Revenge

 III.

Out of season rainy days always seemed bleak to Hasna. It had been raining torrentially for days. It rained relentlessly. Even if there had been a brief pause, the sky was glum to the core. The clouds, on the other hand, were at play, ready for all kinds of pranks. At times the trees seemed to hang together on one tree, be it a coconut, betel-nut, or a banyan tree. Another time they blew back, pouring down brisk puddles. If one had to leave, why leave like a whimpering girl? Untimely whining always caused a muddle. Hasna always suffered in this kind of inclement weather. The firewood she used for cooking became wet and damp. Her kitchen floor, simply made from half a sheet of corrugated tin, became very muddy. During the rainy days the fire in the oven flickered regardless of how hard she blew with a fukni to kindle it brighter.

Hasna was habitually prone to catching cold. She could not endure the wet climate. If she were not careful, she could easily catch fever. There was no way she could indulge in sluggishness; she had no helping hand and there was no way she could confine herself to bed. Mohor Ali also became very ill-tempered in this weather. He would turn the house upside down if the meal was not cooked on time. He incessantly abused her verbally, out of terrible hunger. That was his only bad habit. Even if it was a drizzling cold morning, there was no way to remain inactive. She had to carry out her daily chores. On the other hand, Efu was habitually visiting them, even if she was drenched to her skin on the journey. Hasna was slightly jealous of her. She wondered how this lady managed to get soaked day and night without succumbing to cold. Hasna grumbled in suppressed anger at her satin’s sound health. What a constitution she had! Safe from all kinds of diseases, she rambled in the rain all day long.

Hasna could not predict what Efu would do next. Even stranger was her husband! Why had he not divorced her yet? He still wept for his slain sons at night.

Hasna, meanwhile, was infertile. Mohor Ali had lost all hope after waiting for months. Hasna regularly menstruated. Nothing remained in her uterus to form a new life. Mohor Ali did not know what to do. How ill-fated he was! At least Efu saved him from the defamation of impotency. These days Efu’s presence confused him. She seemed to see the depth of everything. He felt her watchful eyes could read hidden truths in him.

Efu did not tell him anything about marrying Hasna. She quietly distanced herself from him. She did not even allow him to speak to her seriously about this matter. He tried befriending Efu in various ways, but she seemed to be consciously avoiding him. Mohor Ali assumed that Efu was perhaps feigning her insanity. Was Efu intentionally confusing people with her madness? He had many questions stirring inside for which he could find no answers. Efu paid no attention to what he said. So Mohor Ali tried to forget her and tried to reassure himself that everything was due to her madness. Once in a while, he presumed she was disgusted with him. This made him feel very dejected. At times he would become furious with her. What intense self-esteem this woman had in her lost eyes, speculated Mohor Ali. Efu could not be insane! He secretly planned that one day he would get hold of her and reveal her craziness for what it really was.

…

The showers at the end of winter destroyed everything. As a result, winter seemed to linger, with no sign of bidding farewell. The chill of the rain was so biting that it penetrated through skin, flesh and bone.

It had been raining so heavily that Mohor Ali could not go out that day. Yes, Efu was here again in the rain. She was completely soaked from head to toe. Water was dripping from the wet strands of her hair. The moment he saw Efu, Mohor Ali had a faint heartache. Ah! Was it her, who was responsible for the death of his sons?

Hasna was uneasy once more when she saw Efu and Mohor Ali having close eye contact, but she was tactful and took care not to express her feelings. Even that day she offered a dry sari to her, “Boro afa, change your wet clothes.” “No, I don’t need to. I’m leaving now.” “Go if you will, but change your clothes first.” “No, it’s all right. I’ll be leaving soon.”

Although she said she would leave right away, she did not seem to leave any earlier! Meanwhile, Hasna studied Mohor Ali. Did he also want her to spend the night with them? Amongst this disarray the rain grew heavier. Efu prepared to leave a number of times but showed no sign of finally going. While it rained heavily none of the three noticed how night fell outside, through the curtain.

It rained still more incessantly. Hasna got the dinner ready — rice and curry — in the perplexing shadowy light. Mohor Ali ate hungrily but Efu remained immobile. Neither hunger nor thirst could restrain her. She showed no interest in eating and yawned wide, “Why do I feel so sleepy?”

“Afa, be off to sleep if you feel like it.”

“I’m getting you in trouble. Where would I sleep?”

“Not a problem at all! You get on the cot. I’ll lie down on the floor.”

Efu climbed on the bed and dozed off immediately. No one could assume that this sleeping lady was a madwoman! Her manner demonstrated her right to this house and bed!

Now there arose the question of where Mohor Ali would sleep. Since they were not divorced yet, Hasna pushed him to sleep with Efu. Hasna remained wide awake in the cold night curiously waiting to see what would happen next.

After a while Mohor Ali came down to Hasna under her quilt and grumbled, “That bitch has so much arrogance. She can’t stand my touch.” But Hasna showed no interest in listening to him. Mohor Ali tossed to the other side and fell asleep.

The next day Mohor Ali woke before sunrise. The doors were wide open. Efu was not in bed. She left before anyone woke up! Mohor Ali stood up near the cot and was utterly nauseated by a stench. Looking at the wet bed, Mohor Ali immediately understood what monkey business Efu had been after. Efu had left before dawn, having urinated on Mohor Ali’s bed.

About the author:

Papree Rahman (b. 1965) has been writing since her childhood. Her creative work has been published in almost all the leading dailies of Bangladesh. As a representative of Bangladesh, she participated in the SARRC Writers’ Festival three times. She received an award from Mohila Porishod in 2010 for her contribution to literature, and the best editor’s award in Dhaka division in 2011 for editing the literary magazine Dhulichitra. She has published four novels – Poranadir Shawpnopuran, Boyon, Mohua Pakhir Palok (a children’s novel) and Palatia, and five collections of short stories – Lakhhindarer Adristo Jatra, Holud Meyer Shimanto, Ostorombha and Dhulichitro.

 

About the translator:

Masrufa Ayesha Nusrat (b. 1976) studied at the University of Dhaka, Bangladesh and the University of Nottingham, UK. She is Assistant Professor of English at East West University in Dhaka. Her entry on “Bangladeshi Writing in English” was included in South Asian Literature in English: An Encyclopedia, published by the Greenwood Press, USA (2004). Her English translations of Bengali short stories have been anthologized in Under the Krishnachura Tree: Fifty Years of Bangladeshi Writing (Dhaka: UPL, 2003), Writing Across Borders (Dhaka: writers.ink, 2008) and Contemporary Short Stories from Bangladesh (Dhaka: UPL 2010). She is also a connoisseur of fine arts and music and a mother of a one-year-old son, Sargam. Currently, she is working on a compilation of translated short stories with Papree Rahman. 

Featured artwork is “Rossie” by Ahsan Masood.