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  • খেরোর খাতা

  • The Punishment 

    পাগলা গণেশ লেখকের গ্রাহক হোন
    ০১ আগস্ট ২০২৫ | ৩৯ বার পঠিত
  • আমার পূর্বপ্রকাশিত ' দণ্ড ' ছোটগল্পটি ইংরেজিতে অনুবাদ করে প্রকাশ করছি।এটা যতটা না প্রকাশের উদ্দেশে,তার থেকেও বেশি এটা জানার জন্য,যে অনুবাদ ঠিকঠাক হয়েছে কিনা। যদি কোনো ভুল চোখে পড়ে,নিশ্চয় বলবেন।সবার জন্য অবারিত দ্বার রইল।
     
    ভয় আরও এইজন্য লাগছে এর আগে কোনো অনুবাদ করিনি।নিজের লেখা বলে সাহস হল।
     
    Roshan’s world turned completely upside down the day his mother—his own mother—picked him up and dropped him into the pot of water.

    So let’s start from the beginning.

    Roshan was an average boy who earned his living doing delivery work. Most of the time, he delivered things around his own neighborhood, but sometimes he had to go into the quarters of the jinns and fairies. Not always, though—only when his mother’s medicine bills shot up and he had no other choice.

    It wasn’t exactly that there was a problem working there, but… there were always complications. The Hindu jinns and fairies would chase him with sticks the moment they saw a “halal” tag, while the Muslim ones made him shiver just by looking at them—the kohl in their eyes, the heavy scent of attar (perfume), the prayer beads in their hands. Babarey (Oh dear), what a terrifying sight! And their butchers… Babarey! They looked like they’d slaughter you on the spot.

    But there was one good thing: the pay was enormous. Ten times what you’d get for a regular delivery. Of course, there was the risk of being killed. And a few people actually had been.

    The company would call you baba, bacha (son, child), pat your head and shoulders as long as you worked. But the moment you died, they wouldn’t even recognize you. They wouldn’t even send someone to retrieve your body. Who would risk their life going in there?

    Though, to be fair, was that the company’s fault? The government had strictly forbidden any human to make deliveries in those quarters. But since the money was so good… well, profit is profit, isn’t it? And the company existed to make profit.

    And a place like that was necessary anyway. Where else would boys like Roshan go when their pockets ran dry?

    It was the end of the month. Roshan was sitting broke after losing all his money on an online gambling app. On impulse, he opened his delivery app. There it was: an order offering a fat payout.

    He quickly rolled out his bike and dashed to Riaz’s restaurant, picked up the kebab, and raced straight to the pari mahalla (fairy quarters). He had ten minutes to deliver. On the way, he slammed hard into a small boy. The kid probably died. Se ja hok(Whatever), first deliver, then check.

    A fairy opened the door. She looked young, though their age wasn’t like human age. Someone who looked twenty-three might actually be two hundred and twenty-three. It didn’t matter. This was one of the reasons Roshan didn’t mind delivering to the fairy quarters.

    The fairy snatched the food, saying, “Din, din, din! (Give, give, give!) I’m starving. Another minute and my stomach would’ve eaten itself. Give me your QR code, I’ll pay.”
    Roshan, dazed, held out his phone like he was under a spell. He had never imagined anything in the world could be this beautiful.

    At that moment, a heavy blow struck the back of his head, snapping him out of the trance. He spun around—the door had already slammed shut. Behind him, two massive jinns were fighting. One of their staffs had just grazed his skull. Roshan didn’t stay another second. He bolted with his bike.

    At the market clinic, he got his head bandaged and immediately checked his phone. Naah, the payment had gone through anyway.

    ---

    A few days later, he was back in that neighborhood. He’d sworn not to, but when the pocket’s empty, vows shatter. And the money was too tempting. After the last incident, no one else wanted to take orders there. Roshan had another reason too.

    He rang the bell. The same girl opened the door. Today, a shy smile played on her lips. It was as if someone had poured a basket of flowers over his head, as if a gentle breeze had hushed the world still, as if a bird had sung in the sweetest voice. Then a flute-like voice broke the spell:
    “Kee holo? Din parcel-ta! (What happened? Give the parcel!)”

    Roshan’s dream shattered. Too many romantic movies… this Shahrukh Khan is the root of all ruin. He handed over the parcel clumsily and hurried off. But not before catching the fairy girl covering her mouth to hide a laugh.

    He promptly bumped into a jinn. Thank God it was a good one; it said nothing. He muttered, “Sorry,” and immediately smashed into a bull. This one wasn’t generous. With a swing of its horns, it flung him into a gutter. Ei shaala Hindu jinn-gulo! (These damn Hindu jinns!) No work, just let Shiva’s bull roam the streets. If you love it so much, keep it in your house!

    Back home, after scrubbing off the filth and stepping out of the bathroom, he found his mother had served rice. He ate the whole plate with bliss. Everything tasted better today. The rice felt like nectar; the uchher chochchori (bitter gourd stir-fry) was divine. Had Ma’s cooking skills suddenly opened up? He told her they should open a five-star hotel. Ma promptly scolded him. But even that couldn’t make him angry. Not today.

    ---

    That night, back home, Ma collapsed. Roshan dragged her to the hospital in Asim’s car. The doctor said it was critical: immediate surgery and three units of blood.
    Ma’s group was AB positive—a bit rare. He knew the blood bank wouldn’t have it. He called Ananto-da.

    “Haan Anantoda? (Yes, brother Ananto?)”
    A pause. The man didn’t recognize him. Roshan had to explain: “It’s me, Roshan. From Golapdanga field. I used to bowl good leg-spin.”
    Recognition clicked.
    “Dada, I need Ma’s blood.”
    Another pause. Roshan added, “Haan, AB positive.”
    “… Achha, thik ache. (Alright.)”

    But Ma didn’t improve. The hospital was a warzone. Hindu and Muslim jinns fought so often they’d hurl bricks ripped from the walls at each other. A few humans had protested in timid voices. They were beaten into mince. Literally. Picked up with spades for cremation.

    What treatment could happen in such a place?

    At 2:21 p.m. the next day, Ma died. They’d managed to arrange the blood, but it was useless. When Roshan demanded a refund, the blood bank cited policy: no returns. In rage, he stormed inside, tore the pouches, splashing blood all over the floor.

    Half an hour later, the police arrested him. “Sir, let me at least perform Ma’s shonshkar (last rites)!” he begged.

    All except one officer beat him savagely with heavy boots. “Haraam-jaada! (Bastard!) Destroying government property, huh? Let the jackals and dogs tear your Ma apart. Let the jinns pickle her! Then we’ll see your anger! What can you do?”

    After thirty minutes of beating, his head split, lip bled, one arm snapped so badly the bone tore through flesh. When he writhed, one officer plucked a parijat leaf, smeared it with jinn dung, and rubbed it into his wounds.

    As the pain eased, the officer said, “Baba (Son), so much temper? We’re slaves of orders. Duty, you know?”

    “Thik to! Oder ki dosh! (True! What fault is theirs!)”

    By the next day, he was almost healed—just a dull ache. They kept him in lock-up. Trial tomorrow. Twelve charges.

    Sitting there, Roshan thought, Mumtaz must be waiting. Ordering pointless kebabs, wasting money. The thought brought a crooked smile.

    That evening, the same officer came. “The jinns took your mother’s body. They’ll pickle it. Left you a fat payment though. You won’t have to worry about money once you’re out.”

    Roshan felt a pang, but more than that—a strange relief.

    When he came out of jail, he met Mumtaz. She looked even more beautiful now. Her big eyes were wide open, asking a thousand questions. Among them, one question echoed in his ears, “Where have you been all this time?”

    He reached out and held Mumtaz’s face, pulling it close to his own.

    At that very moment, he screamed out in excruciating pain. He woke up suddenly. Big Babu(OC)’s face was right in front of his. His stomach throbbed with unbearable agony. He saw the policemen around laughing loudly.
    “You bastard! Yesterday your Ma (mother) died, and you said, ‘Sir, give me a little time for the funeral.’ And now, before the night even turned, you’re out here running wild! You bastard! Son of a whore!” Big Babu yelled and landed another kick right on his groin.

    “Maago! (Oh mother!)” he cried, and toppled off the cement slab.

    “Get up, you rascal, you bastard!” Big Babu barked again.
    He tried but couldn’t get up. Another fierce kick landed on his waist, and he howled in pain.

    The court sentenced him to thirty-three years of virtual rigorous imprisonment for crimes like destroying government property, assaulting on-duty police, attempted murder, being poor, and even breathing air for free (he had tried to argue that he didn’t know it was a crime, but the law doesn’t accept ‘I didn’t know’).

    At the mention of virtual imprisonment, it felt as if someone had driven an icy sword straight through his spine. He trembled violently, his face drained of blood, and in the end, he wet his pants. The court filled with the stench of excrement; everyone covered their noses with handkerchiefs. Jinns cannot tolerate such foul smells at all.

    He had heard about virtual imprisonment from Kele Panchu about three years ago. They knock you out, attach some devices to your head, and within moments, implant memories and tortures of an artificial prison into your brain. Those memories and pains are so true, so real and intense, that a person forgets everything else but never forgets that imprisonment. Panchu had told him, “Bhai re (Brother), whatever you do, just don’t ever get virtual imprisonment.”

    Panchu had been terrified after just one month of it; and he had thirty-three years! He would probably die.

    When he came out, it was two in the afternoon. Only three hours had passed since the verdict. But to him, it had been thirty-three years. The clock’s hands said three hours, but if only he could show those hands and the calendar pages the agony he now carried!

    He thought he wouldn’t work for a few days. But the next day, when the hunger in his stomach roared again, he opened his ID and saw the delivery charge had almost doubled. A bit riskier perhaps, but the money was good.

    He still had a large sum left from selling his mother’s corpse. He could even start a business with it. But if he saved up a little more, he would have a backup and could start the business in peace.

    His eyes fell on a special order—Mumtaz Parveen had ordered kebabs. He quickly accepted it, grabbed the order from Riyaz’s shop, and ran towards Pari Mohalla.

    Mumtaz stood anxiously at the door. Seeing him, she jumped like a little child. And when she smiled, the whole world lit up. He waved at Mumtaz; she waved back.

    As he came closer, she said shyly, “Where have you been all this time?”
    Roshan didn’t answer.
    Mumtaz asked again, “What happened? Where have you been all this time?”
    With a touch of indifference, he said, “That’s a long story.”
    Mumtaz understood and asked, “You can’t tell me?”
    “I can, but if I tell you standing here, there’s a chance I’ll get slapped to death. If that giant jinn gives me one blow, I’m gone! And you’ll just lock the door and run away.”
    Mumtaz was ashamed and smiled faintly, “That day I was so scared. But I won’t be anymore. I won’t leave.”
    Then, almost whispering, she said softly, “As long as you’re there.”

    Roshan’s heart danced with joy, but he hid it and said, “Can’t tell here. If you come to Hazratganj Park this evening, I can tell you.”
    “Alright,” Mumtaz stood there.
    Roshan said, “See you,” and left. Turning once, he saw Mumtaz still standing, gazing at him with wonder.

    As he turned back, a bull stood blocking his path. He hit the brakes hard and fell face-first into a pile of dung.

    That evening, sitting on a bench in Hazratganj Park, he was swinging his legs. A boy was selling roasted peanuts. He called him over and bought two cones. While paying, he acted a bit posh, like the jinns do—handing over a whole note and saying, “Keep the change.”
    He said, “Keep the rest.”
    The boy was delighted. Evenings like this were rare. The sky, which had been covered in clouds, cleared and sparkled, and the birds suddenly burst into cheerful song.

    And then, as if dressed like a queen, Mumtaz appeared before him. He stared at her, mouth open, nearly fainting. Mumtaz laughed and nudged his shoulder, “Hey!”
    He stammered, “Sit, sit.”

    And so, for about a month, they kept meeting—sometimes at the park, sometimes in restaurants, movie theaters, and every possible and impossible place.

    Once, Mumtaz even took him into a discarded teacup. She said no one would suspect them there.

    But what happened next made him wish people had suspected them instead. The teacup was freshly discarded. Within moments of them settling inside, a troop of ants arrived. A normal thing. But to them, it was doomsday. With the ants’ pushes, they could neither sit still nor escape. One overly enthusiastic ant even tried to bite them. Mumtaz blew a puff of fire to drive them away, but that only made the ants furious. They were cornered, about to be torn apart, when suddenly the whole world shook.

    For a moment, they couldn’t understand what had happened. Then, as everything calmed, they realized someone had kicked the cup. Lucky them to still be alive.

    The next few days passed in happiness.

    Then one day, while out for delivery, he suddenly fainted in the middle of the road. A dumper truck screeched to a halt just in time. He wasn’t badly hurt, but the doctor said his blood was dangerously low. His diet needed a serious change. He prescribed medicines but said it was just for now.

    It happens, after all. Improper food, no routine—what else can you expect?

    But a week later, it happened again. The doctor said, “Your blood is even lower now. Aren’t you taking the medicines?”
    He said he was, and the doctor was surprised. “If you were, you should have recovered by now. Alright, take them for one more week; hopefully, you’ll be fine.”

    But before the week was up, three days later, he fainted again right after waking up in the morning. The doctor strictly ordered him to stay in bed.

    Strangely, that improved his condition. But his heart was heavy. He hadn’t seen Mumtaz these past days. Almost a week now.

    The next day, Mumtaz came. He was more surprised than happy. He ran to her and hugged her tight, “Do you know how much I missed you?” he said, covering her cheeks with kisses.
    “Hey, stop, stop,” Mumtaz said, pretending to be shy and annoyed, but there was more indulgence than anger.

    They talked for hours. But the moment she left, his heart sank again.

    Soon Mumtaz began visiting every other day. And his health worsened. He didn’t even notice.

    When it got worse, the doctor came. After examining him, he looked deeply concerned. His suspicion was right, wasn’t it?

    He asked, “Are you involved with any fairy?”
    Roshan hesitated but then, under a stern look, said, “Yes. But why are you asking this?”
    Without answering, the doctor said, “You must stop seeing her immediately.”
    “But why? What does my being with her have to do with my illness?”
    “It’s connected. Listen to me, or you’ll die.” Saying that, the doctor left at once.

    Roshan was torn. He thought, “If I just don’t tell him, how will the doctor know?”

    Their meetings continued. And Roshan’s condition worsened. He became skin and bone. But he was happy.

    All his savings and the money from selling his mother’s body were gone on treatment. The doctor said, if he didn’t stop seeing Mumtaz, he had a month to live. “What nonsense! If I die, I will.”

    Now he saw his mother all the time. During the day, hazy and smoky. But the later the night, the clearer she became; in his sleep, she became alive. There was a strange pain in her eyes, as if saying, “Baba (Oh son), you’re such a wretch? You couldn’t even perform my funeral, and on top of that, you sold my corpse? Are you that desperate for money? Shame!” Every time she said “Shame!” her spit landed on his face.

    Day by day, his mother’s rebuke became more intense, more terrifying. He couldn’t sleep in guilt. He was going mad. Now Mumtaz came twice a day. Only then he felt a little better. But he knew, he had no more than a week.

    The next day, he noticed a change in his body. His skin was becoming hard and shiny. His arms and legs were splitting into two. His voice and face began to change over the next few days.

    After a week, he had completely turned into an eight-legged insect.

    That day, his boss and the company owner came to see him. Embarrassed by his new form, he didn’t want to open the door at first. But their constant reassurances and knocking forced him to.

    Again, he was stunned. It felt like the entire world had been testing his nerves, body, and soul these past days.

    He thought to himself, “God, what is my crime? Why are you testing me like this?”

    But God didn’t answer. Was there ever a God? He began to doubt. His shocks weren’t over yet.

    The ones he thought were human—his boss and owner—were actually jinns. They had taken human form. He learned that the business he dreamt of could never have succeeded, no matter how hard he tried. Because being a jinn was the first requirement. Hearing all this, he couldn’t hold himself together anymore. But by then, he had even lost the ability to cry. He saw more, but couldn’t even be surprised. Seeing his condition, they expressed deep sorrow. But what else could they do?

    They gave him lots of fruits and some supplements and left.

    That evening, Mumtaz came. 
    Suddenly he said, “Mumtaz, can I ask you something? Tell me the truth.”
    In a hesitant tone, she said, “What is it?”
    -“Don’t lie. Show at least that mercy to a dying man.”
    -“Alright, I’ll tell the truth. Ask.”
    -“Did you truly love me? Would you have married me?”
    Mumtaz was silent for a moment, then let out a faint sigh and said, “Since you want to hear it, I’ll tell you. Yes, I loved you. But not the way you think.”
    -“Then how?”
    -“Like, if you keep a dog, don’t you love it?”
    -“That’s how you loved me? I was like a dog to you?”
    -“Not exactly a dog. But something like that. Can a human and a fairy ever marry? You were dreaming illusions.”
    -“You deceived me!...” He tried to say more, but his voice broke into tears. He couldn’t speak.
    -“I didn’t deceive you. Never wanted to. If you thought too much, is that my fault?”

    In rage and sorrow, Roshan almost went mad. He felt like smashing Mumtaz’s head against the wall and crushing it with his shoes until it blended into the floor.

    With great effort, summoning all his strength, he said, “One last thing. The doctor told me if I stopped seeing you, I would live. Why? Don’t lie!”

    Mumtaz sat silently with her head bowed for a while. Then, still in that position, she said, “I used to drink your blood.” Then, lifting her head, in a frantic, helpless voice, she said, “There was no other way, believe me. Without your blood, I would die. This beauty doesn’t last without blood. We live five hundred, a thousand, two thousand years because of human blood. At first, I didn’t want to drink it, but you don’t know how intoxicating this beauty is. And for that, I envy you.” Saying this, Mumtaz grabbed his feet and cried.

    With all the hatred he could muster, Roshan said, “Leave this moment. Show me that mercy. Go.”

    Mumtaz left, crying.

    Just then, his mother’s figure took form. With two fingers, she grabbed his body and dropped him into a water pot in the corner. A strange suffocation overwhelmed him. Now the water wasn’t blocking his nose but the openings of his body’s tracheae. Slowly, his breath choked out. Before losing consciousness, he saw his mother bursting into wild laughter, pointing at him in sheer triumph.
    পুনঃপ্রকাশ সম্পর্কিত নীতিঃ এই লেখাটি ছাপা, ডিজিটাল, দৃশ্য, শ্রাব্য, বা অন্য যেকোনো মাধ্যমে আংশিক বা সম্পূর্ণ ভাবে প্রতিলিপিকরণ বা অন্যত্র প্রকাশের জন্য গুরুচণ্ডা৯র অনুমতি বাধ্যতামূলক। লেখক চাইলে অন্যত্র প্রকাশ করতে পারেন, সেক্ষেত্রে গুরুচণ্ডা৯র উল্লেখ প্রত্যাশিত।
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  • ভাটিয়া৯
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গুরুচণ্ডা৯-র সম্পাদিত বিভাগের যে কোনো লেখা অথবা লেখার অংশবিশেষ অন্যত্র প্রকাশ করার আগে গুরুচণ্ডা৯-র লিখিত অনুমতি নেওয়া আবশ্যক। অসম্পাদিত বিভাগের লেখা প্রকাশের সময় গুরুতে প্রকাশের উল্লেখ আমরা পারস্পরিক সৌজন্যের প্রকাশ হিসেবে অনুরোধ করি। যোগাযোগ করুন, লেখা পাঠান এই ঠিকানায় : guruchandali@gmail.com ।


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