TRANSLATED FROM BENGALI BY RAJIB MAHMUD
1
The wayward wind has returned like a ‘no-show’ office employee, absent too long without an official leave or unofficial word. Storms these days have become regular visitors to our town. Gusty winds sweep through at any given moment of the day – noon, afternoon, evening, or night; they are mostly accompanied by rain, but when the heat intensifies, they threaten to melt away the mercury in the thermometer.
They are taking away Sunarma today. Rumour has it we shall not see him—not even for one last time. But still, we hold on to that desperate shred of hope and are ready to go, in case, just in case, we get to see him—at the last minute, by a whisker. As we leave, the sky darkens, trees sway, dust kicks up, and the clouds wail.
The mention of wailing clouds brings back memories of Sunarma’s acidic tongue, his penchant for ruining a poetic metaphor. He would give a ribbing to the person referring to the clouds wailing, insisting that they be referred to as “pissing clouds,” draining off whatever poetry was left in it. So, no wonder that a lifetime’s acquaintance of his has rubbed off on me, I do not remember since when, but the mention of even the word ‘clouds’—much less the entire metaphor—has made me spew out a scoffing laugh.
Is there nothing we could do to stop them from taking Sunarma away? In this torrential rain?
No one would believe we were twins. Eventually, we gave up trying—what was the point?
Born a minute apart, we’d constantly bicker over who was older. To end this trivial squabble, or perhaps for some other reason I no longer recall, I finally agreed to let Sunarma be the elder one. He longed for me to call him bhaiya, elder brother, but I could never live up to calling him so. He never held it against me, though.
Sunarma had an oval face and bristling hair. He stood six feet tall, and all muscle, not an ounce of fat—a flawless physique. I, on the contrary, had a long face, experienced a dramatic hair loss following puberty, and had a slightly bulging gut. Plus, I was an inch shorter than Sunarma.
Our streaks were completely opposite: his tears would bring out my roaring giggles; my falls and tumbles would see him stick out his tongue in loud jeers. Besides, our choices propelled us forward at times and tugged us backward at other times—a dance of progress and retreat. Sometimes, when we held each other up, and some other times we pushed each other away. And we hardly walked the same road—far from it. Take our university studies, for instance. While I ventured into business, Sunarma pursued the esteemed microbiology.
Despite our obvious differences, time wove an invisible thread between us—one we were never consciously aware of.
That said, there was one similarity, though—one that could never change-our piercing blue eyes that we inherited from our mother.
And one more —love that is—that entered our lives long before we entered university.
Sunarma fell for Drosophila, a classmate whom he used to call ‘fly’. How could love bloom with someone whom you dismiss as a fly? And not to mention, Sunarma’s case had no other merit to be exceptional.
However, he could never come to terms with Drosophila’s rejection. He’d argue-
“Drosophila does mean ‘fly’, doesn’t it? Then, why would she reject me just because I translated her name?” was his response.
I’d smirk at his reasoning, but until then, I, being his twin brother, was a doofus, having no clue about the seriousness of the feelings that my bhaiya was going through.
Sunarma’s fixation for Drosophila revealed itself in subtle, almost whimsical ways. He would steal glances when she wasn’t looking, seek her gaze at every available opportunity, borrow her notes only to brush against her hand, and trail her rickshaw on his bike. These were the languages— the silent dialects of love in our time.
One day, he said, “Rijoshian, I like her.”
Did the night stretch longer than usual that evening? Witnessing him in such a sombre state—he, who continuously pulled people’s chin, having never taken anything seriously till that point—stirred something within me.
You call it a mess, a knot, or anything that strikes your fancy, but Sunarma had dived headlong into it all by himself. I initially believed his lovesick phase would pass, like a fleeting storm. But no! He got trapped in that haze forever—his effervescence vanished overnight. His face bore the mark of a wounded heart —sagged heavy with dejection, his demeanor screaming to be dealing with all the accumulated misfortunes of his lifetime all at once.
With sunken eyes and disheveled hair, Sunarma began visiting the Ashvattha tree daily after school, claiming that it mellowed his mind, offering a figment of peace. His visits would become more frequent, eventually turning into an obsession he could never shake.
Now, as his friend and brother, I couldn’t just sit ducks and watch. But how exactly was I to intervene? Go to Drosophila’s house? No way. Call her? Well, I phoned her landline three times a day, but to no avail. The final straw would have been to catch her during class or follow her after class on my bike. It turned out, neither was necessary.
One day, after our PT class, a mighty wind swept across our campus. The storm was short-lived yet intense, uprooting trees and sending students fleeing in all directions. I seized this opportunity to approach Drosophila; as I walked toward her, Sunarma sprinted off to join the other students.
“Drosophila, do you have a minute?”, I proceeded with my gambit.
“Are you here to talk about your brother, Rijoshian?” Drosophila stops cold mid-stride.
Drosophila was not only beautiful but sharp as a tack. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why I was there, but I was impressed and could not corral my thoughts for a reply.
“Look, I didn’t reject him because he called me a fly. I don’t like him, okay? I rather like you, Rijoshian.”
Saying this, she turned and left, quickly losing herself in the crowd. Sunarma hurried over, his deep blue eyes shadowing a mix of anticipation and concern.
“What did she say?”
“She said she’d talk about it later.” I lied through my teeth.
“Five minutes of conversation, and that’s all she said? You kidding me, Rijoshian?”
Our first big fight blew up. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the truth—not just about Drosophila proposing to me, but also that I had fallen for her, too. And it was out of the question to speak of the boat ride that Drosophila and I shared on a sun-drenched afternoon, or our walk to the village on the other side of the old culvert where we flew kites together. I know guilt should have consumed me, yet I refused to wear that hangdog look and muddled on—the overpowering rush of hormones was too potent to fight.
Years later, stuck in this storm, as my final chance of seeing my only brother slipping out of my hand forever, I was gripped by a ravenous void, billowing out of some obscure recess of my soul, sucking my being into its dark, yawning abyss.
2
Baba (father) has been bedridden for what seems like an eternity—he does not even recognize us these days. Half paralyzed, his movements are severely restricted now. All these years, Ma has toiled away, devoted herself entirely to Baba’s care, shielding us from the weight of his condition.
I turn to Ma, saying-
“It’s as if Baba’s condition is a blessing.”
Rain has eased into thin, continuous sheets, soaking us. The roads are deserted, flooded with murky rainwater, and the sun has dipped below the horizon, a sombre darkness suffusing over the night.
Hearing my words, Ma gives me a puzzled look—she is all at sea.
“I meant Baba doesn’t have to say goodbye to Sunarma, does he? Isn’t that a relief?”
“Goodbye?” her voice wobbly, tremor running through it.
At this point, I can’t conceal my impatience-
“You know what I mean, Ma. Why must I always confront these truths alone? I don’t want to.”
I’m not sure why I said that, but the moment the words escaped my lips, they sat heavy between us.
The day they came for Sunarma, Baba’s condition had deteriorated. His breaths turned shallower, more labored gasps, each one a struggle.
“Let me call an ambulance,” Sunarma said, his voice a steady lifeline amidst the mayhem surrounding us.
By the time they arrived at our doorstep, we had still not managed to call for medical assistance. Rumours of their coming had wafted through us, but not all that we had heard turned out to be true. They were said to be invisible—they would come, speak, turn their victim into a wisp of smoke, put them in a glass cage before taking away. The motivations behind their actions and the circumstances were unknown—well, known to only a select few, and we were among them.
First off, we could see them. They looked like us humans. Ten of them came in white shirts and black trousers, their faces stern with a deadpan expression.
“Sunarma,” one of them said, his voice cold and final. “You need to come with us.”
We had heard those lines echo through cinema halls, played out in the lives of others, but we had never realized the gravity of the moment until it fell upon us. A cold chill crept down our spines, and for that fleeting moment, we even forgot that Baba was struggling for his life in the next room, summoning the final dregs of his strength.
Even Sunarma, our defiant Sunarma, seemed subdued. “My father is very sick,” he murmured, his voice a frail puff of breath.
One of them quickly dialed a number. Within minutes, the guards downstairs called to us, announcing the arrival of an ambulance.
“What did my son do?” Ma’s voice quivered.
A silence hung over her inquiry. Ma did not know, nor was she supposed to; neither were we. Since Drosophila turned him away, Sunarma became increasingly stubborn and fiercely vocal in political and social matters, adopting a firm stance on almost every subject, most of which did not even concern him personally.
As they led him away, we stood mute. He gradually vanished from our sight, lengthening the distance between us unto eternity.
Baba’s silence remained unbroken, creating a tangible vacuum. After Sunarma had been taken away, a stifling dread gripped us—would Baba be the next to leave us after Sunarma? That said, our heads were filled with Sunarma—only Sunarma. His absence ricocheted off the walls of the house, reverberating through our minds, even taking over our fear for Baba.
Sleep had long eluded us by then. We sought aid from every possible quarter for our lost son and brother, but to no avail. It was only today that we have came to know the truth-today is the day Sunarma will face his final reckoning, no details were provided though.
Meanwhile, after a prolonged glitch, the rideshare app flickered back to life. A grey sedan appeared at our door, navigating the ankle-deep water. We slid into the car and instructed the driver to take us to our destination.
“Are you sure you want to go in that direction?” the driver’s voice tinged with apprehension.
“Yes, we are.”
His eyes in the rearview mirror stared at ours with a deep resignation. In our city, everyone knows why people go in that direction. No explanation is necessary.
3
At the deep end of my heart, I’d never ceased to harbour a hidden envy of Sunarma- my archnemesis- his talents overshadowed mine, one that I’d always tried to outrun, but it only cloaked me in, becoming more oppressive with each passing day. Yet today, the damp wind crashing against the wharf has blown it all away, leaving behind a resounding stillness in the evening air. My experiences have taught me the mastery of caution, where I nod and yield amid commotion. biting the bullet, and swallowing up the bitter truths, which is why I am still alive and kicking today.
Sunarma, however, was different-a soul with gritty persistence, a brave flicker light that could never be extinguished, a voice that could never be silenced. But things like that always come at a price. Now, they would reduce him to air, trap him in a glass cage, and send him off to some remote island—its name and location unknown, even to the high officials.
A monthly dispatch was due, and today is the day.
As we near the dock, we find it teeming with people like us, all there to see off a loved one. But there are families from which no member came; their invisible shadows casting a long, dark pall over the scene. The ship looms in the distance, a mere silhouette against the dark mist. Every family stands transfixed, breath held, eyes locked on the distant form, yearning for one final glimpse of their stolen kin.
Every glass cage has a number, but we do not know Sunarma’s number. To comb through the myriad glass prisons would be futile as anything. Besides, we have been expressly forbidden from trespassing across a designated boundary. There was one person who showed the audacity to disobey destiny by attempting to breach the zone of protection. His body, shot dead, is on display ahead, a grim warning to all of us.
Why do people have to transgress the boundaries? And why did Sunarma?
The world around us dissolves into a blur, reduced to specks of indistinct fog. I barely notice when Ma slips from my sight and has never returned.
I recall the year we journeyed to our ancestral village for Eid, just after the school year ended. The night before Eid, the village youth would visit each house, collecting uncooked rice. Sunarma and I joined the group. The tradition was to prepare khichuri in the big playground of the village—a custom as old as the village itself.
However, one family refused to participate, pointing out their objection to boys and girls collecting rice together. Sunarma was red, pitching a fit, like a spark struck. He pounced on the head of the family and was about to hit him. It took all our strength to restrain him. We’d never seen him so angry, and on the brink of such violence.
Did the lingering bitterness over Drosophila push him over the edge? Had I not become involved with Drosophila, would Sunarma still be alive today? Perhaps not. Destiny has its way to get what it wants, one way or the other.
Sunarma was stubborn like anything, his ego sharp as a crooked blade. The only time he ever relented was with me. Ma, too, had a way of calming him. But he could never bend before the threats and pleas to cease his political writings.
“How would I even breathe if I stopped writing?” was his reply.
Now, you are breathing, my brother, aren’t you? Being trapped in a vaporous form in a glass cage.
Our father left his village, we left our town, and one day, our children would leave the country. Sunarma insisted that he would never let any of his family members abandon their homeland.
“Homeland, Sunarma? Is that what you called it?”
I would ask him now if I could. But the ship groans, shuddering to life, tilting to one side, ready to slice through the dark water, dismissing my last chance to ask my last question to my brother for good. Ma suddenly reappears, her voice calm.
“Let’s go home, Rijoshian.”
Nature seems to have called a truce, but its turbulent fury appears to be in decline—the usual traffic congestion has eased, allowing life to take a pause, suspending all its fury. We also drive home in silence; no words pass between us. Silence seems to be the answer to all chaos.
Only Sunarma never saw that. Could Drosophila have made him see that?
Also, read God is a Trader by Vintua Hnchinamani only on The Antonym.
Also, read Detective by Rabindranath Tagore only on The Antonym.
