Moyurakhkhi's Cigarettes

3| Dried Fish Curry

Still July 8th, Day 38

With the money my father inherited from my grandfather, he put himself through engineering school. Fizz's father, my uncle, started with his share of inheritance a simple handloom factory in a dinghy room. Now, Chachchu owned a chain of garment factories by the Shitalakhkha river, while we saw my dad once a year at best.

He named the six-story building in Bashundhara R/A 'Fauzia Villa' after Fizz. She was a lovely beige house with an arch at the gate, from which tresses of bougainvillea leaves cascaded down, bright pink flowers forming a crown for her head.

The deluge was deafening when Fizz's car cruised under the flower archway into a dark garage. The air in it hung thick with the earthy scent of rain.

Fizz hobbled out to the elevator with me in tow. Fishing out the poster I'd printed from a cozy cybercafe near our school, Niloy Cyber, I pasted it on the elevator wall.

"Student wanted. Classes 1 to 8 - contact flat 3A," Fizz read out aloud as the lift jerked upward. "You're tutoring?"

"Yeah. I want to save up for college or whatever," I said.

The doors slid open on the second floor of Fauzia Villa and Fizz retired to the apartment she shared with Chachchu (my dad's older brother) and Chachi (his wife).

Ma, my younger sister Tubu and I lived on the floor above. A new family had moved into our adjacent apartment last week. All I knew about them was that their son studied medicine (his mother wouldn't shut up about it), there was someone in their home addicted to punk rock, and that they used a horrible brand of mosquito coil. The rancid smoke from the coil drifted out through the slit under their door, making my eyes water.

I rang the doorbell, observing large raindrops pelting against the windowpane in the staircase. Outside, a distant rumble of thunder followed the flashes of lightning. News reports had said that a cyclone was approaching the coast of Bangladesh fast and was likely to hit coast within 1 or 2 days. I wondered if Ma had heard from Abbu, who was probably being tossed about in the ocean right now. 

"Assalamu alaikum," Ma greeted drily, opening the door. A sweaty, faded set of salwar-kameez hung loosely around her figure. She hadn't showered yet.

Tubu and Ma were bickering in the living room. Tubu was fanatical about watching cricket on the TV, and Ma wanted her show, 'Islamic Questions & Answers'. I'd take that over her sobbing on the prayer mat for Abbu's safety, any day.

"Please Ma," Tubu said, "just another over."

Ma shook with violent coughing. Her thyroid was getting worse, since she kept forgetting her medicine. "You've been saying that for an hour!"

Her parrot Uttam Kumar (one of many) was perched on her shoulder. "Brothers and sisters," it croaked, mimicking Dr Zakir Nayek, the Islamic scholar. "Brothers and sisters!"

In my room, the moshari, mosquito net, hung forgotten over my bed. I was in a rush this morning and didn't get to take it down. My dresser was a mess of hair ties and makeup. Piled-up clothes on the orange beanbag chair longed to be folded. 

Great.

I threw apart the lime green curtains, revealing a balcony. In my balcony, in upcycled gallons of soya-bean oil, a few shondhamaloti flower plants, money plants, aloe vera and a jasmine bush buffeted in the gusts of wind.

Notable things in my room included a very hot poster of Kiwi (formerly known as Kawsar) and Judo Noor Raya, my favourite comedian duo. I was going to marry Kiwi one day. Never mind that he was twice my age.

Pinned to a board on the wall were a bunch of polaroids with smiling faces. Two bookshelves stood beside it, crammed with paperbacks, the only things not in shambles. Some of my best certificates were framed on top of a bookshelf, besides medals and trophies from before the accident. Remind me to stash them somewhere nobody can see.