‘Baba, don’t touch that. I will make something interesting with it after returning from school.’

Caressing his hair affectionately with my fingers, I say fondly-

‘Why do you call me Baba, son? Don’t call your Ma, Baba, sweetie. Call me Ma.’

Ayon does not reply. With the same grim face, he throws his school bag over his shoulder and boards the school bus. The horrifying news comes around three hours later. A gang of gunmen charged through the school gate and went on a shooting spree on the school grounds, killing many kids and their teachers. Straight after seeing the news on the TV, I, terror-stricken, bolt off to Ayon’s school. Panic grips my lungs on my way, and I start huffing for breath. Upon reaching the school gate, I find the surrounding area teeming with police and journalists. There isn’t even a fingerbreadth of space to step in. They have closed all the doors and are not letting anyone enter the school premises. I ask around about Ayon, but no one knows his whereabouts. The ambient air has already grown heavy with the loud laments of people grieving and bracing up to face the fact.  

‘No one goes inside. Please let us do our job, ‘ cries out a police officer at the top of his lungs every few minutes. 

I keep ferreting out for Ayon, shoving through the crowd. A few boys stand in line at a distance, but Ayon is not to be seen among them. He may not be inside the school, either. Bereft of a single clue about how to find Ayon, I broke into a cold sweat with a resounding muted cry-

‘Where should I look for my son? ‘

Right on cue, I see the school’s Vice-Principal speed walking to the parking lot, wiping sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. Tearing out of the crowd, I fly into a full-on sprint at him. Barely managing to get a hold of myself and with my heart thudding in my chest, I breathe out apprehensively:  

‘Sir, do you recognize me? I am Ayon’s mom. Ayon is my son. Class two, section B.’

The Vice-Principal stops dead, swabbing sweat off his forehead the second time. Tears welling up in my eyes, I burst into a sob, and quivering with foreboding, I continue-

‘Did you see Ayon? Is he all right? The police are not letting anyone inside the school.’

He is about to say something but suddenly stands stock-still. His mustache bulging above his upper lips, he eventually replies, in a cough-stained voice: 

‘Ayon’s mom came and took him home. They live in the immediate neighborhood. Ayon was in the first group of students who were escorted out of the school compound after the shooting had ceased.’ 

‘What in the world are you saying?’ 

I howl in dead fright as a silent crescendo of fear reverberates up from the depths of my stomach-

I am Ayon’s mom. I am…’

‘Please go home. It is not safe for you to stay here long.’ 

The vice principal’s words spurt out in short bursts, laced with a pang of compassion. 

Without further ado, he resumes his rapid march to his car. Utterly distraught and beyond frazzled, I feel stunted to the ground for a moment. After a while, without much forethought, I make a headlong dash for my apartment complex. As I walk over to the main gate of the complex, the security guard, Gofur, hands me the guest registry book with a pen, saying-

‘As-Salamu-Alaikum. Which flat do you want to go to? Please write your name and address here.’

‘Gofur, it’s me. I want to go to my flat. Flat number seven-A.’

Hearing his name from my mouth, Gofur looks visibly shocked, but only momentarily. Quickly regaining his composure, he turns extra alert, darting a brisk, suspicious glance at me and saying-

‘I am calling the owner madam over the intercom. In the meantime, you, please write your name and address in the guest registry book.’

Gofur’s audacity throws me into a fury. I can feel my thoughts racing like a storm. Mumbling under my breath, I remind myself that I must head to my flat by any means. If anyone has already picked Ayon up from school, I must ensure they have safely dropped him off at home. The good thing is Ayon knows his home address and should be able to make it home himself. In fact, he should be home by now if he has already started from school. Besides, he is well aware that I keep the spare key to our flat under the money plant tree, right next to the staircase. 

‘Hello, madam, here is this lady who claims that flat Seven-A is hers. Yes, yes, that is what she is saying again and again. No, I have never seen her before.’ Stealing a surreptitious glance at me again, Gofur returns to the conversation on the intercom. All livid, I feel like smashing his skull with a heavy object, and eventually, I go off on him- 

‘Gofur, whom did you just speak to?’

Gofur responds sternly, ‘I cannot let you in even if you write your name and address.’ 

‘Just tell me whom you just spoke to on the intercom, ‘ I insist stubbornly.    

‘I spoke to the madam of seven-A. She made it very clear not to let anyone in her flat today.’

‘This is my flat. Don’t you recognize me, for heaven’s sake? Don’t you see me leave for my office every bloody day? Don’t you even see me drop off Ayon at the school bus day after day?’ I bawl out. 

The barrage of questions hurled at him has Gofur gaping at me with overwhelming astonishment. His eyeballs have grown so large that they may bug out of his eyeholes any minute. Clueless about how else to convince Gofur, I soften my voice, peer directly into his eyes, and make an earnest request-

‘Please let me in. My son Ayon is waiting for me.’

Gofur stands rooted, not even moving a muscle. After a while, he speaks in a desperate yet unyielding tone-

‘But I cannot let you in without the owner’s permission. You can talk to her on the intercom and ask her permission to get in. I will of course let you in if you have the owner madam’s permission.’

He dials on the intercom again. This time, I take the receiver from him: 

‘Hello.’

A harsh, unfamiliar voice blurts out irritably from the other side: 

‘See, I do not think I know you. This is not your flat. You are surely mistaken. Your flat may be one floor down, I don’t know. Now stop bothering me.’

My world is torn asunder, and it feels like I am bundled into a chilling void of silence. After a bit, gathering my senses, I look at Gofur and apply my last-ditch resort-

‘Can you please connect me to flat-six A?’

Nodding his head fervidly, Gofur concurs readily and dials the digits for flat-six A.

‘Hello,’ an unknown voice comes floating from the other side.

‘Is this six-A?’

‘Yes, it is. Who is this?’ the voice asks gently.

I utter my name in trembling, adding that the flat is mine.

“You must be misguided, somehow or other,” the voice sounds kind but firm as if dissuading a child throwing a tantrum, and continues-

‘I have been living in this flat for the last nine years. This is my house. I haven’t even heard your name before.’

I want to scream my lungs out but feel downright smothered the next moment. It feels like someone has stifled my throat with their iron fists. I put down the receiver listlessly. Frustration, anger, helplessness, and a slew of unknown feelings wash over me as I mutter to myself-

‘Where do I go now?’

Gofur has been studying me keenly all this time. After a while, clearing his throat, he remarks in a somewhat mortified tone-

‘If I am right, this is not your building, madam. Yours may be the one on the other side of the road. Please go check out the seven-A flat in that building. I understand you are in trouble, but this is not your address.’

‘This is not my address,’ I whisper to myself, preparing to leave. I exit the building complex, lurching towards the street next to it. Suddenly, Ayon’s face surfaces in my mind, giving me a rare wave of comfort. As I reach the main road, I shoot off to the other side in no time, even before the signal turns red, 

All at once, I am struck, perhaps by an epiphany, that I indeed went to the wrong building. Those people must have been right. Maybe I do belong to the building across the street. Upon arriving at my destination, I discover the building has no security guard. ‘This is even better! No one can stop me now.’, I tell myself. When I walk over to the lift, I find it stuck on the third floor, which means it will not come down to the ground floor anytime soon. Who knows if the lift is out of order or if there is a power outage? Whatever the case might be, what difference does it make? Taking the stairs at the rear end of the building, I start clambering up, reminding myself one more time that I must return to my flat. I start sweating profusely but feel relieved that my sweet home is just a few more steps away. Three-four-five…I am almost there. I start hyperventilating at this point and decide to take a brief pause. Soon afterward, I resume my slog upward.  

Good heavens! The building ends right where the seventh floor is supposed to have branched out. I end up on a colossal rooftop and find a water reservoir there. Also, there are a few flowering plants scattered about. This does not seem to be my building at all. Was I at the correct address prior, then? Suddenly, I hear a wheezing sound passing through my ear. It feels like someone is calling me from a faraway place. Following the distant call, I start edging toward the abutting guardrail on the rooftop. 

Once familiar but now estranged, the building on the other side of the road stands arrogantly with its full weight. On the balcony of the seventh-floor apartment stands a little boy with a car tire in one hand and his mother’s hand in the other. I do not know any of them. All at once, I find myself under the spell of a momentous moment that seems to forge the entire universe to hold its breath when I hear the far-off voice murmuring, ‘ This is not your address, either. You do not belong to this world anymore.’ 

About the Author and Translator

Author’s bio: 

Mahrin Ferdous is a novelist, short story writer, feature writer, and translator who writes for adults and children. Her works have drawn heavily on surrealism and magic realism and deal with contemporary social crises. She weaves her story in vivid language with literary flair.  She has authored eleven books since 2010. In 2019, Banglalink Telecom honored her as one of Bangladesh’s five most promising young writers. She is the current Vice-President of the Pencil Foundation, a non-profit organization. Mahrin lives and works in NY.  Email: mahrinauthor@gmail.com

Translator’s bio: 

Rajib Mahmud’s official name is Mohammad Mahmudul Haque. Former Assistant Professor of English in the Department of English and Humanities, BRAC University Dhaka, Bangladesh, Mahmud is a translator and a fiction writer. A two-time recipient of the prestigious Fulbright Scholarship, funded by the US Department of State, he studied and taught in Dhaka, NY, Washington DC, and Toronto. His translations were published from Dhaka, Delhi, and Manchester, and his short story collection titled ‘Hya othoba Na er Galpo’ was published in Dhaka in 2019. Mahmud lives and works in Toronto. Email: mahmud.rajib@gmail.com

The post The Chakra by Mahrin Ferdous (Translated by Rajib Mahmud) first appeared on Prachya Review.