening?"

  "Aii, saheb." He stood dripping rainwater onto the reed mat and panting. “Why? Why?"

  Farid rubbed sleep from his eyes and pushed his hair back. "Bhai?"

  "You never gave Hasan the money.” Mohit thought he might cry. “That's why the thief was still here in Bhatiary—he didn't gain enough to leave, only enough to get himself killed."

  "What are you saying?"

  "Did you arrange that too?” Mohit stepped forward to stand above Farid, staring down at him. “Because he might tell?"

  "No, no.” Farid shook his head.

  "You told me yourself—only someone with long experience and deep knowledge of the ships could have rigged the explosion. And who here has longer experience than yourself?"

  "You don't know what you're saying!"

  "Just tell me—” Mohit's voice broke. “I've known you my entire life, saheb. You are the hero of Ghorarchar, the only reason the village did not starve years ago. When you selected me to come to Chittagong, I was so proud, I could have floated off the ground. And now..."

  A long pause. Farid's head dipped, and he mumbled something Mohit could not understand.

  "What?” Mohit sank to one knee, to look Farid in the eyes.

  "My daughter,” Farid whispered. “I told you, the school fees—she would have had to leave.” He hesitated. “She is not strong, like you. I would do anything for her."

  Rain gusted in through the open doorway, spattering the floor and desk. Mohit looked at the pictures on the wall, and felt the tears finally run down his face.

  "What now?” said Farid, slowly.

  "It is too late.” Mohit stood, stiff and aching. “I'm sorry, saheb. They figured it out, I guess, and they were already arriving. I came just before, but they'll be along now. They gave me only a few minutes."

  "Who?” But Farid didn't need or want the answer.

  "Badai," said Mohit, and he backed to the door. “Farewell, saheb."

  As he stepped out, the rain fell even harder, hammering with painful force on his head and shoulders. The world was a blur, and he stumbled, to be caught and held up by a strong hand.