Short Story
Experience
artwork by ariyana
The question has been on my mind since that day. I could of course ask the man if I met him again. Actually, we weren't supposed to meet at all. The whole thing happened quite by chance. And there's no guarantee that I'll recognize him if we meet again. Even if I have seen him sometime, I don't remember where. I'm not in the habit of going out without a specific purpose. Hotels or restaurants are far from my mind. But it was fiendishly hot and I'd been tormented by thirst since midday. I longed for chilled water, but dared not risk it. I thought I'd rather wet my whistle with tea. I entered the first restaurant that caught my eye. Not a three or four star joint, though quite clean and tidy. But impossibly crowded. Every table was taken, four chairs to each. Perhaps seeing me turn around in despair, someone waved beckoningly. He was all by himself. I sat down opposite. He gave me a once over and concentrated on his cup of tea. I called for a waiter, but couldn't draw anyone's attention. I didn't have much time on hand, either. I had to leave by one-thirty. I had something at stake -- I couldn't afford to slip up. Business had been dull for some months. I dealt in spare parts but my supplier was letting me down. Writing letters didn't help. That's why I wanted to have a face to face with the sales manager today and solve the problem once for all. The appointment was at a quarter past two. I kept glancing at the watch. Noticing my impatience, the man spoke up. 'Shouting won't help. No one will come before half an hour. You may share mine if you're in a hurry.' I was wondering about the propriety of such intimacy with a stranger. On the other hand, if I wanted tea in a hurry, there was no choice. Most of the restaurant's clientele came for tea. Maybe that's why the tables were set with upturned teacups. Customers turned them over and poured out tea from pots. Before I could say anything the stranger began pouring tea from the little teapot in front of him into an empty cup. I helped myself to the milk and sugar. At one point I tried to take a look at the man. But what was there to see? His eyes were hidden behind dark glasses, his shirt was buttoned up to the collar, which was clearly grimy. It probably hadn't seen a laundry for many days. The shirt pocket was like a small briefcase stuffed with papers and crumpled letters. There was also a packet of cigarettes. His face was pocked with smallpox scars. He had a graying head of hair. His fingers had rings set with stones of varied hue. He was the kind of fellow I couldn't confidently assert I had ever seen. That I had never seen him, passingly perhaps, was equally hard to claim. People like him were ubiquitous. They featured in every phase of our memories. I prepared to get up. But would it look nice if I left without offering to pay? I hesitated a little, then said, 'If you don't mind, I'd like to share the bill.' The man had a lighted cigarette between his fingers. He raised it to his lips; the flame glowed brighter. Blowing out a mouthful of smoke, he said, 'You may leave if you wish. Don't worry about the bill.' 'That doesn't seem right -- we aren't even acquainted.' What he said next startled me. 'No harm if you don't know me. I know you quite well.' I was pressed for time, so I left in the confused state into which I had been plunged. I kept wondering who this stranger was who knew me quite well. Fixing me with a haughty stare as I was getting ready to leave, he had said that his name was Akhter, but people also called him Abu Miah. My hurry didn't pay off. Despite my punctuality the work didn't get done, because I couldn't get hold of the man in Sales. He had gone to the airport to deal with an emergency. I'd have to try again the following day. I didn't feel put out, though. By then my consciousness had been taken over by the recently discovered Akhter. If he knew me well he'd been witness to many little events in my life. Everyone's life was a tissue of varied happenings, some showing them in a positive -- some in a negative -- light. What incident had he witnessed? Couldn't it be the case that I had actually seen him but had no recollection? Judging from his expression, he didn't seem to be hinting at knowledge of anything commendable in my life. A couple of events in my experience were still upsetting to recollect. Could it be one of these? One day I had queued up at a busy counter to buy a First Class train ticket. When I got back the change I found that I'd been handed 50 taka more. The bell was ringing to announce impending departure. There was no time, but later, when there was time to spare I didn't go back to return the money. What if someone behind the counter had noticed what had happened? Could that person be Akhter? Or take that person I encountered one night. I was driving home through a fierce storm. It was pouring. Someone waved at me. There was a woman beside him. I slowed down and heard the man pleading, 'Sir, if you could give us a lift! The girl's very ill, it's an emergency.' No way, one mustn't give a lift to strangers at night, whoever they might be. I rolled up the window and drove on. Was it that man I'd met again? Was the girl still alive? Maybe it wasn't either of these men. Yet my heart quailed at a certain realization. It seemed that at any moment a particular loose end might be tied up to complete the lineaments of a story. Piercing the smoke-screen of the past, the gaze that confronted me might be that of this mysterious man. It was the night of my wedding -- which had been suddenly arranged. I didn't realize it at the beginning, but it gradually dawned on me that somebody had had to pay the price for my joy. I recall that after the crowd of guests had taken leave that night, I'd noticed a lone figure in a back row, just sitting there and puffing on a cigarette. Just like today, in the darkness of that night, it was the cigarette that caught my attention. Was it the same man I'd just met? Would I meet him again -- suddenly? What could I do if I did? What could I say to him even if he had been the protagonist in one of my varied experiences? What could I ask him? Were you behind the ticket counter, beside the road, or in the back row beneath the shamiana? Who knows what Akhter might say in reply? Maybe he'd reply with the same mysterious smile, 'What have you been able to share in life? Forget all that.' It seemed I'd discover him again, somewhere, sometime, as I had today. Yet, I'd never get to know of which experience of mine he had become a part, or when. Anis Chowdhury (1929 -1990) was a noted Bengali novelist and short story writer. Kaiser Haq is a poet and professor of English at Dhaka University.
For all latest news, follow The Daily Star's Google News channel.
Comments