Moyurakhkhi's Cigarettes

1| Bensons

To 

Ma and Baba,

for giving me everything they could and could not.

-

June 1st, Day 1 

How someone's death could be related to daal er halua, I'd never know.

Like many people with greying hair and kidneys that suck, my mentor MS thought a lot about death. It was driving him into madness. Last week, lipstick was going to kill him so I wasn't allowed to wear it, and now it was a dessert.

"No daal er halua shall be made in my kitchen. Ever again. Understood?" he uttered very calmly to the cook, as if it was a very normal thing to demand.

The young cook nodded dutifully, her shari pulled over her face to hide her embarrassment, and scurried away down the stairs.

"Aren't you worrying too much about death, MS?" I tried to ask casually. 

The afternoon sun lazily kissed the expanse of his Gulshan villa, the gorgeous hardcovers covering every inch of the wall of his living room and the numerous awards lined beside them. A comforting medley of rickshaw bells, car honks and a vendor marketing his jharu (brooms) with practised precision snaked up faintly from the busy road outside.

I expected him to scoff - MS was not fond of criticism. Instead, he let out a depressed sigh.

"Hardly, considering that Sam told me to revise my will and testament as soon as possible," he sighed.

Sam Nguyen was Mihran Sir's doctor and best friend.

"She was probably joking or something," I attempted. I knew he was sick, very sick, but the pride with which he continued to hold himself made it hard to believe.

"Perhaps. However, she did make me ponder about your future," he said in the voice his interviewer described as 'deliciously gravelly' last month. I didn't blame her for crushing on a man twice her age, MS was fine as hell.

"My future?"

"Yes. You said your exams are not going in a favourable direction." 

He was talking about my AS exams. I'd probably get a C in both Physics and Maths, and nothing above a D in Chemistry. My last two papers, Chemistry and Physics MCQs, were next week. I was not even remotely prepared for it. And yet here I was, hanging out with an old man. 

"Yeah, but like don't worry. I'll be alright," I lied, although he'd know I was lying. 

MS rested his clay teacup solemnly on his knee. "Tell me honestly, Moyurakhkhi - do you have any concrete plans for your higher studies?"

I shrugged, trying to brush off his concerns. "Sure. I mean, with my grades I won't get a scholarship abroad or get admitted to a public university. I guess a private university in Bangladesh will have to do."

"I see. And are your parents willing to pay the expensive tuition for a private university?"

I squirmed. "They're not particularly enthusiastic, no. Not if I study English, anyway. You know how obsessed they are with making a lifeless engineer out of me."

"So? What are you going to do?" he persisted.

I didn't have an answer. 

MS raised a brow. I guess he had a right to be concerned about my future. But I didn't want him or anyone else to worry about me.