She was not looking attractive. She was not looking
gracious. When I first saw her, she was not looking at me. I lit a cigarette
and looked around the empty road. The red traffic signal was the only thing my eyes could catch until they got a sight of her. Brown, hazy eyes… black
saree, low-cut blouse made of some glossy stuff that would instantly provoke one
to call her a whore.
She looked at me. Winter in her eyes.
I have always avoided that stretch of Sovabazaar. Somehow, I
felt very uncomfortable around that area, those cheaply decked bodies, that
strong perfume and those blatant eyes.
My heart was pounding. Those sharp brown eyes were piercing
through the moral grey areas of my conscience. I started to walk away.
“Ei chhele…”
I did not look back.
“Oi chhele, shon.”
I stopped.
“Kichu bolchen?”
“Hmm… shudhu dekhbi?”
“Err… na… maney… ami asole bari jachhilam.”
“Toh ja. Ekhane bari tor?”
“Na. Ultadanga.”
“Oh! Amaro bari ultadanga e. Chol tor bari jai.”
“Eh? Na... mane… bari te baba maa ache.”
“Tate ki? Bolbi ami tor girlfriend.”
“Hehe… na… ora amar girlfriend ke chene.”
“Ishhhh! Tahole bolbi eta notun girlfriend. Ajkei
hoyeche…”
She laughed. The most shockingly fake yet strong laughter
any man could endure.
Bling! My phone interrupted.
“Ke? Girlfriend?”
“Ha. Kotha bolbe?”
“Se ki re! O kichu mind korbena?”
“Na na. Or bhaloi lagbe. O jane ami ekhane oi sob karone
asini.”
I did not know how to put it in any other words.
“Ki sob karon?”
“Na. Kichu na.”
Two guys passed by us with huge grins. A drunken taxi driver
yelled at another girl who was standing two lampposts away. A group of boys
walked by passing typical comments.
All this could not penetrate that 10-second silence.
“Tomar akta interview nite pari?”
“Ei! Kon channel?”
“Channel na. Emni. Nijer jonno. Kothao chhapabo na jodi
tumi baron koro.”
“Amar didi janle kintu taka chaibe.”
“Se chak. Tumi raji?”
“Thik ache. Ami ei somoye ekhanei thaki..."
“Oi! Edike aye.” That taxi driver called her.
“Jaa bari jaa. Pore kotha
hobe.”
