Not silent

Everyone sat quietly on the bus.

It seems as though there had been a lot of discussions a while ago. And that had shushed everyone to be quiet. The only exception was the birds outside, looking for nests in the trees that were moving past. A lot of words had been strewn about in the wooden structure of the old bus. But now they were all quiet. One might think they were feeling lighter after having cried their hearts out. And hence they were staring at the bleak horizon. There was no need for words anymore. Let the wind work on the leaves that have fallen in the dark, let the universe listen to their cries. People should remain silent.

The bus was dimly lit.

The conductor held onto the frame of the door; it was not his priority to call passengers in today. On other days, he would scream out, "Hat Hazari! Baijid Bostami!" Either he was enjoying a day off or he did not need any passengers today.

He balanced his feet on the footboard against the jerking of the bus. He looked out into the darkness. The silent Sitakundu hills, silhouetted against the sky, raced with the bus. Occasionally a date tree or some other wild tree kept moving back and forth in the twilight breeze against the background of dark floating clouds. But the bus conductor only saw the dark shapes of the nameless objects.

There were only 10 to 12 passengers on the bus. One of them, with a hat on, was sitting next to the driver. He could be an official. The face wasn't visible in the dark. An elderly man was sitting right behind the driver, his wrinkled face and straight nose clearly visible due to the light inside the bus. He wore a white beard. There were lines around his sunken eyes. He took deep breaths and opened his eyes now and then, which shone brightly. The light revealed that his hands were folded on his chest, as Muslims do during their prayers. 

His head was bowed, and the light and shadow played with his nose. His face seemed like an etched portrait of some dervish in an old cave. He was shrouded in a loose outer garment that covered him from neck to toe, and a red "ghamcha" on his shoulder. He sat quietly with a pair of ordinary slippers on his feet. His hollow cheeks sunk more every time he breathed in. The light made his face look like a skull; it was as if the village urchins had stuffed white straw in a sack to make a human figure.

Almost all the passengers had their eyes on this old man. Sometimes they glanced outside the bus.

Two farmers sat on either side of the old man. There were two bamboo baskets on the floorboard of the bus. Maybe they went to town to sell something and were now returning home. Both were in lungis. And they wrapped themselves in ghamchas as it was a bit chilly. They sat quietly. Both of them looked at the old man from time to time. Then they immersed themselves in their own thoughts with their heads down. Then they looked out through the window.

The farmer on the left was restless. He was a chain smoker and desperately needed a drag. But he didn't dare light a "bidi". It was as if he was sitting in a holy place, that a holy man was sitting in front of him and it would be disrespectful to smoke in front of him. That kind of arrogance was beyond him. He sat frozen like a paralyzed man, with his bidi on his left hand. He gazed at the old man once and looked away.

Another man was sitting behind them. One could easily tell he was a student, for he was carrying books in his hand. He was fair and still looked very young. His lean face was still, like that of a stone statue. He too was silent. He sat cross-legged, without moving. Sometimes he uncrossed his legs and changed his position, his brown sandals below his white pajamas making a rustling noise. But that noise didn't rise above the noise of the steering or the engine of the bus. 

He opened a Bangla book to break his monotony. But his eyes didn't find any solace in them today. Instead, they found peace on the plain field and the dark hills beyond the lit structures beside the road. Something rough in the wind made his face coarse today, like that of fallow land. Clenching both his teeth and his fists, he navigated in the opposite direction to where his heart was going.   

Across him sat a clerk. The bus was headed north, but he sat facing west with his shoulders drooping. He didn't seem the least bit uncomfortable in his position. In fact, he was rather comfortable in the darkness inside the bus. It was best to keep up with speeding vehicles. The boy did not move even an inch. There were a few others next to him, none of whose faces were visible in the dim light. But the spellbound silence affected everyone. Everyone sat as though they were mute. No one even coughed. It was always difficult to travel on a bus in a mufassil since the roads were uneven. People chatted with each other to make the journey bearable. But today, no one seemed to be interested in talking. Someone held onto the grill and pressed his head against the window. Maybe he had a headache or perhaps he was tormented and that was the only way to stop himself from howling, flailing his arms and legs.

The bus slowed down a little as it came near a level crossing. There were ditches on both sides of the road, and thousands of fireflies were flitting about. Date trees on both sides looked as though busy-haired women sitting one behind the other and looking for lice in the hair. The road was steep after the crossing. The engine of the vehicle growled when the gear changed. Soon the bus resumed its earlier speed. It passed rows of trees, dimly lit tea stalls, houses, and a dark fallow field. 

The bus bumped up and down on the road that was filled with potholes made by the rain. The passengers held on to the railings or the seats to save themselves from falling. No one made any noise. They would be raucous on a normal day, as it would seem like pleasure. People love making noise while travelling so that the tiredness of the journey can be overcome. 

Then the road became smooth again. The bus resumed its original speed. When they reached a bit further, branches of a Minjiri tree brushed against the sides of the bus, as though the wings of a bird were fluttering against it. Everyone was in a kind of trance. No one warned the driver about getting hurt by the branches. Maybe the passengers were oblivious to themselves today. Maybe their mind was somewhere else, maybe they are thinking of some road that was spilled with blood! Maybe they were mourning the deaths and were speechless. Maybe these people were joining the procession of protest against the brutality, with the millions of people of Bangladesh, all their eyes become one with the procession; even though they are hundreds of miles away. That their spirits had travelled across the trees, rivers and creeks, milky ways, and jungles to be part of that procession. They had become one with the silent protest. That is why they had forgotten their old habits. The driver got poked by a yellow-leafed branch, he didn't even try to save himself. The bus sped on. The stars peeped from behind the leaves of the trees in the dark. The vast, speechless field could be seen under the open sky. The stars stared as inextinguishable question marks. It was as though the mute East Bengal had asked the blazing question, "My green crop fields! Why are you crying ceaselessly? Why don't you speak? Why are you silent?"

There was no answer. Everyone inside the bus kept silent. The engine of the bus groaned, even though it didn't have the language to answer the question.

The vehicle moved and passed by the locality, now there were huge fields on both sides. On one side, the dark hills met the field, and the cluster of trees and plantations made the plain field look like they had layers on the other side. The lake with broken banks and the secret village roads surrounded by tamarisk trees were all revealed by the headlights of the bus. The rustling of the dried leaves under the tires lets us know that the leaves had fallen in the spring gale. The bus rolled onto the wooden bridge with a thumping noise and the swishing of the tamarisk tree branches immersed under it. The bus moved on. This was the only truth in the whole universe. 

The man sitting next to the student decided to light a bidi. He had a matchbox in his hand. He did it discreetly so that no one would notice. For a second, he thought about it. Then he got a matchstick out of the box. Someone gestured at the elderly man and pointed out that he shouldn't light the bidi. The man sitting in front of him cast a glance as if to say, "Don't you have any shame?" So, the addict couldn't indulge his addiction. Reluctantly, he put the bidi back into his pocket. Finally, he put the matchstick in the box and then that back in his pocket too. The man then checked if any of the passengers had seen him. Then his face was immersed in the darkness of the bus. The fellow passengers had been staring at him all this time, but now he looked outside the window.

The speed of the bus slowed down as it crossed two bends, but the depth of the night didn't reduce, nor did the silence that pervaded the interior of the vehicle.

The fields gradually disappeared from the two sides of the road, and a locality with houses began to appear. The bus passed by houses that were drowsy, offices, and banana or bamboo groves. On any other day, the people sitting near the tea stalls would have been vocal, but not today! People sat quietly. The headlight pierced through the darkness of the road. Winter hadn't left yet; slight fog enveloped the trees.

One of the passengers looked at the conductor with unease after crossing the small field. But he didn't say anything, probably because his destination was close-by. The bus conductor noticed him and came to the driver. Then he touches the driver's shoulder gently by putting his hand through the grill behind the driving seat. Nothing more. It was useless to have a mouth in the world of the mute.

The village road joined the main road. There were two huge kadam trees on both sides of the road. The road snaked into darkness on that side. The gentleman slowly got off the bus. He looked at the elderly man with the garb repeatedly. He gave him one last look when he was at the door. The conductor took the fare from him. He came near the light to count the coins on his palm. He put the coins in the bag he carried on his shoulder. This was not necessary. No one will leave without paying the fare. He had already been robbed much more severely; and so, he believed there wasn't anyone who could cheat him tonight. 

The journey began again, on the wheels, on the road. They sped through villages and fields.

The old man sighed as he looked up. But then he closed his eyes again. He was in some kind of a trance. All the passengers on the bus became even more still. The student wanted to say something, but refrained. The old man's fists became tighter. The farmer sitting next to him moved his head from side to side; maybe there was a dialogue going on in his inner mind. The clerk's face became firm and motionless. Everyone had their eyes inside the bus now. The conductor, who was standing at the gate of the bus, also moved inside.

Now, there was just the noise of the wheels on the road. Its noise spread through nature on both sides of the path.

The villages were still awake, lamps lit sporadically. The brick field workers were carrying the bricks. That liveliness couldn't reach the passengers of the bus. This was like the land of the dead. Everyone sat like a skeleton. The wind couldn't even lift the breathing of all these people. The matchstick fell down from the farmer's hand, making a rustling noise, but he didn't dare pick it up. It was as if it was against humanity. Something moved above his throat, maybe to make his jawbone firmer or reduce the clouds around his face.

The bus had two more miles to reach its destination. The passengers sat motionless. No one was anxious, nor eager to reach home. The old man had both his hands over his chest. He didn't know where his destination was either. But his breath became faster and faster. Some of the passengers turned their faces from outside towards him again.

The old man's breathing quickened, it went even faster. It was as if he was drowning, he shrunk, his legs became straight, and they spread.

He tried to breathe out, but it was as though he had bronchial mucus on both sides of his throat. His hollow cheeks went up and down. His lips quivered. Some unbearable pain seemed to burst out from inside his chest. His eyes were fixed, and now he cried out in agony. The silence that persisted for so long was broken in an instant.

"What was my son's fault? Why did they shoot him? What was his fault? Oooooh!"

His questioning eyes held this question. He would fall on the floor of the bus any minute now.

All the passengers came to see the old man. The two farmers held him by the waist so that he wouldn't fall. Even the driver held the steering wheel with one hand and extended the other towards the old man.

The passengers' eyes emitted fire. They would roar like lions in a minute. The veins on their necks began to throb.

Translator: Jackie Kabir

The story was first published in An Ekushey Anthology: Reminiscing Ekushey 70 years on edited by Dr Niaz Zaman and Published by writers.ink in 2022