Short Story
The invitation
Hillol jumped over the railway track. The train was approaching and the gate had been shut. The gateman could not keep up with the little rogue. Merely telling him off was not enough. Like a dragon-fly he flung himself all over the place and feared no one's scolding. One who was so carefree outside would definitely fear no one at home! In spite of everyone's spanking, he remained cheery twentyfour hours a day. No, not exactly twenty-four hours, he laughed away till he went to sleep.
His mother was busy all the time. She worked as a domestic help, to be specific in a highrise apartment building. Skyscrapers had been rapidly going up in Dhaka of late. The huge concrete structures looked so ugly. These buildings consisted of several flats which were rented out or were owned by individual families. The ground floor had a car park packed with vehicles. Many people were in charge of the security of the building. They were labeled differently the gate-keeper, the security guard, the caretaker, the supervisor and the like. Hillol's mother, Kusum bibi, worked in one of these. She swept and mopped the entire stairway, the veranda and the open space of one such highrise building.
Everyone knew Hillol. And why would they not? His mother had been working there since before his birth. Hillol's name had been given by one begum sahib from the southern flat on the third floor. She was young, wore shalwar-kamiz, had short hair and dyed it red. She was a restless woman and ran up and down the stairs whistling and spinning the key ring on her finger. She drove the car mostly on her own and often sweetly greeted Hillol with a "hello", which came with a smile.
Hillol did not consider himself a kid but a complete grown-up. He was almost nine now and was that too young? He could do everything by himself. He did not need his mother at his side all the time. Rather he did favours for others. He spent most of the time in the building compound. The guards did not chase him away. He was given tokens for things he did for them, no matter how small the favour and he was happy with whatever he received. Sometimes he bought things to eat with the money he got and shared it with his younger brothers but never with his little sister! She had just learnt to crawl and gulped up everything she could get hold of. Oree baaps, she was such a rakkhosh!
Hillol studied the people around him. He realized they only called him to do them favours. He got things from people in exchange for what he did for them. Sometimes they gave him things without reason. He got eidie during Eid, on the day of the crescent moon. His mother said that they gave fetra, alms in the name of Allah to be rewarded after death. Hillol also got clothes for zakaat. These donated clothes were usually new. However, they never fit him. They were either too tight or too loose-fitting. It was no good complaining to his mother, "Maa, I don't like this colour." His mother consoled him, "The poor shouldn't be choosing, baba." Hillol was deeply hurt and his eyes became moist thinking of the double standard which existed only in respect of the poor.
Hillol played with the other slum children of his age. In the evening he returned home and prattled long with his mother. She brought food for home covered with her anchal, the end of her sari. He divided the food equally for every one, his father and for himself. His father worked in a large shopping complex. One day he came home early. Hillol enquired surprisingly, "Bap jaan, why are you home early today?"
Folding his umbrella aside, his father replied, "I had some work at Rayer Bazaar so I just thought of stopping by".
Hillol offered, "Would you like to eat, baba? Lemme give you a plate."
His father agreed and ate rice with the daal and red spinach torkari his mother had cooked.
Eating happily he came out with the news, "You know what? We've all been invited for an occasion! It's my owner's eldest son's marriage reception ceremony."
"When baap jaan?!" Hillol asked excitedly.
"Next Wednesday evening," assured Mansur miya.
"Baba, but no one invites us! We always go to dawats uninvited! We go and ask for food like begging for alms," Hillol snapped sorrowfully.
"Dur baba, name anyone who could invite us. Why would anyone? Do we have any relatives?" His father mocked and shooed off the flies on his plate with the gamchha from his shoulder.
Hillol did not think too much. Getting an invitation was indeed a matter of surprise and happiness. He felt like rushing to update his mother. He wanted to ask her what clothes he would wear. He wanted to iron his clothes too. After all it was a real invitation! He wondered if she would give him money for the laundry.
Wednesday finally arrived and so did Wednesday evening!
His father told his mother, "Bou, wear a nice sari. It's an invitation and a matter of great honour!" Kusum smiled. After a careful selection she chose a sari in floral patterns against a green background. The newly married tenant of the first floor apartment had given it to her. She wore her sari in neat pleats like the bibi sahibs wore theirs. She smeared lipstick on her lips, the one given by the mem sahib of the fourth floor occupant. She arranged her hair in a bun and put on her Bata sandals. Hillo's father was ecstatic to see her, "Kusumi, you look so beautiful with just a tad of grooming up!" Kusum smiled coyly tidying her sari. Hillol's father was dressed in launderette pajama-panjabi and pump shoes. He wiped his face with the gamchha and slightly daubed Kusum's powder on it. Then he took out a new thermos from a box which he had haggled hard for that morning. He wrapped it in colourful gift paper and attached a little white card on it. He requested Tarun, the shopkeeper in front of their house, to write "a token for my Mamun baba- from Mansur miya". Hillol and his mother appreciated the gift very much. It was all right to spend a bit for an invitation. Should anyone attend a wedding without presentation? Hillol was animated with excitement and so was Kusum bibi. And Mansur miya was gloating with pride and happiness too!
The wedding venue was lavishly decorated by lights. It was an expensive community centre with bustling guests. More guests were arriving in dazzling clothes. Everyone looked so happy and pleasant. The ceremonies were recorded on video. Kusum's foot got entangled in its wires and it caused her to trip. Mansur miya helped her up. Hillol called them impatiently, "Baba-maa, come to this table. See how beautiful these flowers look in the vase!"
After sometime Kusum asked her husband, "Why do they have spoons, forks and knives next to every plate? Can't I eat with fingers?" "Eat the way you like. No problem!" said Mansur miya encouragingly.
At that moment someone important approached their table- the owner, the father of the bridegroom. "Aree, Masur miya, it's you! I'm so happy you made it." Masur miya handed over the wedding gift to him. The owner looked very surprised. "What's this? Why did you spend so much money? I'm the one who owes you some money. Saying this he dashed a new one thousand Taka note at him. Munsur miya could not utter a word out of bafflement. "No, no, don't be shy. I'm the one who is supposed to give you. Good that you brought your wife and son along. Eat to your heart's content and take home as much as you like."
Before leaving he patted Masur miya on the shoulder and said, "Since you're here, lend a hand to the waiters. I know you're good at supervision and management. It would be great if your wife helped with the dish washing too." Then he called his second son, "Baba, Madhu, come and see. Here's Mansur miya, my most trusted and oldest employee from the store. He took a lot of pains to come. Don't forget to give him food after work and also give him some extra food in a polythene bag. He has children at home".
Mansur miya looked around in bewilderment. It was not clear whether he was looking for his wife or son.
Hillol slowly approached the gate. He was not restless anymore. The smile on his face had disappeared and he looked calm and composed. He pulled his father by one hand and his mother by the other, "Let's go home and eat. The smell of the food is nauseating to me."
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