The Driver
The downpour opened with the force it had gathered through the muggiest hours of the afternoon just as Mohsin hustled into the backseat of the Uber and shut the door harder than he’d intended. He apologized to the driver with a nervous laugh.
“What for, sir?” the driver said into the rearview mirror.
“For slamming your door.”
“It won’t break, sir. I would do same only, no?”
Mohsin gave an appreciative smile.
They started making the slow crawl that would be the drive, the torrent drumming on the roof of the car like the start of an ancient ritual. Mohsin relaxed his head on the cool leather seat and closed his eyes.
He was on the road back in the States, stalled in rush-hour traffic. It was the end of the day and every driver around him was as miserable as he, their disgust toward each other adding to their trial mutual. He wanted to get out, leave the car on the road, and walk off. Like that Michael Douglas movie, he thought and laughed at his own joke. Still laughing, he reached for the radio and at that moment, someone rear ended him. His head jerked back, hitting the headrest.
Mohsin awoke with a start. His head was lolling to one side like his neck was broken. He straightened up with an embarrassed look at the rearview mirror. But the driver’s eyes were on the road.
They hadn’t made it far at all, even though they were moving steadily. The driver was calm, unfazed by the rain or the accumulating water on the roads. Up ahead, less than twenty yards away, was their next turn. It would take half an hour to cover that little ground.
“Long day, sir?” the driver asked.
“Very.”
The driver threw a smile over his shoulder. He was about Mohsin’s age, clean cut, the hair on the top of his head thinned out to a few strands. On the side that turned to Mohsin was a birthmark the size of a quarter on the temple. The smile revealed a missing upper canine.
“You teach, sir? There at the university where I picked you up?”
“Yes.”
“In what subject, sir?”
“Economics.”
“Very good. Sir, if you don’t mind my saying, you sound like you live overseas.”
“Yes, I do in fact.”
“America?”
“Yes.”
Mohsin got the sense that the driver was about to say something else but held back. They made their incremental progress in silence. As soon as the turn was within reach, the driver cut the wheel hard, then sped up. Manik Mia Avenue could be counted on to stay unimpeded by flooding. It took less than five minutes to reach the other end of it. Once there, they were stalled again.
“The thing is, sir,” the driver said, catching Mohsin dozing off again, “I’ve been wanting to go to America for years. My brother is in Germany, my sister lives with her husband in Malaysia. I don’t want to go to those places. Not good. Only America. What do I need to do?”
It was an impossible query to address in a few words. Not even the duration of a long drive with Dhaka’s traffic jams thrown in would be enough. Mohsin could curtail the topic a hundred ways, the easiest one being pulling rank, barking at the driver to remind him of his job and keep his mouth shut, his eyes on the road. But he’d already played along. Their banter had equalized their positions. America had long-ago stripped him of class consciousness and replaced it with generous amounts of liberal guilt.
“It’s a very long and arduous process, to be honest.”
The driver twisted around from the waist up.
“Can you help me, sir?” His eyes were large and eager.
“I wish I could, but I’m not in any position, really.”
“But you know people, sir. You can speak for me. Put in a word.”
“Put in a word to whom?”
“You can help me, sir. I know you can. All you need to do is do it. Please say you will.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t say something I will not be able to do.”
“Sir, I’m asking you to consider it. You can do it. You must know so many people. All I need is a chance.”
The traffic started moving again. Mohsin breathed a sigh of relief, hoping the drive wouldn’t be prolonged more than it already had been. He felt the driver’s eyes on him through the rearview mirror the rest of the way.
He had the money out when they reached his building, handed it to the driver hurriedly, before he could tie him up in another round of badgering, and nearly ran out of the car. Maybe he was overreacting, but there was something feral about the hunger in the driver’s eyes that he couldn’t shake, a wanting so strong and maniacal that it could manifest in ways that Mohsin didn’t want to imagine. Desperation was a powerful motivator.
“Is there something you need?” Mohsin asked Dulal, the watchman, who had followed him to the elevators.
“Shahib.” He was looking at Mohsin strangely.
“Yes, what is it?” Mohsin lost patience. “I’m very tired. Come upstairs if you need to talk to me.”
“Shahib, you have no bag,” said Dulal. “You had in the morning.”
Mohsin brought up his hands as if he’d been told they were drenched in blood. He patted his clothes foolishly, like it was a wallet he’d lost.
“I had when I left the university.”
Dulal stared at him, then turned his gaze to the gate.
Mohsin’s fear was complete as he ran behind Dulal out to the street.
Dulal returned panting and wet. The rain had receded to a spitting patter. He’d checked the street from the main road to the cemetery, circled a two-block radius, and looked inside every car that remotely resembled the one which had brought Mohsin home.
Mohsin was trembling. He felt naked, left to die at the side of the road after being beaten and robbed. A thousand muddled thoughts wanted to form in his head but got eaten by the toxic vacuum his mind had become. He sank to his haunches, dipped his head into his hands. One shred of dignity still had to be held onto. He could not be seen crying.
“Shahib?” Dulal ventured in the softest voice.
“What.” Mohsin didn’t bring his head up.
“You have his number, on your phone, and his license plate. His name also.”
The earth under him shifted back into place. He could fling himself at Dulal’s feet in gratitude. He fumbled with the phone, almost dropping it as he wrenched it out of his pocket. He pushed a hundred taka note into Dulal’s hand and ran upstairs, not bothering with the elevators.
The call went to voicemail. Mohsin waited five minutes and tried again. Voicemail. He wrote down the driver’s name and license plate. It would be just his luck that the app would somehow disappear the information and plunge him back into despair.
“Who?” a woman’s piercing, irritated voice shrieked in Bangla.
“Is this Rabbee’s phone?” Mohsin asked.
“Who?”
“Rabbee, Mohammad Rabbee, is this his phone?”
“Who?”
“Rabbee,” Mohsin yelled.
The woman complained to someone away from the phone and hung up.
Mohsin called back. Within one ring a man answered.
“Slamalikum?” The voice was deeper than the driver’s.
“I’m looking for Rabbee,” Mohsin said assertively, not returning the greeting, and adding a bullying tone. “I need to get hold of him right now. Put him on the phone. It’s urgent.”
The sound got muffled, then became staticky swishes and white noise.
“Slamalikum,” said a new voice, cautiously.
“Mohammad Rabbee?”
“Speaking,” he said in English.
“Thank God,” Mohsin breathed. “I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t get hold of you again.”
“Who’s is it?”
“It’s me,” Mohsin began, but realized he’d never given his name. “The professor, remember? Economics? You brought me to Banani? America?”
There was silence on the other end.
“I think I left my bag in your car. God, I hope I did. Did you find anything in the back?”
More dead air passed, but Mohsin could tell the driver was still there. Hopefully, he was trying to remember.
“So, you’re going to do it?” said Mohammad Rabbee.
“Do what?”
“Talk to people you know? So that I can go to America?”
“I told you already, that’s not something I can do. I need you to look in your car and see if my bag is there.”
“You need your bag, sir, and I need to go to America. We can help each other.”
“So…you’re telling me you have my bag?”
“I have it, yes. It’s safe. I found it when I came home. Gave it to my wife. She’s put in a safe place.”
“I appreciate that. Tell me where you live. I’ll send someone right over.”
“But sir,” Rabbee said after a pause, “then you’ll get what you need, and what about me?”
“I don’t want to get the police involved, Mohammad Rabbee. I’m sure you don’t either. If I could help you I would. It’s out of my control what you’re asking for. But you can do the right thing and return my bag. You seem like an honest and hardworking man. I’m sure opportunities will open up for you someday soon.”
Mohammad Rabbee sighed.
“You have the luxury of thinking like that, sir. Because you know what opportunities look like.”
“So, what is it then? You’re not going to return my bag until I make a promise I can’t keep?”
“You also seem like an honest, hardworking man, sir. You can at least try.”
The line went dead. Mohsin redialed the number until his fingers hurt and his hands cramped. No answer.
Abrar Salam, Mohsin’s school friend, and now a senior in the detective branch, was off duty the following day, and asked Mohsin to come by his house after lunch.
“You’re lucky if your computer is still in one piece,”
“He told me last night that he had it, it was safe,” Mohsin said, then felt a twinge of embarrassment at how naïve he sounded.
“But you must have your files backed up?” said Salam.
Mohsin’s face grew hot.
“Well, then you’re really screwed,” said Salam. “My god, in this day and age, and you a professor.”
“I have his information,” Mohsin said feebly, reaching for his phone. “And his number.”
“Useless.” Salam dismissed the phone without a second look, as if it were soiled and useless evidence at a scene of murder. He picked up his pack of Benson & Hedges.
“Want one?” he offered. Mohsin kept staring at him.
Salam shrugged and lit one.
“He could be driving a different car today,” he blew out a long, slow jet of smoke. “Or be in a different town. It’s a waste of time. I don’t have the manpower or the resources.”
“Can you at least try please,” Mohsin asked. “As a personal favor? I won’t speak of it to anyone.”
Salam lowered his head, laughing softly.
“That has nothing to do with anything. You’re in Bangladesh after a long time. Things were bad before. Now they’re worse. Nothing moves without grease on the right palms.”
“He’s an Uber driver,” said Mohsin, “not some high-profile name. All I’m asking you to do is find an address from his information. You can just give it to me, and I’ll do the rest.”
Salam chuckled, irritating Mohsin.
“And then what? You’ll kick down his door like a hero in a TV show?” He laughed.
“I’ll pay him a visit, yes. And I’ll reason with him. He’s a well-spoken, intelligent young man, and I’m sure I can speak sensibly to his good judgment.”
“Good luck with that, old friend. That is, if that bloke is still in Dhaka.”
“I appreciate your situation -”
“Do you?” Salam snapped. “You, the rich, entitled brat that had his way as soon as he opened his mouth. Not a good feeling is it, to be on the other end?”
“So, you want money? To do your job? I might as well just walk into Banani or Gulshan police station and file a report.”
“If that is what you want to do, be my guest.” Salam leaned back, smirking.
“Look at where you live, Abrar. Are you telling me you’re hurting for money? Your palms must be so greased by now your gun would slip out of it.”
Salam was a veteran of insults. He laughed some more and leaned back, enjoying Mohsin’s righteousness and outrage.
A hundred more invectives raged through Mohsin’s mind. This was classic Abrar, going back to their school days, to the smallest request Mohsin would make, and that Salam would turn into a life-or-death barter. The use of a pencil or eraser, sharing his book, once even a sip of his water after a cricket game on a sweltering day. Insulting him was pointless. Instead of offending him they made him prouder.
Mohsin tried Mohammad Rabbee’s number several times, if for nothing else than to leave a harassing message, but the line got disconnected after more than two dozen rings each time.
The Officer-in-Charge at Banani Police Station gave Mohsin a look as soon as he entered that said Abrar Salam had already gotten to him. Leaning back in his swivel chair with his hands clasped over the mound of his belly, he listened to Mohsin with a smirk, then said with a shrug and a feigned sigh of compassion that the situation was long past anything he could do.
At Gulshan Police Station, he fared no better. The OIC there came outright and told him he’d been ordered by “superiors” not to entertain Mohsin’s complaint for a second.
“I know very well who this superior is,” Mohsin mumbled on his way out.
The ringing cut through a disturbing dream in which Mohsin was being held down by a gang of policemen while Abrar shot holes into his bag. When he was done, his gun slid down his hand like fresh mud flung on a wall, while he laughed like a bad movie villain.
“Have you thought about it, sir?” Mohammad Rabbee asked, gentle and coaxing.
“My answer is the same,” Mohsin replied. He opened his mouth to mention the police but thought better of it. “The only thing I can offer you is money. I have nothing else. I can’t just snap my fingers and send you to America.”
“That’s what your father did for you, I’m sure,” said Mohammad Rabbee.
“No, it wasn’t as simple as that. I had to get accepted to a university first, then apply for a visa. It’s a complicated process, like I told you already. Some of it is even luck. Go look at the line outside the US Embassy in Baridhara someday. Hundreds of men like you and me, every day, spending hours waiting for their interview.”
“Like me, maybe, but not like you, sir. I’m sure of that.”
He was right, of course. Mohsin, with his father’s connections and social privilege, had never had to stand in any line for anything.
“There’s nothing I can do, I’m sorry,” Mohsin said. “You can hold my bag hostage forever. Never give it back. It won’t change a thing.”
“Sir, can I ask you something? What if I were one of your friends? Or a family member? Would you tell me the same thing then?”
“It’s a pointless question.”
“Why, sir? Because you can’t answer it?”
“Because I don’t have time to talk in hypotheticals with you. Now, if you won’t believe me, you can do as you wish. The computer is the only thing in that bag worth anything. Sell it, get whatever money you want or can, and have a good life.” Mohsin ended the call. A moment later, feeling strangely triumphant, he stuck the phone in a drawer.
For the next half hour, it buzzed every minute on the minute. Mohsin would take much more enjoyment in the sadistic pleasure of returning angst for angst if it weren’t for the headache cutting across his skull, born of anger and hopeless frustration. The one thing he noticed was that the calls came from a different number each time. Five full minutes after they started, the calls stopped. Mohsin turned his phone off and closed his eyes.
He awoke to a knocking sound that seemed as though someone was tapping on his headboard.
“Hassan, is that you out there?”
“Shahib,” Hassan answered, “someone here to see you.”
Mohsin sat up and turned on his phone. It was three-thirty. There were so many missed calls logged that he could spend the rest of the night going through them.
“Who?” Mohsin asked, opening the door.
Half asleep, Hassan blinked at Mohsin as if it was Mohsin that had woken him.
“Dulal says it’s some driver, shahib. He won’t leave. He’s been standing downstairs, insisting to see you.”
Barefoot, his nightshirt unbuttoned, Mohsin leaped down the stairs three and four at a time.
“Where is he?” he shouted at Dulal.
The watchman threw a confused look at the gate.
“He was just here.” Dulal scratched his head.
“Open this damn thing.”
Dulal fussed with the padlock and the unnecessarily large collection of keys on his keyring. Mohsin shoved him out of the way and pushed open the gate.
The street was empty. A stray dog with scabs on its back nuzzled at his feet then trotted off toward the construction site across the street.
“Are you high on something?” Mohsin shouted.
“Shahib, he was only just now right there, where you are,” Dulal whimpered. He couldn’t believe it either.
He followed Mohsin up and down the street. Each man went around the block separately. Mohsin went as far as the Kakoli intersection. Traffic was sparse, but still busy for the middle of the night. Mohammad Rabbee would be no easier to find now than he had been so far. Mohsin stood at the corner, unkempt, barefoot, a mad, homeless man, one among the millions that haunted the city.
The Wife
Several hours later, his phone received a call again.
“Sir?” said a woman’s voice.
“Who is this?”
“Sir, please don’t be mad. This is Mohammad Rabbee’s wife.”
“What do you want? For me to give birth to a spouse visa for you? A million dollars?”
“Sir, I’m sorry for my husband’s behavior.”
“Why are you calling me then? I have nothing to give either of you.”
“I have your bag, sir.”
Keep it, Mohsin wanted to say. Hell with it. And if this had now become a husband-wife extortion scheme, he was going to shoot it in the head.
“Where is your husband?”
“Gone from Dhaka.”
“Gone? What do you mean, gone?”
“I mean, sir, he’s gone to his village home for a couple of days to see his parents. They are both very ill, sir.” There was a catch in her voice.
Mohsin didn’t believe her. This was an ambush in the making. He’d be lured into a meeting, then held hostage for a bigger price. The thought was just ridiculous enough to be real.
“Sir, please trust me when I say I’m ashamed of my husband’s behavior,” said Mrs. Rabbee. “We’re not people like that.”
“What kind of people is that exactly?”
“The way my husband is acting, – it’s not him, and it’s not me.”
Mohsin checked the time. He had class in two hours. He’d be late, and he wouldn’t have his materials, or the stack of graded papers he was overdue to return.
“What’s his problem then?”
“Sir.” She paused. It sounded as though she was doing something, finishing a task she’d interrupted to make the call. “He works very hard. And he has big dreams. He wants so much Sir, all the time. His mind gets stuck on something, and he becomes like a child. I tell him we have enough, and whatever else will come is in God’s hands.”
“Well, maybe you should make him understand that blackmailing people is the worst way to get what he wants,” Mohsin told her, refusing to feel lenient.
“Sir…Did you call the police?”
“No,” said Mohsin. “You would know if I did. Now tell me the truth, where is your husband? And why are you defying him?”
“I told you the truth,” said Mrs. Rabbee. “I’m not defying him. I’m simply trying to do the right thing. When he told me he has your bag and what he wanted, I wanted to bury my head in shame. This is what we’ll stoop to? I said to him. Never.”
“I’m guessing you don’t want to go America?”
“Why would I? They don’t like people like us over there.”
“I live there. I’m like you.”
“Sir.” She didn’t finish.
“How do you want to do this then?” Mohsin asked. “Do I come to where you live?”
“No, sir, no, absolutely not. I live with my brother-in-law and his wife, my husband’s people, and they’ll cut my throat if they see you here.”
“Then what?”
“Sir, it has to happen tomorrow, when I go out for market for the week, between twelve and one. If you can meet me in front of Shishu Park, it will be best.”
He had class at that time, but more importantly, he was still not convinced it wasn’t a setup. The upside was that it was a crowded place, in the middle of the day.
“How will I know you?”
“Sir, I’ll be in a lime green shalwar kameez with a bright yellow dupatta. Sir, please now, I have to go.”
Someone spoke to her and she hung up.
Mohsin reached the entrance to Shishu Park at eleven-thirty. The heat was unbearable. He bought a coconut water, gulped it down in three mouthfuls, went back for a second and drank that one faster. It was probably foolish to think she’d be there on time. Being punctual was antithetical to being Bengali. Add to that the traffic, and he could be waiting for hours.
On the other hand, husband and wife could be watching him right now, out of sight, munching jhalmuri and having a good laugh. He thought he had heard a strain of honesty in Mrs. Rabbee’s voice. But that could just as easily have been put on.
You’re criminals. Both of you. I’ll shout and raise hell, get the public and the police involved, shame you, have you arrested.
Mohammad Rabbee fell to his feet, grabbed his ankles, wept piteously. He was so convincing that even the constable who had taken a baton to his throat asked Mohsin for a shred of mercy. His wife pleaded, too. He’s not a criminal, sir. Just let us go and I promise, you’ll never hear from us again.
No. Mohsin was merciless. I want to press charges, put them behind bars, make an example.
Noon struck. Mohsin looked for shade but found none. He settled for leaning on one of the angled walls of the park’s entrance. The difference was startling, the cool of the whitewashed surface on his back, his hot, sweaty skin drinking the comfort through the fabric of his shirt. A rainfall of sweat was underway down his legs. His socks had long ago ceased being effective. His feet might well have tramped through a swamp.
He unbuttoned a couple buttons and puffed his shirt by the collars to stimulate airflow. The park was busy for a weekday. From inside came the rollicking sounds of rides and shrieking children. Mohsin wondered if Rabbee and his wife had children of their own and if this was a favorite family spot. Maybe they had memories here as well, from their own childhood. Maybe they met here, their romance born just on the other side of the wall supporting him. Two young innocents with ideas of love and marriage that they’d seen in movies. They couldn’t have known much about each other until their first night together as husband and wife.
He’d not had a Bengali romance. If there was such a thing. He’d met Claire in college, at orientation. They were free, dorm-living, hormone-addled eighteen-year-olds. Before the first class of their undergraduate years, they’d slept together. By the end of the first semester, they were paying rent under the same roof. Middle of sophomore year, marriage entered their conversations more often than exams or graduation or jobs. A week after they held their diplomas and tossed their caps to the heavens, they were engaged. The wedding was a December event, quiet, small, with both sets of parents, immediate family, a few friends making up the guest list.
Seven years later, they sat befuddled at their favorite Thai restaurant, not yet thirty, talking about divorce.
Mohsin went out to the edge of the curb. The bright, unmissable color scheme she’d mentioned was nowhere. He could call the number she’d called from, but he was tired, and the last thing he wanted was another verbal tussle with a Rabbee.
A yellow flash. It came from the direction of Dhaka Club. The rest of her outfit, as promised, was the color of lime. His bag was cradled in her arms, safe as a baby. He made a half wave. She saw it but didn’t reciprocate. She wouldn’t. A married woman meeting a strange man outside her class.
She made a wide arc around him, going toward the park entrance. Here comes the ambush, he thought. Her husband must be lying in wait inside the park.
She walked past the entrance, bent down, and leaned his bag against the wall where he had stood, moments ago. She’d done it in one fluid movement, like discarding trash while she walked, and kept going. No one else came out of the park. His bag simply sat there, slumped and abandoned. In a rush, he picked it up and looked around. The wife was gone. Swept into the midday crowd as swiftly as she’d appeared.
He needed to sit down, the dizziness from the heat guiding him back toward the cool wall like a kind supporting hand. Once his equilibrium returned, and the world had righted itself, he wondered if the story Mrs. Rabbee had told of her husband was true. If he even knew she was doing this. What price she’d pay for it.
He brought his phone out, and scrolled through the numbers, the impressive array of them Mohammad Rabbee had used. Mohsin would never know how. He went to the most recent one, from the day before, the one that was Mrs. Rabbee’s, and started dialing, almost in a frenzy. He hadn’t said thank you. He had never even apologized.
It was, said a recorded message in Bangla after the first half ring, no longer a valid number.
Illustration : Suman Mukherjee