Short Story
Destination
Translation: Md. Simon Rahman There were fairy clouds wandering all over the sky. They were the wet and blurry clouds of autumn. Mahbub stopped for a while, as if to feel the breeze carrying the smell of sunshine. The wheelers all around started beeping coarsely as the red light of the traffic signal turned green. Mahbub did not bother. He knew that he did not have to bother about everything all the time. The white Pajero was threatening to run over his rickshaw, so Mahbub tied his lungi tightly and put his feet on the paddles. Getting enough space, the white Pajero whistled past. The driver did not even look at him. Mahbub looked inside the vehicle. A gentleman was relaxing on the luxurious seats, as if licking the newspaper through his spectacles. -Hey man, where are you from?
Mahbub did not have any time for himself. He had to keep paddling, to take his passengers to their respective destinations. Which destination? Everyday he takes so many people to so many places. Is that their destination? Then what would be his destination? Where does he want to go? Mahbub thought. -Where are you from?
Mahbub could not ignore the same question for a second time. He turned back and answered-
-Here, in this country. -Which district?
Perhaps the passenger did not have any thought to reflect upon. Neither did Mahbub. He was busy thinking about his destination.
-Don't have a home. We are poor folks. I live near Shialbari. -Who are there in your family?
-There is none. Mahbub halted for a while. Did he really have no one in this world? Then he spoke again.
-There was my mother. She died last year. -You don't have a family of your own?
-Nope. The roads of Dhaka city are getting to be unable to carry the burden of such traffic. So many vehicles! Where do these people go? Mahbub thought. The red light flashed once more at the signal near Shyamoli. Mahbub takes out the pale gamcha from the handle of the rickshaw and wipes his sweating face. With time to relax for a moment, he looks up at the sky. Up there he could not see the white clouds. He rather saw a deer, bows and arrows, a bearded face and so on. Mahbub looked back at his passenger. He did not have a beard. He rather had a headful of uncombed hair. He was reading a piece of paper. A letter, perhaps? Who could have written it? His beloved? Wife? Elder brother? Father?
Mahbub never saw his father. His mother used to say, 'We lost him in the war.' People around him used to hurl epithets at him: 'bastard', 'son of military', etc. Mahbub did not even know the meaning of such words back then. Yet he could understand that they did not mean something nice. His mother used to get agitated whenever he would ask about his father 'Didn't I tell you he was lost?'
Mahbub thought about it a lot while growing up. Often he felt enraged, even distressed at times. He often got into fights with many for this reason. But he had stopped caring since he started to realize that some people took pleasure in others' pain. He never embarrassed his mother after that. Once he grew up, he came out of that slum with his mother. But he could only change the address that reminded him of his past; he could not find a destination for himself. A sudden smile appeared over the face of the gentleman. Mahbub felt blissful at the sight. Someone had embedded some beautiful words from the heart to that paper. And the gentleman riding Mahbub's rickshaw was carefully collecting each word in the depth of his heart. His brain cells were getting animated, which brought the smile to his face. So beautiful! So delightful to look at! -Bhaijan, who has written that letter?
-Hmm… this one? It's from Sharbari. -Who's she, bhaijan? Your wife?
-No, no… she's just a friend. -Friend! I thought she's someone you love.
-What?
-Don't get angry, bhaijan. It looked so good seeing you smile as you were reading the letter. What does sister do? Still studying?
-No, in fact she teaches in a college. -And you?
-I do a bit of writing. -What do your write?
-I write for a newspaper. I'm a journalist actually. -What's the use of writing?
-People come to learn about new things by reading. -But what is the benefit of so much reading?
-What do you mean? People need to learn about plenty of issues. They require knowledge and wisdom, and for that they have got to read more and more. -Do you read a lot too?
-Yup. I do read a lot. -Then you must know a lot about a lot of things. -My brother, there is no end to it when it comes to learning.
-I had a question, bhaijan. -Go ahead.
-Is there something people don't know about?
-It's a tough question. Even for me. Alright, can you tell me what people do know about?
-I'm an illiterate person. How can I answer that?
-It's funny. Though. I don't have the answer about what people don't know and you can't tell me what they do know. -It's getting quite confusing…
-No, no… actually it's pretty simple. The thing is, people don't know what they don't know. -One more thing, bhaijan. Do people know what their destination is?
-What's that?
-I mean, I picked you up from College Gate, and I'll drop you at Darussalam. But that's not the end. Maybe you'll go to many more places from there. But do you really know where you'll stop? You don't. None of us know where we'll stop. But we are running day and night. Why? We don't quite know. -Hmm, you're right. I need to think about it…
Once again the vehicles seemed desperate to go ahead of one another as the green light flashed on the road. The tinkling of the rickshaws, the beeping of the cars and the honking of the buses tore through the web of Mahbub's thoughts. The gentleman was still busy with the letter, with a smile and delight on his face. Mahbub had to spew out all his thoughts near the over-bridge at Shyamoli as he concentrated on paddling again. He had to take his passenger to his destination. He was still smiling and reading the letter from someone who must be very close to him. The letter had something blissful about it. Mahbub had to take him to his destination safe and sound; he must be precious like the whole world to someone. And Mahbub knew that his smile and happiness were invaluable too. Mahbub kept paddling carefully, keeping an eye on the uneven roads, wheels of nearby rickshaws, cars, buses, tempos, cycles, motor-cycles, CNG taxis and so on. 'Bastard' Mahbub was paddling, Mahbub the 'son of the military' was paddling, but he was paddling to his delight after all, taking note of the delight of the passenger. He had to take his passenger to his destination. There was only one problem: the final destination was unknown to all. Mahbub had no clue if there was any final destination for people at all. Did the autumn clouds know anything about it? The deer? The bearded man with bows and arrows? The entire sky? It was not clear to Mahbub. The only thing he knew for sure was that the red light signals were for stopping, and the green ones for moving ahead.
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