Focal Points -MSF Sadib

“This writing is for you, my dear.” I became disinterested after writing so much in the notebook. I am sitting under the sun of a sandy evening sky, surrounded by flickering neon signs. My gaze diverts itself from the glittering neon signs and unintentionally pierces through the restaurant’s glass, heading towards the dimly lit street. A street devoid of any particular significance is a regular, ordinary street. Just an ordinary pitch-black alley where there isn’t a single soul from any specific category. People usually refer to such anonymous streets as ‘the road to the left or right of here’ or ‘the road parallel to the main road.’ But today’s quiet evening has given a special significance to that street in my eyes—the one on the opposite side of the lamp—for the cat.

A white cat with a slender body and sharp, slit-like eyes. Cat is called Neko in Japanese, not that I am showing off my knowledge of Japanese words I’ve been avidly learning. I mentioned it because the Japanese consider cats to be symbols of good luck. So, I pondered over my own fortune, thinking that maybe there’s a slim chance that the stars will cross paths. A bit of doubt, a bit of uncertainty. A few steps forward, a few steps back. In Dhanmondi-27, where you usually only see busy people and cars all day long, the cat’s attempt to cross the road seemed adequate for my awakening curiosity.

Hearing a long sigh, my mind returned to inner reality. In front of me is Monika’s familiar face with her lotus-featured eyes. Her forever-alert-wide eyes were slowly descending onto the coffee cup. Monika seemed a little taken aback. Perhaps she wanted to express something? To understand the whole matter, I looked toward Monika’s lips. Monika’s body language often relied heavily on her lips. When she mentally prepared to say something, her lips moved inadvertently, slightly forward and backward. There was a rhythm to the whole process. Without waiting for the right moment, I flipped my red notebook open, with thoughts of new writing with which I’m impregnated. Monika seemed like a blank canvas.

“Are you writing a story?” Monika’s soft voice got lost in the breeze as she carefully selected each word from her moist, parted lips.

I closed the notebook and gazed at Monika’s forehead. There was a small red tip on that broad surface. This dot on her fair forehead seemed to create an aura that wanted to dispel all our helplessness. Seated in a distant aura, I leaned forward, bringing my face closer to hers, and whispered softly, “Na.”

“Then, what were you scribbling so diligently?” The question looked like it emerged from her brewed coffee cup and escaped from her lips as she raised her face.

“Nothing special. Just another one of my quiet responses. A wordless exchange of glances. No hidden message or riddle.”
Silence descended once again, with only the sound of coffee cups gently clinking. I turned my gaze toward the road again. After a moment of waiting, I looked to see if that cat had crossed the road. No, there were none on the road.

With the touch of the coffee cup’s rim, I began to write with my fountain pen, “I couldn’t fathom by mere appearance, entrapped in the web of darkness.” With each tap of counting time, I continued writing random lines alike and let the fountain pen take a deep breath. This pen was my favorite, a green Pilot tank pen that I had bought many years ago with my tuition money. It’s not like I always buy such things. But perhaps, in the realm of writing, the most expensive indulgence can be cheaper than the writer’s own words.

Evening is gradually transitioning into night, and time is passing by. The restaurant’s bustling crowd began to disperse. Most of the day’s incomprehensible calculations are settled at night. People’s busyness turns into aggression. Therefore, by day’s end, every restaurant in Dhanmondi transforms into a vibrant asylum, each a living asylum of life.

“Did you read the book at all?” I asked, surveying the wall adjacent to our table.

“Which book?” Monika’s curious eyes widened.

“The one I gave you last week.”

“No, I haven’t read it.”

Monika paused for a moment; her throat seemed to itch with ambivalence. No, there was no trace of doubt there.

“I’m very sleepy right now. I don’t have time for anything; I have no energy. Let’s finish the conversation in one breath.”
I thought she might say more, so I waited in silence.

“Are you going to tell me something?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“No,” she said quietly.

Silence once again. Monika’s lifted eyebrows relaxed, and there was no sign of hesitation.

“I’m extremely exhausted right now. No time for anything, no strength,” she concluded, releasing a deep breath. I had thought she might say more, so I had been waiting silently.

“Are you going to tell me something?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“No,” she said quietly.

Silence once again. Monika’s raised shoulders relaxed, and she waved her hand.

I didn’t press further. Instead, I opened the red notebook soundlessly and said, “Today’s story has no title.”

I turned to Monika and stared at her. The long hair on the right side of her head was tucked behind her ear, and the black tip of her hair touched her earlobe. Among the strands of hair now placed over one ear, the black hairpin appears as a tiny island amidst a vast sea. It reminded me of Nimai Bhattacharya’s book “Memsahib.”

“Come on, let’s go,” I said.

Subtle words emerged slowly from the corner of her lips.

“I need five more minutes; do you mind waiting?”

“No.”

“You’re an absolute knockout in that tip.” I asked with a slight smirk.

A hint of a smile was seen on our faces, knowingly or unknowingly.

The night is advancing, and the surrounding commotion has somewhat subsided. People have diminished. Unfamiliar faces are exiting through the door. We are all strangers to this world. But even in unfamiliarity, we somehow find a connection to some memories.

“By the way, have you ever written about me?”

Monika’s curious question caught me off guard, but I didn’t reveal any traces on my face.

“How so?”

“Like, imagine you’re writing something, and you’ve put a part of me into one of the characters of the story. Has that ever happened?”

“It might have had a peripheral influence. I might have taken some aspects from you as a character in a story,” I replied as I shook my head.

“Okay, but am I still the same person in your story in terms of characterization, or do I undergo change?”

Suddenly, these philosophical questions started to put a bit of stress on my face. I’m trying to estimate where these questions are headed.

“Monika, my stories are largely based on imagination. There, you won’t find much of reality or truth. If you want to exist in the form of a character in my story, then you’ll be just the way I want to see you at that moment. If you want to hear about reality, you can hear it from my mouth, but don’t expect the same in my stories. It will just confuse you.

“How you exist in your imagination, you haven’t told me yet.”

These words didn’t reach my ears because my eyes were busy searching for another imagination. Monika’s lavender-colored sari was a treat to the eyes. I hadn’t seen her favorite blue sari for quite a while. She had said that blue is the beauty of a lover’s heart, but it’s not her desired beauty. When I asked, “Then what do you want?” filled with an emotional question, she raised her head and said, “A little donation of tears.” I just laughed. Monika sometimes becomes a literary character herself, endowed with these eye-soothing saris.

The city is drowning in profound darkness. The restaurant is now completely empty. The lights are being turned off. Suddenly, where that cat appeared from, or who knows, it seemed to be watching through the glass. Inexplicably, someone is searching for someone now. Monika was looking out with puzzled eyes, and I’m in an existential crisis with my old pen. The sky is pale and accompanied by an unknown rainfall forecast. Lost in the whirl of the wind. We slowly began to become invisible in the empty air, away from this familiar scene.

Closing our eyes, I saw that we were alone. Only my words are left on the table in my red notebook. And maybe no one has noticed it. Except for that witnessing cat on the other side of the street.