Depth of Voids -MSF Sadib

Majed had been staring at the boy for quite some time. The boy was walking with a peculiar limp. After a few moments, the reason behind the odd walk became clear. The strap of the boy’s left sandal was broken, dangling with each step. Perhaps this was why he was trying so awkwardly to maintain his balance while walking.

For Majed, who had been waiting for “A Mr. Aslam” for the past hour and a quarter, this was probably the most negative (or positive, since watching this peculiar walk had made the time pass by) scene of the day.

“Are you Majed?” a faint voice emerged from the boy’s throat.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Aslam said he’s stuck in traffic. He asked you to wait a little longer.”

“Alright, no problem,” Majed replied, pausing for a moment. “Could you get me a glass of water?”

The boy nodded up and down, then limped away just as he had arrived.

Once again, the old waiting game began. Majed didn’t have any personal grudge against waiting, though. He could easily pass an hour and a half by just tapping his foot. A cup of tea would have been nice, though. He had already had two cups but didn’t ask for more out of courtesy.

He wet his lips with his narrow tongue and glanced around.

It was a busy, typical office in Dhanmondi. The hum of people around resembled the buzzing of a beehive, signaling the typical “hunger for money.” Behind the desks sat distinguished “scholars” with hung smiles and busy hands moving left and right. Over there, sitting at the desk to the left of the counter, was Aristotle. And at the desk next to him, the one wearing a magenta or maybe pink tie, that must be Plato.

The two scholars were trying to explain something to the clients seated opposite them. Only faint polite smiles were exchanged, barely breaking through the wall of air between them.

“Here’s your water,” Majed turned his head to see the boy had returned with a glass of water. Majed hadn’t paid much attention to the boy’s face before. This time, he looked more closely. The boy had short, neatly combed hair. His cheeks were marked with spots of melasma, and his forehead bore the pitted scars left by past bouts of smallpox. His eyes blinked with a sort of indifferent detachment.

Majed finished the glass of water in one gulp, surprised at how thirsty he had been. Perhaps he hadn’t realized it, as the thirst of his eyes overshadowed it, each passing moment of waiting adding another layer of dryness to his throat.

After handing back the glass, Majed glanced at his wristwatch. It was past two o’clock. Who knows how much longer this Aslam fellow would keep him waiting?

Suddenly, he felt annoyed with himself for getting too serious. Majed wasn’t one to take things seriously. He was a man who knew how to wait at the right time, for the right moment. He shifted his legs, putting his left foot down and crossing his right leg over it, starting the wait anew with fresh resolve.

Cracking his knuckles, he refocused his attention on observing his surroundings. Amid the office’s busyness, his own sense of time had slowed down without him realizing it. It was as if someone had reined in the hands of the clock. The thirst for tea had moved from his throat to his head, making its presence felt even more strongly. He realized he had forgotten to ask the boy’s name. His eyes subtly searched for the boy with the scarred cheeks, but he couldn’t see him anywhere.

Suddenly, there was a commotion at one of the desks. The client there seemed agitated. Everyone’s attention turned in that direction, as if an unexpected play had just begun on stage. The two men in ties, looking stern, seemed like they were seated in a gladiator’s ring. Majed had no real desire to listen to their conversation, yet bits of it drifted into his ears.

“So, you haven’t completed the transaction yet, Mr. Sumon?” a voice rang out, sharp with tension. On the other side, Mr. Sumon maintained his signature oily smile, trying to reassure the other person.

“Mr. Matin, you’re getting worked up for no reason. Your case is a bit complicated, so it’s taking some time. Just wait a few more days,” said the so-called Plato, trying to calm the situation.But Mr. Matin wasn’t having any of it.

Who knows how long this argument would continue? Meanwhile, there was still no sign of Mr. Aslam’s arrival. The thirst for tea had become more intense, and the mild air conditioning mixed with the scent of air freshener was creating a fog in Majed’s mind.

Majed licked his lips again. He had waited in so many ways and at so many times before.

Back in school, he often had to wait after classes for certain “respectable” tasks. It wasn’t that Majed was prone to fighting; his thin, frail body didn’t have much strength, but his skinny arms could swing well. He never really had any enemies—he was a calm, even-tempered guy who never caused trouble. Yet, when conflicts arose among his classmates, he was always the first to be called upon. Just a glance at his cold eyes usually made the opponent rein in their anger.

Majed turned his wrist to look at it. His thin, bony hand still felt unfamiliar to him. The bone at the base of his wrist seemed like it was trying to push through the skin, like a baby trying to emerge from the womb.

His silent observation was interrupted by more shouting from Plato’s desk. He turned his head in that direction.

“You are making a total ridicule of me, Mr. Sumon!”

The client’s voice seemed to spit fire. Plato’s face had turned even more somber, his expression clouded with deep concern, making him look like wilted cabbage. Though Majed had no idea what wilted cabbage tasted like, the connection seemed oddly logical to him as he looked at Plato’s dejected face.

In the midst of these thoughts, Majed drifted back into his own world of imagination. The lines of his thoughts grew darker and more vivid. In the cool air from the AC, those lines twisted and tangled, further blurring his reality.

The boy with the broken sandal had been gone for quite some time. Majed hadn’t even asked his name. Not that it really mattered—he wasn’t planning on coming back to this office. It was just the nature of his line of work, where you rarely meet the same person twice. Still, there was something about knowing a name—just knowing for the sake of knowing. Leaving with a name as a memory seemed better than leaving empty-handed.

“Sir has arrived. He asked you to go in,” the boy suddenly reappeared, this time wearing a pair of leather sandals instead of the broken ones. Majed’s eyes lingered on the boy’s feet, now in better shoes, but he didn’t ask the name. He didn’t respond either, and after a moment of silence, the boy walked away.

Majed’s thoughts returned, drawing new, more intricate patterns in his mind. The memories in his head had become more fluid, like the sticky mucus of a cold. What time was it? He didn’t bother looking at his wristwatch. Instead, a faint tick from the large wall clock jolted his final memory.

Was it eleven or twelve years ago? Majed couldn’t quite remember. He recalled a room—was it the large room at his grandfather’s house? No, that was Uncle Mokhles’s room. Summer vacations meant days spent playing with the cousins at the village house. While playing hide-and-seek, Majed had instinctively gone to his usual hiding spot, under the large bed in his elder uncle’s room—a terrible hiding place, because anyone could find him there. But Majed didn’t care. The cramped space under the bed heightened the thrill of the game. In that stifling heat, with his heart pounding, the waiting began.

The count to ten ended in the blink of an eye. Any moment now, they would find him.

Majed pushed his face deeper under the bed. He didn’t want to be caught so quickly. He wanted to be the master thief in this game—the most cunning of them all! Stealing was an art form, with critics belonging to two categories: those who spoke the truth and those who had never mastered the art of theft.

Suddenly, someone entered the room, and Majed panicked—he got caught! He vowed to himself for the hundredth and first time that he would never hide in such an obvious place again. The intruder entered the room with a soft thud. Majed could only see the legs—thin, long, with a sleek anklet coiled around the ankle like a snake. Anyone could easily recognize that these were a girl’s legs, and no one else’s but his Shamima Apa’s. Whenever she was home, the familiar sound of this anklet could be heard, so there was no doubt.

The intruder was probably unaware of Majed’s presence. She gently closed the door and turned around. A strange silence enveloped the entire room. Majed considered whether he should come out. But then he thought, after hiding for so long, it would be embarrassing to get caught now! It was better to stay quiet.

What happened next was surprising, and perhaps could be described as the restless anticipation of a teenage afternoon. Shamima Apa’s legs started trembling slightly. Along with it came the suppressed sound of sobbing, like the lost, hollow cry of a night bird! The anklet clung to her trembling legs, producing a faint, melodious sound that asserted its rounded presence.

A crying woman! Anklet… A crying woman! Anklet… A crying woman! It all felt unreal!