Nasima Anis’s “Real Human”

Image Courtesy: Fareed Akhyar Chowdhury, Unsplash

The bus lurched to a complete stop near Wilpur in the middle of the Badda area. Thrusting his face in the door, the conductor lad was about to say something when a punch suddenly landed on his face with the speed of stormy winds. And before the next one could hit its mark, instead of defending himself, the boy got up blustering. When another fellow joined the skirmish, it increasingly looked as if it would soon turn into a mob fight. Consequently, he tried to protect himself in vain when two men pulled him down the footboard of the bus. And when an additional four intense blows landed on his face and stomach, instead of cowering in pain, he stood up to them with all his might. I was seated in the front seat, an outcry rose from my throat, reached my mouth like a storm and came to a still. I got up, agitated, helpless, hesitant, and looked here and there. The driver was holding on to the wheels of the bus with both his hands—his countenance didn’t betray any anxiety, as if this was routine, the boy was gone, that he would get back once he felt better. The gentleman sitting next to me was relishing the sight through a gap in the window. Two women, in the ladies seat to my right side couldn’t partake this fun but could surmise what was going on with a ‘what can we women do’ expression. And if I wanted to look at the men, I would have had to turn my neck all around and I didn’t want to do that. I felt thoroughly repulsed at the thought of what could be going on outside. I stood up once again, restless. Had I not been a woman I would have taught all those scoundrels a lesson! The thought didn’t gather much strength though, those at the back, weren’t they akin to my brothers? I sat down when the hefty man sitting on the wooden box atop the engine got up in a relaxed manner. My mind was hopeful. Putting my trust on someone swiftly is a habit. I wanted to have faith—that the man would be the savior. Yes, faith! Don’t I urge my extremely faithless husband to believe every day, that he would have to pin his trust on someone or the other or else he would feel small with each passing day! I waited at that moment, igniting that self-same trust within me, that man would be able to, surely, he would do it. The hefty man went down the footboard and within moments rescued the young lad, or perhaps his assailants were fed up. Both of them came inside the bus. It was somewhat apparent that the two of them had by that time derived the pleasure of bringing a thief to justice on hitting that boy. I heard the good-looking driver call out from the window—'Brothers, the boy is new, you are just hitting him, right?’

The bus was about to leave when a passenger put out his face outside the window and shouted, taka, taka… I saw someone on the road put some money in the conductor’s hand. The lad didn’t open the taka, neither did he put it along with the other taka, just firmly pressed his fingers shut on his palms holding the money. One could see the gleam of the new note from within his fingers.

The vehicle moved. The passengers seemed to relax. It was fortunate indeed to be able to get through with such little hassle! I thanked my good fortunes secretly, a lot worse could have transpired at the hands of that mob. We might have had to change the bus altogether.

The boy’s face was outside the door, while his body lay inside. The hand having the money was resting on the door. His right hand. When he took the bus fare, he held the money in his left hand, this thought came suddenly in my mind and settled there. The money in his other hand was a five hundred taka note, wasn’t it? The note was new, clearly visible from a distance. The boy was constantly rubbing his face with his left hand, as if trying to get his injured, dishevelled face back to its previous frame. He didn’t glance at the passengers even once. He couldn’t have been twenty years of age, lanky, almost emaciated. I couldn’t get a look of his face even though I tried really hard. He had on him a blue and green t-shirt, the photograph of a grinning royal Bengal tiger on his back. The t-shirt was tight and ended at his waist, the words ‘world bike championship, it’s not for all’ were scrawled at the bottom. A line of beard seemed to be peeking from underneath his ears, his hair was probably done in some fashion, but nothing clear was apparent in his darkness.

The bus was filled with people returning home from the office, everyone was seated. It was the Raida evening seating bus, accommodating the very middle class, and I had traded the ten-taka fare for twenty takas for the simple luxury of a seat. I have observed that the middle-class is less clamorous, less complaining, very patient, the patience brought on by failure. The resilience of watching the boy of their son’s age being beaten up! The zenith of fortitude!

The boy was still rubbing his face with his hands, still at the door, with almost all his head outside the door and his frame inside. The driver hurled a few scraps of sentences in the boy’s direction while driving. The boy wasn’t listening, perhaps not interested or irritated, possibly defiant, hurt, protesting, what was he? Head out, body in, as if he would never get his head back in! The young, handsome driver mumbled something meanwhile. The boy wasn’t good looking though, dark, underfed, even sickly.

The bus was stuck in a jam in the Merul area. Quite a few passengers deboarded. The boy came away from the door and sat on the engine with his thin, bony buttocks facing us, barely touching his seat. The driver was still droning a few sentences in a low voice. I couldn’t hear what he said even though I am quite clear of hearing. I surmised that perhaps his words comprised a few highlights about the boy’s flaws mixed with some words of pity, but the boy himself didn’t seem too interested. I asked him to take my fare, I was about to deboard at the T.V gate arriving shortly. The boy didn’t look. When a few passengers stepped off the bus without paying their fares, the driver said in a soft voice, ‘Do you want to pay with your own money? You aren’t collecting the fares, you know.’

I had a hundred taka note, the fare was twenty. I called on him to collect the fare, he was merely three feet away. But looked away, pretending not to hear me. Finally, he collected the fare and took a while to carefully return eighty takas to me, a fifty-taka note and three ten-taka notes. It is my fortune to receive soiled or torn money and I am really averse to that. My family members often scold me when they cannot put that money into use. I know that most often the state of a currency reflects the state of its nation, or perhaps that of its people! I was about to deboard in just a few minutes. While stowing the money away inside my bag, my eyes fell on the fifty Taka note and in what terrible condition it was! The face of Bangladesh! I knew I would never be able to use that Taka note and that there were more rebukes in store for me at home. I held up the crumbling note in front of the lad rather hesitantly. He seemed to be aware of everything and changed the torn note for a better one immediately. At that instant, he handed to the driver the currency note that lay crumpled inside his fingers. The driver unfolded the note and held it in front of his eyes. The note lay in two pieces in his two hands, ‘You really need to be beaten! How did the money land on the road such that it got ripped?’

The lad didn’t explain how the money got torn while he was being hit by the mob. He didn’t relay how the folks had caught hold of the note, ripped it to pieces and stuffed it in his hands to quench their anger!

A minute or so later, while I was stepping down, I caught a good glimpse of the boy’s face. It was difficult to discern wounds in his dark face, but a shadow of humiliation and obstinacy hung all over his countenance. While resting my feet on the footboard and before I deboarded, I didn’t know what came over me to ask him-- ‘What’s your name?’ He turned his face away as if he didn’t hear me. Keeping one foot on the dusty earth, I asked again— ‘What’s your name?’ This time my eyes met those of the driver’s. The nice-looking driver was observing the dark, underfed face of the lad. I kept looking as I brought my second feet out of the bus. The boy spoke gruffly this time— ‘Name? What’s in a name? A human is a human.’  

The word ‘human’ seemed like a pool of spit on my face, or perhaps a tight slap that was named human. If those reading this story think that I have made this tale up, put together this discourse forcefully, called the human name abhorrent, then they are gravely mistaken. I didn’t have to do anything; the boy had done the needful. The only thing I did was to slip and put myself in danger while putting my left feet on the footpath, still under the spell of the boy’s vituperative pronouncement of the word ‘human’. Those who use the roads near the T.V gate are well aware that one’s feet touch the footpath the minute they step down a bus. I fell on my face on the footpath and the bag on my shoulders fell away at a distance.

What did the boy think? That I pitied him when I asked his name? That he had relished his revenge by spitting on my sympathy? That he hadn’t been able to pour on the owner of the car or the driver while he was being beaten to a pulp! It had been the driver’s mistake and the boy had argued, ‘You are on the wrong side’ or something to that effect. He was beaten and the driver, better off as a human than the lad, didn’t move ahead to save him.

I was subdued the entire way. I didn’t share the incident with anyone on reaching home. I knew the episode would trouble me for a few days, might even settle into my subconscious, so be it.

But it didn’t have any time to settle. The next morning, I was waiting at Merul, past Hatirjheel. The Raida Seating came and stood at the signal, the door open. I hurried and stood near it—that boy from the previous day, the tiger’s teeth at his back, that very same t-shirt! But when he saw me, he didn’t waste a single word and pulled the door shut. Moving away, the overwhelming feeling of the last day became somewhat subdued in me. He was able to give a fitting reply to my pity!

The human inside me and him won, truly!

Published in Flaming Flowers, Vol.2, ISBN: 9788-1971-522-0-7, January 2025

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