The Dreamscape: Original Story by Rashida Sultana and Translated by Sitara Jabeen Ahmed

I am thoroughly exhausted, after disembarking the flight, clearing the long queue at the immigration and now this long wait at the carousel for my suitcase to arrive. Other passengers are collecting their luggage one by one and leaving. A couple of suitcases just like my Samsung one pass by, but no sign of mine with the red ribbon tied in the handle. Finally, when the sighting does happen, I come out pushing the trolley, almost as joyous as the discoverer of hidden treasure. I take the taxi to my pre-booked hotel and instantly am greeted by the manager, Muhamed, with his naturally bright smile. After entering my name and address in the register, I take my room key and turn and there you are sitting in the lobby!
There is a glass of whisky in front of you. I had guessed I would see you again. Just two days back dreamed that you were giving me a tour of the habitats of the dead. You had been looking quite old then.
But never thought it would happen so soon. It is about a week back that I came to know of your death while watching the Channel I news in London. The news reported you as seventy, though the inset showed a much younger you, not more than fifty and now you look even younger than that, maybe, thirty five or forty. 
“In the newspaper and TV, you looked quite old, wrinkled skin and stuff; how come you’re looking so young now?” I ask.
People in the lobby are curiously watching my excited talking, eyes filled with wonderment. He signals caution with his finger at his lips, comes closer and says, “Speak softly, please. Everyone is gaping at you.”
An attractive, tall youth wearing jeans and black T-shirt, with “Hakuna Matata” printed in front, is seen following a fiftyish, roundish woman.
On entering the room, I turn all the lights on. 
“Please, dim the lighting. I’m turning the TV on in high volume, or people will suspect something.”
“That’s funny. You still haven’t overcome your concern about public opinion? What’s the point of dimmed light when I know this is just a dream, you’ll disappear any moment now. My awakenings end up only in sighs.”
“And you’ll have this dream till your death, never assuaging your endless torment. Please switch off the light, turn the TV on at high volume. You’re speaking so loud, the whole hotel will suspect something strange going on.” You yourself do the needful, go to the bathroom to turn the shower on, darken the room and switch on the TV at high volume.
“I don’t care a bit what people hear or say. Unlike you, I’ve never had the plan to be in politics or become a minister.” 
You take off your shirt. In the dim light of the television, you look like a Greek statue, with sculpted chest, perfect arms and shoulder muscles. 
“You look as handsome as I saw you the first time twenty four years back. In your picture in the TV, broadcasting the news of your death, amidst the crowd of fans, political leaders and others, you looked old.’
“Oh, I haven’t died. That also must have been a dream of yours. You’re seeing me now exactly the same way as I am. Now, stop your gibberish, enough of your craziness,” you say while kissing me lightly on my neck, head and forehead, sucking away a lifetime of grief, sip by sip.
This is my twenty four year old dream-retreat. I pass the days somehow, amongst husband, children, job, society and waiting for the night, for sleep —.
Sometimes we reminisce our dream experiences together. “A few days back I was at my grandma’s house with you. The whole courtyard was cracked dry, here and there grew some unkempt lemon trees amidst grass and weeds. Dust and cobwebs filled the rooms. Bed sheets, pillowcases, all shabby and dirty. My four maternal aunts looked emaciated, with their heads shaven. I introduced you to them as my sweetheart. The aunts spit on us and by their side, my mother stood totally naked. I took her aside to hide her from your eyes. A few crones were sitting and whispering among themselves under a jackfruit tree in a corner of the courtyard. Do you remember?”
“No, I don’t. But let me describe my own experience to you. I was walking in a field with my arms around your waist. My feet were frequently getting tangled in the tall grass. At a distance there was some kind of a summer-house, lit up by a cherry tree in front, overhanging with milk-white blossoms. Just beyond the field there was a stretch of tall wild grass and beyond that, a lake. We kept walking until we reached the lake. Three green-headed ducks were playing in water. Tiny wavelets created by the gentle afternoon breeze rose and broke continually. Suddenly a larger animal emerged noisily from the pine forest at the back. We watched out, startled. It was an elk, eying us fearfully.
Then when I got tired of walking, I sat down in the field, leaning on your body. With my head on your lap, I watched the reflection of the setting sun on the snow-white clouds in the sky, which, you said, were mirrored in the pupils of my eyes. You were telling me about the mystery of the longevity of the pine trees – how they retain the greenness of their leaves all through the winter burial under thick snow. My enthrallment at the shimmering wings of the butterflies flying around amused you. Lying on your lap, I watched your hair soft-lifted by the occasional warm breeze, listened to your stories about why the numerous cherry blossoms, blooming like white stars are so transient, all the while thinking of the transient nature of your own love for me, lasting while we are close together and not beyond that.
‘Actually, you don’t love me anymore,’ I said.
‘You seem to figure out the absence of love quite fast,’ you sounded serious. ‘Is that what you actually want?’
– You know I’m going to die.
– But you are always too eager to infer it. This dictum is almost stuck in your diction forever.
– It’s from a sense of insecurity, you know. 
– Your happiness span is always so brief.
– It’s because you’re so miserly in your love.
– Your inner turmoil saddens me. From what I know of you, you’ll suffer as long as you live and that thought overburdens my conscience. Our relationship should be natural and honest but your high level of tension frightens me. What do you want- permanence of intensity?
– Permanence. I don’t want to lose you for anything in the world.
– Darling, I feel tense at this infatuation of yours- it enhances fervor at the cost of stability.
– What can I do? I’ve been cherishing you for twenty four years. Yes, last twenty four years I’ve been living a double life.
– But, that’s not right, babe. How much time have I for dream-indulgence, with so many things occupying my days? I’ve to find answers to thousands of problems of thousands of people every day.
– Listen. The difference between you and me is, the time you spend with me is your pastime, for me, it’s my life. I can’t imagine anyone else living such a paradoxical existence- of intoxicating happiness and excruciating pain. All these years —

‘But I don’t want you to live in such an abnormal way,’ you said, kissed my forehead and was about to leave. I clung on to you with both my hands. You disengaged yourself and went away. I wailed loudly in that open field beside the pine forest. I woke up in my bed with my heart racing. Rest of my night was spent sitting in the balcony.”
I keep drawing with my finger on the folds of your chest and ask, “Do you remember these things?”
“Yes, I do. And that’s why I honestly want you to extricate yourself from this. “
I say, “Since then, I haven’t seen you for such a long time. Have been calling you continuously, but you don’t answer them, you switch off your mobile. How horrible! I keep reciting Whitman like rosary, the words turn into my heartbeat and pulsate through my veins, through my every cell:

Blow! Blow! Blow!
Blow up sea-winds, along Paumanok’s shore!
I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me.

Soothe! Soothe! Soothe!
Close on its waves soothes the wave behind,
Again another behind, embracing and lapping, 
Everyone close,
But my love soothes not me, not me.

Loud! Loud! Loud!
Loud I call to you, my love!
High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves,
Surely you must know who is here, is here,
You must know who I am, my love.

Land! Land! O Land!
Whichever way I turn
O I think you could give me 
My mate back again.

“Do you remember that stormy day when you suddenly came to our house,” you go on reminiscing. “I was out in my car on an important errand. There were large trees, twisted, distorted branches lying uprooted on the road and the world was submerged in impenetrable darkness. In such inclement weather I returned home to find you sitting in my bedroom. Soaking wet. Shivering like a winter pigeon. Sheltered in my embrace you related how you had been the lone frightened rider in this long journey by bus.” 
I concede, “Yes, I do. I was really scared throughout the ride. The driver’s red eyes were glowing like headlights within the bus.
Another time, after an argument with you, I remember being alone in a rickshaw, crying my heart out. I asked the rickshaw puller to take me around the city just aimlessly, the fares didn’t matter. I called you a lowdown, characterless vagabond after hearing everyone talking about your relationship with that flagpole Snigdha, as tall as you. That bastard woman had been telling my friends about how every now and then she visited your home to punish you. The city was in total blackout and I traversed the streets, crying all the time and cursing you.
You too had exploded on the phone, ‘How dare you call me names on the basis of telltales, without even confirming the veracity of it!’
I pleaded, ‘Don’t you know how much I love you? Don’t you understand how my world goes upside down hearing such rumors involving you? The whole of tonight I’ll roam the streets, cross the Padma to go sleep in its sandbanks, I’ll not return home and you may go on with your peaceful sleep.’ I hung up after this.
I got off near the T Grain Dam and paid off the rickshaw puller. I kept walking along the dam in the silent, deserted, blacked out city. The wakeful trees, the thin currents of the river Padma, and the vast stretch of sandbank – all lay resplendent under the moon-lit sky. In a distance some voices could be heard, of some others also awake and gathered on the dam. I descend the dam to go closer to the river. My feet got tangled in needle-grass, or stuck in mud. In front lay a reed forest. A boat was floating on the river. The breeze carried a damp smell. Serpentine currents of water were slithering by. The clouds were giving the moon a ride towards the sea. Your call came, “Still crying?”
“No.”
“Where are you?”
“By the bank of the Padma.”
“Come to my house in Dhaka, straight into my bedroom.”
“Why do you make me suffer so much?”
I sobbed. On returning to the dam, I took the rickshaw and received your text, “You are my life and your smiling eyes fill my days with sunshine. Stay forever the way you are.”
The whole of the next day I passed in a stupor. In the evening, on the rooftop of Cinderella, I narrated my dream to Ichok Duende. I told him, “You know what? Everyone thinks I’m a sleepyhead. I return from work, have dinner and retire to bed. No TV, no chitchat, no reading books or magazines – nothing. Just a flat life.”
Ichok Duende, mixing dry in the moon-drenched roof and said, “You’re a great girl.”’
In the air-conditioned chill of the room, I snug inside the quilt, take my head off your arms, place a pillow under it and say, “Even now, it’s so embarrassing to remember that incident of the Padma dam. Such abusive words I uttered about you.”
“Well, I don’t remember anything like that,” you respond.
“Can I turn the shower off? I say. “Don’t feel good about such wastage of water. And what do you say about lowering the volume of the TV? By now, everyone must have gone to bed.”
“No, no. not yet. People can still hear you.”
“May God save me from your pointless over-concern, I say. “When I was watching the news of your death in television, all your followers weeping over your body, I knew I didn’t lose you. In fact, I’d be nearer you more than ever.”
I am walking beside you along wild vegetation, a few bald headed hills and some ghost-like baobabs are standing here and there. Some pigeons and eagles are flying in the still air. In the intense heat the landscape shimmers like steam on a burner. On crossing this silent rocky world, there is a black sculpture of a woman sitting on an immense sea fish and beyond that is a lake dotted by a few small islets, inhabited by people of all ages. All of them, including you have shrouds wrapped around them in the style of ancient Roman toga. On the overhead trees are bats, eagles and vultures. Blind storks and flamingoes are sitting on the plants floating on the water and also there are gigantic ferns, as large as coconut palms. Every gust of wind brings in a relentless stream incorporeal sounds like love-talks, lamentations, half-suppressed groans and sighs. A man is eating grapes sitting on the trunk of a dead tree. You whisper his identity to me, “He was a renowned minister and a government servant with the reputation of a good administrator of reasonable honesty. He helped many in his official capacity and never turned down anyone in distress. Thanks to a favorable media, after retirement from the ministry, he became one of the top intellectuals of the country, used to be invited to deliver speeches on almost all strategic situations. During his tenure in government service, he had eliminated through cross-fires many ordinary thieves, prostitutes, brokers, snatchers, drug-dealers, murderers, robbers, eve-teasers and adulterers. When he went to perform the Haj before his ministerial posting, a few jealous colleagues recited the Urdu saying, “Sao chuhe maarke billi hajke chali re”, meaning the cat is going on the pilgrimage after killing a hundred mice. Leaving aside these few begrudging vilifications, he had been highly appreciated by the media and general multitude.”
Near the man, there is a melanin-covered face of a woman sleeping on a stone bench strewn with bird-droppings. With her clavicles sticking out, even in her sleep, she looked very weak. You say, “Her name is Parul. Used to be a prostitute in Gulshan area. Her clients were mostly the caretakers, drivers or guards of the wealthy people. She used to send money to her village home regularly where the neighbors and relatives knew she had some kind of a job in the city. One night, in search of client to earn some extra money for the treatment of her seriously ill father at home, she left her four month old son with an old neighbor, Majeda. That night, Gulshan police, in a drive to uproot immoral elements from society, rounded up some roving prostitutes including Parul. She cried that whole night in front of the police officer on duty, ‘I’ve left my suckling baby with a lame, old woman, sir and he will starve to death.’
The whining of a fallen woman, pining for home and child didn’t move the heart of the police. She was sent to jail within twenty four hours and in five days, she heard of her child’s death, through lack of breast-milk, suffering from diarrhea. Within a week, she died with and ailing body and broken heart.” Pointing at Parul you say, ‘Now that she’s asleep, you can’t see her agony. All her wakeful moments are spent wailing for that lost child.’ 
Then you show me a darkish man of medium height sitting on a rock, singing, “Katobaro bhebechhinu apona bhulia” – How often have I thought of forgetting myself—. The fountain flowing next to him is a hot water spring, he said. Pointing at the man he continued, ‘His name is Babul, once a leader of the East Bengal Communist Party, died in crossfire. He is the happiest man here. Memories of loved ones left in life having covered with the patina of time, his twelve year old daughter constantly keeps him company. She studies in Khulna Coronation Government School, always seemingly engrossed in her study table, giving people the impression of being very studious. In reality, she is constantly talking with her father about her days, her activities with friends, the comments of teachers and companions, what others are doing at home, all the stories piled up during the day must be shared with her father before falling asleep. 
What is interesting is that the child was not from his loins. In fact Babul had been the murderer of her parents. Her father was Chairman of the Union Council. The night Babul entered with his gang into their house to shoot the man, the baby girl was sleeping by his side. When her mother came running in from the next room and screamed at the sight of his bullet-hit body, they shot her too. Babul got perplexed at the sight of the five month old girl, waking up in the blood of her father. He picked up the child as he came out, cleaned the blood off her body from a pond and going home, placed her in his wife’s lap. Most of the time he used to lie hidden underground, but whenever he came home, he would take full charge of the girl, feeding, bathing and even washing her clothes with his own hands. The girl also belonged to her foster father Babul, all heart and soul. And that is the girl who has kept him so happy in this after-life.’
I say, “The whole of next day I was submerged in thoughts of Parul, Babul and his daughter.” “I also used to be amazed at Babul’s happiness,” you say.
I feel extremely uncomfortable at the loud sound of the TV. Your eyes are glazed over, as if glancing at some distant reality. I say, “Please let me turn off the shower and TV.”
“Alright. But speak in whispers,” your caution persists. The moment I switch off the television and enter the bathroom to turn off the shower, I hear sounds of many voices at the door. Looking through the peephole I see a huge congregation – ex-ministers, newspaper editor, journalists, photographers, Arabs, Africans, the Pope, politicians, government officials, the police – all sorts of people in the passage. In the midst of all these, there is a pair of large eyes which, for many, can imply Godlike assurance, but for me, in all my nightmares this large eyed man had been chasing me knife in hand and I had been fleeing him from wilderness to wilderness, from room to room. I say to my lover, “Do you hear that? The large eyed man is here, with knife in hand. He is going to kill us.”
You firmly wrap your arms around me. “Don’t panic,” you say. “Nobody can cause you any harm. There is nobody there.”
By then, the screaming multitude and their ceaseless banging on the door have become part of me, flowing through my veins and nerves. I cling to you in a desperate grasp. Slowly the noise subsides. Total silence returns to the world. Your body starts to feel like cold stone. I slowly open my eyes to realize I am holding a pure white Grecian marble statue in my embrace. What a marvel in art, the sculpted body, the perfect nose, eyes and lips and the crease of the chest! And the next moment, there is nothing. I am lying in a backpackers’ hotel in Sydney. A fan is revolving noisily, hanging from the high ceiling and the morning sun is entering the room through its single window. The window is covered with dust.

About the Author:

Rashida Sultana is a writer and poet. Having studied Economics at the University of Dhaka and Ritsumeikan University in Japan, she served as a civil servant of Bangladesh Government and worked for the United Nations Integrated Mission in Timor Leste and the African Union/ United Nations Hybrid Operations in Darfur, Sudan. She is author of four collections of short stories, an anthology of poem and a novel.

About the Translator:

Sitara Jabeen Ahmed has been teaching, translating and interpreting over a long period of time.