The Hole

When a thief was finally caught in Dolphin Lane following nights of vigil to stop stealing of manhole covers, a notice was put up on the lamp post across the New Al Madina Super Dry Cleaners which said: Manhole thieves are thoroughly scrubbed here – adding a footnote 'free delivery' with chalk or a lime-stained finger. (It was quite unnatural for thieves to be tempted by an entire manhole, but then who knows about thieves, why only covers, they might even want to swipe an entire manhole!)

After a few days, while retuning home from his morning walk, Mahmud broke into a sudden smile as he saw a small crowd in front of the dry cleaners. His 45 year old fleshy body, heavy glasses sitting on puffed up cheeks did not suit the smile but his lips, cheek and teeth all banded together into an elaborate smile.

It was a holiday -- BBC, Star Sports, spicy chicken, afternoon nap or Nasrin, Nasrin or nap -- all these also added to make the smile worth it. At that moment the man whom Mahmud saw as he turned his head was smiling too. The man stood on the balcony of his house where his name was etched on a marble nameplate-- G M Hannan, Joint Registrar (Retired) beneath the face of an angry watch dog. The nameplate was a topic of conversation in Dolphin Lane because of its oddity but at that moment his smile reassured Mahmud. He was not the only one stirred by the scene.

But the smile had little to do with what had happened because no manhole cover had been stolen the night before and the person around whom the excited young people of the lane huddled together was not a thief but a milkman -- a dishonest milkman who in the early morning had stood knee deep in the waters of Dhanmondi Lake filling his milk filled plastic bucket with lake water. He had been unmoved by the dawn light or early risers as he had gone about his task of mixing dirty water with the milk.

Given the circumstances, those who watched the spectacle had no choice but to tie a rope around his middle and drag him across the road into Dolphin Lane. But he did not seem bothered by the prospect of a fearful outcome as the crowd slowly grew and crept upon him. “What's your name?” He looked visibly irritated at being asked. In return, he was poked from behind, and he howled back, “Why are you doing this to me? What’s in my name?”

His angry response was met with a sharp slap on the face. Next came fists and then a few novice kicks landed on him. A slim stream of blood dripped from the nose and slowly froze as it reached his lips.

2

Name ?

Abdul Karim.

Father’ name?

Abdur Rahim.

Residence?

Kamrangirchar.

Karim informed the crowd that he lived in a thatched hut of a home with his family where he and his family looked after two Sindhi cows, which in return for all the food and care gave them 15 litters of milk a day. Abdul Karim and his two brothers delivered it to the fresh milk loving clients. But on days when the cows were miserly, he would add water -- rain water, pipe water, lake water, any water -- and make up the shortage. That's what his father, his grandfather and all the ones before him had done.

After such a graphic description there was no need to ask for more details but the people encircling him couldn't believe in such a straightforward narrative. The man was a junkie, all these were ‘ganja tales’ to befool them -- they told themselves seething with rage.

They were totally perplexed by the fact that milk and water no matter what the water source could coexist -- that the two could become one was something they had never heard of. One could think that mixing rain water made sense but what about pipe water... WASA water… whose consumption meant high bilirubin, hepatitis… and Dhanmondi lake water? Nobody even knew what it could do to the human body. STD, AIDS -- nothing was impossible.

What stood out for a certain fact was that Abdul Karim was mixing water with the milk at early dawn standing knee deep in Dhanmondi Lake. The crowd fuming with anger wondered what they should do to him. Some youngsters were keen to skin him alive but the work was easier said than done. Dolphin Lane’s own butcher Hamdu, who skinned a dozen animals each day was not sure about the job as there was no way of knowing whether at the touch a knife, human skin would slice off quickly or get into knots. Some people felt he should be tied up and dropped into an open manhole.

It was difficult to make out Karim's reaction to what the people were saying. He touched the rope around his belly several times meaning it was hurting him. The dribble of blood had frozen near his swollen lips making his face look sad, gloomy and yet vaguely distracted.

The retired Joint Registrar thought that the crowed was worse than Abdul Karim’s Sindhi cows because they could not even decide what to do with him. Standing on his balcony, he clearly saw the crowd was talking nonsense and felt his hand shiver in anticipation of something brutal.

He brought out his shot gun from the cabinet, carefully loaded both barrels and took aim at Abdul Karim’s left chest. The angle was perfect and it was quite tempting to fire… boom… boom. He tore the left sky with the first shot; the next shot pierced the right sky.

The gun shots had first stunned the crowd but when they saw the target was the left and the right sky, their energies burst forth. Meanwhile, traffic jam in the lane grew huge. Rickshaws, taxis, sand carrying trucks kept blowing their horns in perfect unison. Pedestrians who had no idea about the gathering crowd stopped to ask what the matter was. The crowd responded-- waters of the lake, waters of the lake …

The gun shot had created a major ruckus. Abdul Karim was then taken to a further corner of the lane and tied to a lamp post next to the red tiled house of a left leaning opposition leader. The place was spacious but not a neutral one. Youth belonging to the government party protested but because it was the best venue possible, they had to accept the location. The opposition leader's supporters were thrilled by this development. It seemed politically potential to them.

After the change of location, Abdul Karim looked worried, but there was no sign of remorse on his face and the hurt feeling had moved on to become a visage of anger. At this point, mayhem on his body started afresh. Even those who had never hurt anyone began to rain blows on him. Some pulled up his hair to open the lid of his head and see what was there inside. And then suddenly Abdul Karim spat out at several faces as far as he could reach. The crowd went furious, but at the same time they made fun of those who were busy hiding their spittle covered faces.

Seeing the crowed, two policemen arrived on the scene; both looked around with knitted brows. Of the two, the thinner one swished his cane and hit Karim's left ear making him shriek in pain. Then they began interrogating him. “You bastard, you put water in the milk?” Nursing his ear Abdul Karim nodded yes.

The police looked at each other and then sought evidence from the crowd. “Where is the evidence?” But there was none around; even the plastic pail was missing. The police would not move without the evidence. What kind of water -- tap water, lake water? The milk had to be examined to confirm the accusation. At this point, Karim began to scream loudly for his lost bucket.

3

By the time Mahmud sat down for his breakfast it was late. He asked his wife Nasrin if she knew Dhaka had any milkman. She replied, “Of course. Even this neighborhood has one.” Mahmud said, “Not dairyman, milkman.” He looked at a bowl of thick rice pudding next to his plate. His hand was drawn to it tempted by the rich texture of thickened milk. His ten years old daughter asked, “What is a milkman?

“They mix water with the milk”

“Really? I want to see them.”

4

In the beginning the whole thing seemed like a joke to Karim. Even the four-five young men who had tied him with a rope and pulled him up from the lake did not seem serious to him. The boys were joking among themselves and he wanted to join them but could not figure out what they wanted.

He soon realized it was not a joke, though he remained baffled as to what they wanted. He wanted to finish them off but the rope tied around his belly bit deep into his flesh. After they had tied his hand behind his back and then fixed him with the lamp post, there was nothing else left for him to do but spit out at the crowd. His body trembled with rage as he tried to survive the madness around him.

He could not understand what was going on. The big, small, fat, thin, ugly kicks and blows that landed on him were so unlike each other. The blows were utterly different making their own sounds. The slaps were different from the pokes, fists from the kicks. Some were flat, some pierced like bullets.

Amidst all these craziness Abdul Karim wondered what did they actually want, what was their point? Are they doing all these just for the milk? Even if they tried, they would not be able to get even a drop each as a share from that milk in the bucket. If taking the milk was all they wanted, they should have let him go long ago. They were behaving as if there was a pick pocket caught in a fish market. They were treating him just like that.

But Abdul Karim had also fed them a few lies out of anger when they had tied him up. Firstly, he had no fancy Sindhi cows. They were thin, shriveled local varieties. He and his wife could barely get three liters out of them after much effort. His wife was the real milker, she would bloody the udders by pulling at them until the last drop trickled. The second bit was about his residence at Kamrangirchar. Were these guys idiots that they believed he would come all the way from there to supply milk to Dhanmondi? He was not sure why he lied. Maybe when these buffoons had grabbed him, tied him, he might have thought that he had done something wrong.

As the day grew and sun rose, the madness of the crowed became fiercer. Having beaten him up to their heart’s content, they got a barber to shave his head. They even spent money to buy some rotten watery yogurt and pour it over his shaven head. His dry lips soaked the few drops that reached them. The sight brought cheer to the crowd. The poured more and Adbul Karim licked even more making hissing sounds. Those who became curious and got close to him to hear what he was saying, heard -- mother fuckers… mother fuckers.

The crowd became heated again. At this point without anyone’s noticing, Karim’s green lungi wet from yogurt and water slipped down and reached his ankles exposing his genitals to the crowd.

The crowed was suddenly struck with a problem, a resistance from somewhere. How it came about and for what purpose nobody could say but it was real. They stood there stupefied. Abdul Karim droned on -- mother fuckers… mother fuckers…

5

In mid noon, the crowded Dolphin Lane is without much of a stir. This time is special for the old and new residents of the lane. The leaves of tall Neem trees play with the breeze. Even in the blazing sun, the cool breeze passing through the leaves touches the people, pleasures them. The breeze flows out from there on to Bashiruddin Road and other areas beyond that-- toward the fetid waters of Dhanmondi lake.

But these did not interest the Friday faithful returning from the mosque. But when these people wearing proper religious attire passed the space in front of the opposition leader’s house where a naked Abdul Karim was tied to a lamp post, they sensed an unease rising within them.

6

After devouring the mandatory spicy chicken of Friday and overcoming the dual temptations of an afternoon bed and Nasrin, Mahmud paced up and down his tiny balcony. It was impossible to ignore the naked Karim amidst all the visual gallery of the neighborhood. Since returning from his morning walk and going past the notice on the lamp post and breaking into a smile, a wicked thought had danced in his head like a crooked joke. He had not thought of such a joke in a long time. He could not figure out which direction it would take, but seeing the stripped Abdul Karim he saw it take a route.

In the bedroom his daughter Shoma slouched on the floor doing a crossword puzzle. He said, “There was a dishonest milkman who mixed water in his milk…

“What is dishonest?”

“Those who put water into milk.”

“And honest?”

“Who drink milk.”

7

In the fading afternoon, more clusters of people were growing all over the Dolphin Lane. Some of them looked eager to examine the matter all over again.

“Water in milk?”

“So what? It’s not poison.”

“Do they want honey instead of water in the milk?”

“These creeps want to drink pure milk.”

“Pure milk! There's only one source of pure milk, hah. Is that what they want? Sucking on one and pressing the other! ”

The reactions kept floating. Some thought of the entire incident as a conspiracy of the opposition party. They are trying to stir up trouble using people’s desire to drink pure milk. In the shadow creeping late afternoon, the situation began to change. People began to tire of all the time spent on Abdul Karim. And then as if for a change, someone untied the rope from the body releasing it from the lamp post. Karim immediately slumped forward on the ground with his eczema scarred ass exposed for all to see.

Those who had untied him shrank back at the sight. The frontal nudity seemed much better.

8

Slowly an anxiety began to creep upon the people. Since twilight didn't hold out for long, people began to worry about the dark rumors of a dead Abdul Karim. The impending death of an ordinary guy suddenly turned into sympathy for him occupying the soft spaces of their minds.

But the point is Abdul Karim was still alive. However, it was not smart to leave him like this. The way the situation was, his death seemed imminent. The people then thought of shifting his body to another lane and shove it down a manhole but his eczema scarred body was too big for that.

They kept moving from one lane to another, from one manhole to another. It just was not possible to shove him down. Instead of going down a manhole, he lay on their shoulders. Those who carried him felt his body weighing heavier and heavier. What could be done? There was nothing one could do about it. He had to be on their shoulders until their search would find a right enough hole …

Translated by Afsan Chowdhury

Likhon Datta is a student from the English Department of Chittagong University.