Short Story
How Do I Look, Really?
art work by amina
Do I look very weird?The thought sickens me as the bus shakes while taking a turn. People wink and pass comments. If I go out alone in the evening, they take me for a street girl and make suggestive gestures for me to accompany them. I have talked about this with a couple of people I know. They tell me that they have been in a similar situation, but only occasionally and not always. With me, it happens all the time. In fact, it's happening now. The man sitting next to me is staring down my cleavage, lewdly. He is appreciating my beauty, that's okay. But why the dirty look? Even that's okay with me, but why did he say, "I lost my watch in the crowd?" What a suffocating situation! I gasp for air. Why doesn't anyone love me? I desperately search for a reason. I have fallen in love, but those affairs were all one-sided. Some just used me and left. No, I wasn't dishonest, not at all. One of them just said; "You don't look presentable." Is that because I am dirt poor? That I don't own many dresses that I can change into often? But a lot of people don't. So what? I wear dark colours, so the dresses will remain bright even after a lot of washing. Of course light colours are more becoming on a poor girl. I have looked closely at my reflection in the mirror. What is wrong with my face? What does my taste lack? Perhaps it was wrong of me to have plucked my eyebrows. In such a large family probably it isn't right. But when I am out on the streets do I still wear the label of my family? Then why do I get caught at every step? "Such an expensive watch," the man goes on sadly, cursing the thief. "You know when I got on the bus it was still on my wrist!" So his watch was pinched. Why should anyone else be bothered? But some seem concerned, "Did it fall off?" "Where?" "How?" And so on. When the bus slowly comes to a halt, the stink of sweat assaults my nostrils. What a fancy departmental store! I keep staring. Once I also had dreams, I would own something like this; I would sit and sell milk, lipstick, beef. There were other dreams too. I would get married. The man I would marry would be fantastic; we would have such fun in bed. Is that all there is in a marriage? No, he has to understand me thoroughly. What if he didn't? Since the marriage would take place here, in this country, how long could it last without understanding? Since I am the one weaving the dreams, he has to understand me. We would run around all day long. "Where are you getting down?" The man who lost his watch winks with his shrewd eyes. Where I get down is none of his business. I lie. I tell him at the last stop on this road. Actually I get down at the stop before that. I sneak out while no one is looking. I feel so empty after getting down on the road. Every time I try to look up, the sun blinds me. I can't seem to find the house I am looking for. I feel sleepy. I taste my lips with my tongue. They are covered with sand, tons of salt. I tried so hard to get a job. I read the story about the spider. The way it succeeded in reaching the top of the wall through sheer perseverance. I have applied the lesson literally in my life. Is this why I look so unbecoming? Why I don't look healthy and presentable? Often I feel exhausted after walking for while. Is that why I stare at expensive furniture with greedy eyes? Tears well up in my eyes. After climbing up the dark stairway, I reach the luxurious drawing room. He is analyzing the small script with rapt attention through the magnifying glass. He completely ignores me. I say, "Is that a cockatoo? How beautiful!" "Hmm!" "You have such good taste. I have never met anyone with such taste before." "Hmm!" To spice up the conversation I say, "What a terrible accident I saw on my way here, so much blood! You know, dead, totally." He replies, "Learn how to operate the computer first, then we will see." The huge avenue lies before me, its mouth wide open. I enter it. I am supposed to return home tonight with the groceries. Is the body fragile? I just need to lower myself a bit. Is it possible to get back on one's feet after falling? So what if I don't make it? I can't figure out what to do. I wait at the bus stop. The buses clatter by. Occasionally there is a burst of black smoke. Suddenly I jump in shock. That man from the bus. He is following me. He is leaning on the lamppost. There's curiosity in his eyes. No, there is no sign of lechery. He looks upset. Is he aware that I am in trouble? Is he trying to be magnanimous? I start to sweat. My feet turn cold. I look at myself; I notice the colour of my sari. Orange? It does not look good on my dark skin. Do I lack taste? How does a person develop good taste? Why is he staring? Once inside the bus I try to get lost in the crowd. Nothing will happen to me. I will hang still like a dead crow. The man following me gets on the bus. The poor guy lost his watch! Anyway, he is not winking, groping, whistling, merely keeping an eye on me. To maintain my dignity, I put on a stoic expression. In the meantime, the man quietly manages to find a place beside me. I make an effort to look out of the window. A boy outside is blowing bubbles. Why is my heart pounding? No, I am having that feeling again. I am losing my will to live. I can feel a chill going down my spine. And in my dreams I fight with a snake. Like a mongoose, I grow an absurd tail and a sharp pointed muzzle. I fight like hell, until blood gushes out from the snake's mouth. Only when I go to someone's place and they discreetly try to avoid me, when they find something trivial to do to ignore my presence, do I lose my composure. This insane idiot is standing close to me, poking my spine with his finger, as if he's making holes in me. Is he attracted to me? What does he want does he want to destroy me? It seems as if the bus has embarked upon a journey towards eternity. Though I try desperately, I cannot decide on my destination. People are talking all around me! Someone is holding on to the handle and talking about politics even in this suffocating crowd. Is anyone listening to him at all? I used to teach a girl. She had such a bright face, full of light. It was a relief to bask in her brightness after crossing the dark lane. One day she said, "You don't have to come anymore." I asked, "Why?" "Baba saw you on a rickshaw with a bad boy." No, the thing she was hinting at, I have not lowered myself to that level yet. That night I couldn't sleep at all. It was so unbearable! I could even hear the sound of the dewdrops falling. Then I got back on my feet. I will put on a pant and a shirt and strut about without a care. I will stand at the entrance of the lane and blow cigarette smoke in everyone's face. But that is not my nature. Ever since I was born I had this docile nature which always forced me to keep my head low. In reality I yield so easily though in my imagination I am so adamant. Sometimes this fight between my two beings becomes fatal. I had this fascination for movies. I used to go to the movies secretly. For a long time I was obsessed with the dream of becoming a movie star. I looked for ways to become one. Then finally someone said, "You'll never be an actress." I cried my heart out. I have had so many dreams like these, but they've been shattered leaving my life incomplete. I have no goal in life. Finally, I've decided to settle for a boy, stupid and ugly as hell. He will be like a puppet whose strings will be in my hands. I will escape from this house full of people living like rats. As the bus gives a jolt the man brings his mouth close to my ear and whispers, "Give back my watch." I start to shake all over. I look at him as if he were a mongoose. All sorts of thoughts go through my mind. The man goes on as if we are having a pleasant chat, "Since when did you start this business?" As if he knows that before this I had some other business. I heard my grandfather had been very rich. He owned horses and elephants. If he only knew that his descendant was being accused of such ugly… "Look here," I start with a cough. The man says softly, "It's in your bag. Don't mess with me. I am not alone. It won't be good for you." The man was saying all this in a low voice. As if he were saying something new to his sweetheart, with a smile playing on his lips. I open my bag and silently hand it back to him. I notice that an unearthly fog is engulfing everything. Returning home through the dark lane, I see a dog around the bend. It's wagging its beautiful half moon tail. I start chatting with it in the empty lane, "Okay, I don't look respectable, refined. All right, I look like a bad girl." "But like a thief?" "I certainly don't look like one!" Nasreen Jahan is a well-known Bangladeshi writer. Her novel, Urukkoo, translated by Kaiser Haq into English, is slated to be published by Penguin India. Israt Jahan Baki is a student of English Department, Dhaka University.
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