Enter the Void -MSF Sadib

On the rickshaw’s pedals, this vast city revolves with every forgotten moment. Sitting on the rickshaw’s sloped seat, Shahed gazed at the driver’s long, slender, dark limbs on the pedal. Though the rickshaw puller’s pedal is worn, it is steady with those slender limbs. They might be slender, but those engorged veins that surround them acknowledge their proficient strength. Drenched in the rebellious noon, halfway through the midday, the puller continues to pedal swiftly. Underneath the scorching heat, those legs mimic the swing of a pendulum. Lost in the hypnotism of the sweltering Dhaka city, Shahed slowly drifts into moments of drowsiness.

Shahed was bound for the prosperous office of a publication agent at Banglabazar. Over the past few years, he has regularly submitted his exclusive short stories to various newspapers and magazines. So, at the beginning of each month, he visits various publishing houses and newsstands, carrying his small hopes and aspirations. In his dreams, a hope shimmers that one day his writing might get published.

Like every novice author, he’s not a rare genius like Rabindranath Tagore or those alike. So, to approve this acquisition, none of his stories have graced the pages of a prominent literary magazine. However, Shahed is not disheartened by such mere events. With a strong philosophy, he believes that to be a true writer, you shouldn’t be disheartened by petty matters. He is content with his pure heart.

But this time, when his beloved wife Monika assessed Shahed’s writing and their extravagant lifestyle, the two were classified as ‘B’ grade. Not to lie, Shahed was a bit heartbroken.

“The way you wander from here to there for your stories, your name should rightfully be ‘Eccentric Writer.’”

Though the tone of the phrase is sarcastic and self-deprecating, Shahed liked the title ‘Eccentric Writer.’

Each such meandering journey is a writer’s struggle. And struggle, in his view, is a sign of impending success. The signal of success is yet to arrive. On one side, he has certainly improved as an author—the fruitless pressure of writing better, whether the next one is better or not. More than that, failing in a fit of anger is not that bad, is it? So, he’s taken Monika’s words as a motivating factor.

The rickshaw’s spokes gave him an illusion of a spinning history of Dhaka, the sky grey as an old folk. At any given moment, there could be a sudden downpour. As the rickshaw approached Jagannath University at Bahadur Shah Park, a tangled mess was spotted at the crossroads. Under the shadow of grey clouds, the rickshaw puller’s sweat-soaked face resembled that of a veteran warhorse with a British Stalin-like solemnity. He had a noble demeanour that was almost warrior-like—a mercenary or a Spartan hoplite. Shahed had already initiated two unsuccessful attempts at conversation with him. Although maintaining silence or the principle “Keep it to yourself” is often considered a natural tendency among authors, Shahed’s inherently talkative nature remains unbroken—a quality that is greatly appreciated anyway.

The rickshaw puller seemed indifferent to Shahed. As a rule of thumb, rickshaw pullers or members of the working class are, nine out of ten times, verbal when you approach them. A possible reason for that, which Shahed had concluded, is that during these times, they momentarily escape their problems and let them burst free, allowing them to breathe a tiny sigh of relief.

The chaotic bustling in the crowd showed no sign of relief. The complete scenario is still not vivid and beyond any means of comprehension. The rickshaw’s inertia is transformed into a sluggish halt.

“Mama, why is there such a chaotic crowd up ahead?”

“How would I know?”

After such a dismaying response, nothing more was said. The rickshaw puller, however, silently collected droplets of sweat at the corner of his forehead with a broken expression.

Amid the invisible commotion, an invisible camera reel started rolling, capturing the height of the unknown. Shahed felt the urge to request the rickshaw puller to turn around. He no longer wished to be anywhere. Somewhere, a tune abruptly cut off within him. But to instruct the rickshaw puller to turn was an impossibly distant proposition. It felt like the entire situation was under the driver’s manipulation, as if the rickshaw puller himself was a silent ventriloquist.

“Has his story been published this time? If not, when will those stories see the light of day? Is it like a distant twilight, forever approaching but never arriving?” The intensity of the desire is as subdued as the last rays of the afternoon sun.

The commotion started to lessen gradually, leaving no sense of significant purpose. Often the necessity for such small matters within life felt wholeheartedly important, but then they became meaningless in a matter of moments. The Rickshaw’s pedal started to go on a solo trip again. Once again, it appeared as if a colossal creature was caught in the sound of the hood, struggling.

On the road where the commotion occurred, small patches of torn parchment were noticed. They bloomed like white lilies in the coal heart of the road. A little girl stood near the parchments, touching them. Her small hands grasped and clawed at them, trying to pick them up in earnest effort. The chaos in her hair was entwined like that of a rickshaw’s wheel; her face was shrouded in gloom. It appeared as if each unknown face resembled the characters of a known story to Shahed.

The rickshaw wheel returned to its old rhythm, moving swiftly, as if there were no deviation. Among the spokes of the wheel and the hub’s bearings, there was a chanting mantra of jingling sounds.

“Mama,” Shahed addressed him, and the rest of the words trailed off. Would the conversation continue? The void of indecision felt lighter on his head. By late afternoon, the wind had tossed his hair like a lover’s caress, and he tightly gripped his head, almost like a devotee holding a deity.

“Ji,” the rickshaw puller responded with a hoarse voice.

“What’s your name?” Shahed asked, delivering the question in a quick manner.

“Afzal. The full name is Afzal Bakshi.” The response was swift but unclear.

Until now, the thought of how many words Afzal Bakshi had spoken lingered. Although there weren’t too many sentences or words to be counted upon, it seemed like the scene between them had been going on for eternity. The image of the rickshaw swiftly disappeared into the familiar streets of Banglabazar’s bookshops.

“Is this Afzal Bakshi a philosopher?” Shahed thought while the rickshaw puller’s unconventional response played with his mind. To be a true philosopher, one needed an empty stomach and an empty head. The head of a certain publisher had presented the whole situation in a similar manner last month.

“Mr. Shahed, do you know the problem with you new generation writers?” The publisher’s head had asked once, with eyes wide open and an accusatory tone, dancing energetically as if he were a ballerina with a broken leg.

Without waiting for Shahed’s response, he continued, “You folks don’t want to understand poverty. Poverty and suffering—without which has any meaningful writing ever emerged? What about your work that’s not getting published? This, too, is a kind of poverty..it’s called the poverty of the soul. The poverty of the soul and physical hunger—these are a writer’s fuel. You keep at it, and one day you’ll bloom into a fine writer yourself.”

What more could Shahed say to this? He had expressed it with a tense sip from his tea, in a place so quiet that the rustling of tea leaves was louder than words. The knowledge that he had expended to learn that he didn’t possess the poverty of the soul was turning over and over in his head. Today, seeing Afzal Bakshi triggered old memories from that day.

“Mama, pull over to the left side,” said Shahed. The car’s bell rang in a new symphony. Sometimes Chopin, sometimes Schubert, occasionally even Beethoven’s Symphony Number Five-like aggression. When the rickshaw pulled over, Shahed alighted lazily, separating a meagre money bag from the back pocket of his scarred black pants. Shahed added ten more takas to the fare and handed it to the rickshaw puller. It wasn’t an increase in fare or any special event; the rickshaw puller, with a blank face, maintained his usual calm composure regarding the money. But from the storyteller’s perspective, it required a creative flourish. Hence, without thinking twice, he didn’t insist on the extra money. Afzal Bakshi hadn’t noticed any distortion in the entire scenario; it appeared to be his due. The money notes made their way from his clenched hand straight to the corner of his stained lungi.

An old curtain of obscurity emerged between the two. Shahed looked ahead and took a few steps into the alley, his intention not to throw off the pace—a code with the rickshaw puller that required divine intervention to break. So, the idea was left alone. No sign of any deformity in the entire situation was evident; it was as if it was meant to be this way, except that the money was nestled securely in the folds of his lungi.

Between the two, the old veil of obscurity returned. Shahed, walking a few steps behind, recognised the familiar voice. The rickshaw puller was calling out to him, “Mama, listen.”

So Shahed turned to look. What else was there for today? Did a note escape, or perhaps he was expecting a few more takas to tell an exciting story? Shahed slowly moved forward, filled with anticipation.

Shahed hadn’t paid much attention to the man’s face so far. Therefore, this time he gave him a good look. The man had a long face with high cheekbones, a broad forehead, and slightly dishevelled black hair that hung slightly above his ears. A very plain face but with bright and sharp eyes. The veins on his feet had become varicose due to driving the rickshaw for a long time. He blinked with his bare, red eyes. He rapidly moved his rough mural-like lips and asked, “Have you ever been caught in a crowd?”

This time, Shahed’s disposition had already altered. The urge to listen to any stories had long since dissipated—too tiresome.
“Back then, you could have said it. Now I’m tired,” Shahed responded busily.

“Back then, there was a necessity to say. Everything has its destined time and need. Now the moment has arrived, and it’s the right time. You have to know the right time.” While speaking, Afzal Bakshi’s calm, complacent face had a slight tremor, visible in the wrinkles of his checkered shirt, which was soaked with sweat. He was holding the reins to talk everything out. A moment of truth.

For a few moments, the rickshaw puller stared at Shahed. Then he quickly removed the lines from his lips. The man said something, perhaps a word, but it seemed like the word itself was difficult to comprehend in the bustling noise of Banglabazar.
Seeing Shahed’s apathetic expression, the rickshaw puller smiled slightly at the corner of his mouth. When he regained composure, he quickly turned away, putting his feet on the pedals and disappearing.

“What was that? Just a few meaningless words?” Shahed couldn’t figure it out. Merely a gesture of inarticulate lips? Or something with meaning? An elusive possibility. The evening breeze, having tangled in the alleys of Banglabazar, arrived at Shahed, quickly slipping up his nose and striking gently.

It felt like something was growing inside him. A newly born story had suddenly settled in Shahed’s mind. After a brief pause, the distracted author turned and faced the closing commotion of the evening.