That day the village had been silent. The sun had set a little while back. A pale moon was barely visible in the sky. A few dogs, barking, had greeted the Shuvros. The biggest jotedar of the village made them welcome. The jotedar was a kind person. A calm smile on his face; a long, pressed beard, a light intelligence glittering in the harmless eyes. He wore a sleeveless punjabi and a lungi. A betel-leaf always in his mouth, spitting out its juice at every other moment. He gave them a room to stay in his house. The first few days, at every opportunity, the jotedar would tell Shuvro's father, how fortunate, how lucky I am, a man like you in my house! What good fortune! The first three days the jotedar had felt himself to be a changed man: His heartbeat quickened, his beard seemed to get whiter, his voice became sweet as a muezzin's, his usual temper melted like ice in deference and respect.

There was hardly anybody else in the house, just the jotedar and his wife. Sons and daughters--none of them were home. A maidservant and a handyman. During the day hens and pigeons kept the house noisy. At night, beneath the ruminating breathing and lowing of cows was the bleating of the goats, a foul-smelling suffocation. The Shuvros could not sleep well for the first few days. Even during daytime, they did not step out of the house. Everybody stayed inside, and Shuvro was not allowed to go out.

On the fourth night, all of them slept well. A deep sleep, which was broken at midnight. By fierce shrieks of no no, yes yes. They did not know from whose throat such screams had come. In their sleep they all had felt as if someone was holding a sharp sword against their throats. They had lain side by side in bed, Shuvro at one end. With a sword pressed against his throat. And filling the whole room was a terrifying, gigantic, red half beast-half man who stood holding a sword pressed on his throat. The beast-man used to come clanking every night and interrupt their sleep. They would huddle, fearful and trembling, in the middle of the bed, doors closed, windows shut, feeling suffocated.

From the seventh night on the nightmare went away.

Awaking up one morning, Shuvro saw an egg-yolk yellowish light all around. Beneath the window was the shadow of the babla tree. He was alone on the bed, in the house, suspended amid that sweet sunlight. There was nobody else there. Parents, little sister--nobody. A stark desolation. He wanted to cry out aloud. His breast inflated with deep sighs. He sobbed. A lot. For a long while. Trembling and shivering, he cried himself to sleep again.

Wake up, brother. Brother.

Sleep left him with a thud. His little sister stood under the shadow of the babla tree holding a goat by the ear.

It was hard to tell the real age of the handyman. After initially saying forty-two, he later changed his mind and said sixty-two. He was stooped, with a full beard, shaved moustache, sunken cheeks, reddish flecks in clouded eyes. Forever puffing away on a biri. While puffing and looking with pallid, frowning eyes, his attitude would become menacing.

Why do you smoke?

Why do you bite pencils?

The charge was false. Shuvro did not bite pencils, had never done it; he used to write with a pen called Wing Sung. Though now it was true, however, that he practised smoking a biri by lighting and pretending to puff on a jute-stalk.

At the back of the house was the jungle. A few small ditches. Ateswari, bhutraj, bet, koroi, jungalee, shitraj, para, chhatim, hijol, shimoul bushes crowded the place--an assembly of various disorderly trees. To Shuvro, it was forest, a wild forest. Clearing a path through the bushes with a stick, Shuvro roamed about it with the handyman. Wandering through it they stopped under the only tamarind tree. It was like an emperor of the forest. Under the shade of the thick leaves of the tamarind tree, it was always dark and eerie. Nobody knew how old the tree was. In that shadowy darkness an abandoned wide-open grave stared up hungrily at the leaves, and then towards Shuvro's eyes. With a sudden panic, he wanted to grab hold of the handyman.

Even before being asked, he had informed Shuvro that the jotedar's pir saheb had come to the village before the disturbances. He had prophesied that the jotedar would die of snakebite on the coming 11th. The only way to avoid it was to undergo ritual purification, wear a shroud and lie down in the grave to battle the angel Gabriel. If the jotedar won the battle then he would live for a hundred more years. After which the pir had left with a heavy heart.

The grave was dug. Bricks and cement were bought. The mason was called. After bequeathing as waqf twenty-three bighas of land surrounding the tamarind tree, the jotedar also gave some secretly hoarded gold coins and said, build a mosque in the name of Sokha Baba.

The appointed day rolled towards evening. After flooding everybody with tears, having tasted all the good and bad of the world, reciting the Holy Quran and blessing himself by blowing his breath on himself thrice, the jotedar climbed down into the grave and lay down.

The handyman cried in sorrow at the passing away of such a good man. His wife sobbed that one who had been but a youth yesterday was today no more. His eldest son wanted to cry but could not--it struck him that he would have to leave behind the big city and its politics and live in the village.

The night passed; first the first quarter, then the second quarter. Tamarind leaves fell. The jackal, the weasel, the squirrel, the rabbit ran to and fro. Insects flew and crickets chirped. The nut-cracking clapping of ghouls. Their bursts of laughter. Here is Gabriel now, here he comes. Gusts of wind exploded with rage. Bolts of lightning amid the shaking and swaying and hurtling of leaves and branches and bushes. The to-and-fro and restless swish of dark bodyless ghosts and the sound of the approaching Gabriel. The jotedar sat up in the grave--his heart beating wildly, his breathing about stop: Where was Gabriel? With the comet falling from rainless skies lighting up the world and wild jungles below his stomach relieved itself of its contents and when he stood up in the grave in order to give chase to Gabriel's shadow he was flung about tumbling in all directions his body in pieces until he landed in the front courtyard of his home.

But thereafter the grave had not been closed.

The soldiers arrived. There was no time to escape. Shuvro's father was a fugitive officer of the town. He had not shaved his beard for fifteen days. On seeing the distant shadow and hearing the sound of the jeep, he quickly completed his shave, and after putting on his trousers and shirt that he had hauled out hastily from his trunk, stood to attention. He combed his hair.

There were seven or eight soldiers. Beside the house stood the mosque decorated with three domes. Its body painted blue and red. Some chairs were brought inside the mosque to sit on. The captain and Shuvro's father stepped inside to sit. The jotedar introduced them to each other and then made himself scarce. Four soldiers stood at the four corners of the mosque. Two more searched the place, poking and peering here and there.

Shuvro wandered about. The captain called him over. Asked what was his name. Patted his head. He tried to understand the conversation between his father and the captain. Listened carefully. But it remained unintelligible to him.

One of the soldiers conducting the search offered him two chocolates. What did the soldiers want? So far their behaviour had been rather aimless. They seemed to be mute. Their eyes were big and round like their bodies--bull-like.

In the bushes behind the house the handyman was cutting and shaping a branch with a dao. A handle for a spade or axe. Shuvro silently stood watching him. He dispelled Shuvro's fear, murmured don't be afraid, my boy. His (the jotedar's) sons are with the military, and also with the Muktis. Don't you be afraid. That son of a jotedar will see it.

Chickens wandered in and out of the house. A goatish smell spread from where the large he-goat tied to a post. Not a single soul in the yard. Several pairs of pigeons were cooing in rhymes. A tamed mongoose was chasing a hen. The hen was fleeing, cackling loudly. Even if the mongoose caught her, he would not eat her.

The house of the jotedar's wife was locked shut. He himself had not been seen for some time now. Where had he gone? Where? Shuvro looked inside the room where his family slept. His infant sister was forcefully attempting to drink her mother's milk, while she scolded her. Shuvro didn't enter the room.

Shuvro again walked towards the jungle. The bleating of the goats could be heard. It sounded as if it was coming from the direction of the tamarind tree. Had a jackal caught it? Shuvro proceeded quickly towards the sound. In a little while he could see a goat and the jotedar. The jotedar was chasing the goat. Once, with a big leap, he almost caught the rope trailing from the goat. But as the goat too jumped and got away he reached out and steadied himself from falling down on the ground, then began to run again. It ran around in circles. This time the goat ran by Shuvro, brushing his body. And even thought he touched it, because of the goat's sheer speed he could not firmly grab hold of it.

Just as he was about to set off in pursuit of the goat, the jotedar fell on him. He noticed that the jotedar's lungi had slipped down. And then the jotedar fell back flat on his back. Swear words flowed freely from his mouth. For the first time, he addressed Shuvro roughly:

"Who told you to come here?"

And even attempted to beat Shuvro with a branch broken from the bhutraj tree. Shuvro, humiliated and with tears bursting inside him, ran towards the house.

Then he saw the jeep climbing onto the road. A cry floated up into the air mingled with the sound of the jeep. At first he thought of running after the jeep but then changed his mind and searched for the door to the house. He circled the house repeatedly but could not find the door. Sweating, he saw only darkness in front of his eyes, his eyes throbbing. The sound of the jeep was lost in the distance.

The yard was flooded with blood. The rope-torn goat, its bleating forgotten, was staring around with mute eyes. Shuvro fainted.

Now Shuvro was sitting by the riverbank waiting for the ferry. A man surrounded by a pack of dogs was coming towards him. He wore a shirt and trousers, a tie around his neck, bare-footed, hair disheveled, his face stubbled--all plastered with oil and dirt. With maddened eyes, talking to himself all the while, the man walked holding a piece of bread in his hands from which he tore off chunks and threw to the dogs. None of the pieces of bread reached the ground. He came near Shuvro and stopped.

Shamsul Kabir is a Bangladeshi short story writer. The above story is a translation of his Bangla story "Shuvro, Nadir Sudur Paare". Ahmed Ahsanuzzaman and M Md Kabir are teacher and student respectively of English at Khulna University.