My friend writes:

"This is the story of the two persons who are walking on thin wire at the moment. First, it is about the doings of the man called Reckonuddowla. To the dismay of the gourmets like us, this chap has been going around the city with his entourage and wreaking havoc in the kitchens of some of our mishtiwallas and hotelwallas and ice-creamwallas.

Maybe he has been able to find some stale food and some pots of industrial colour in the kitchen and extract some money out of these food houses for selling bhejal stuff, but in the process he has almost ruined our appetite for those yummy looking sweetmeats and ice-cream. The man has no compassion for the mishti lovers, I guess. Is he a diabetic or something?

We did not have to know whether sweetmeats were prepared next to a latrine with adulterated ingredients, poisonous oil and harmful industrial colour. All we care about is whether they taste good. You see, we as consumers are not aware of our health rights and we prefer to remain ignorant about it. The more you know the scarier you get. Ignorance is bliss.

This is Land of Hope, bhaiya and not any country in Europe. We drive cars worth taka two crore but remain as ignorant about basic things as the guy in the slum. And after the entire ruckus, I reckon Reckonuddowla could not totally wreck the morale of the businessmen because tons and tons of bhejal sweetmeats are being sold in the city everyday.

Then the chap had to attack the hotels and restaurants famous for delicious biriyani and kebabs! Why, baba? Maybe you are suffering from high cholesterol and blood pressure, but we are not! We grew up eating biriyani everyday and we want to die with biriyani in our mouth.

In fact, we would love to choke in it and die. Biriyani is our national delicacy. From wedding to Qulkhani we serve biriyani to the guests. We do not care how and where the food is cooked. We do not care how many biriyanis have taken how many people to their graves prematurely; we must go on consuming the food with full gusto.

No, Reckonuddowla's reckless adventures did not stop at the kitchens in the city. This time he sniffed his way in to some clinics and health centres and launched a frontal attack on the poor guys who were simply trying to make some quick bucks by selling out-dated kidney dialysis fluid, saline and blood.

What's the harm if that ensures painless deaths of the unsuspecting patients? That's like "death in comfort." Isn't that better than dying violently on the roads and rivers or in public meetings? But, this chap would not listen to any logic or reason. He would not let people die peacefully, on a bed, with a fan overhead and some nurses standing nearby. He has even ordered the police to arrest the manager of a clinic for selling the stuff. Now, everyone is mad -- mishtiwallas, hotelwallas, chanachurwallas, ice-creamwallas and clinicwallas. They want Reckonuddowla's scalp.

So, this explains the content of a press release that is sitting on my table since yesterday. It says that in order to counter Reckonuddowla's sniffing surprises the affected traders are going to form an association. They have named it the Association of Bhejalwallas. They want to come out boldly this time in one platform claiming that so long they have been doing their business under the full protection of the local police and goons from the ward commissioners' office. They have been paying huge amounts of money as "chanda" (monthly toll) to these people to keep their business going.

So, they are going to protest. It is their democratic right. The association people have already started to contact people here and there, you know where, to take the matter with the high-ups. They want to take steps before more Reckonuddowlas are born to right the age-old wrongs in this country. They are confident they would get the support from some powerful people in this noble mission. So, Reckonuddowla bhaiya, it seems your days are numbered.

Then we have this latest headache called Rubbani. Out there in some remote part of the country this man is rubbing the administration the wrong way. That's Rubbani in Kanshot. He and his people do not want houses in posh areas in the capital. They do not want tons of money or gold. All they want is electricity! Good Lord! Are they going to eat electricity or what?

The administration is angry with them. Very, very angry. So, every now and then simple villagers of Kanshot are being shot dead by the police for demanding electricity. Some months back ten people were shot dead. The week before it was four people. Then last week it was again four to six people.

In fact, the entire police academy has been temporarily shifted there by the administration for target shooting practice. Shooting at inanimate objects at chanmaris (firing ranges) can be very boring indeed, therefore, they are now taking aim at moving targets -- the expendable humans.

"Fottush ... sir ... one down ... sir .... one down! Foottush ...sir one more down ... sir ... one more down! How exciting! But, sir, how strange! The colour of their blood is red! How strange! Are those humans, sir? Shut up, constable and let me take aim. I have to take at least two down otherwise what shall I tell my son?"

Well, friend, does it sound preposterous? But this is the truth out there in Kanshot. And all this is happening because of this chap called Rubbani who has the audacity to disturb the administration for a lowly thing like electricity. The man could negotiate now with the powerful people and go home a happy and rich man. He does not have to tell his people anything about it.

Join the right kind of people and be rich, man, awfully rich. This is the chance of a lifetime. The Kanshot people will forget about their dead kin soon and hail you as a big leader once you join the powerful and return home in a large car. They would love to be covered by the dust of your car, as it would speed away towards the capital, to your new villa in the city.

Think of it, Rubbani. For your information, this is the story of most of our popular, firebrand leaders. Most of them came with one lungi and had no place to stay in the capital. Now they have numerous pairs of foreign-made suits, ties, and shoes. Today you will find all them in the most expensive residential blocks, well protected, and far away from the people.

Back home, the hungry, unprotected people will trudge along the trail of poverty just as their ancestors did."

The letter from my friend in Land of Hope ended here.

Shahnoor Wahid is a Senior Assistant Editor of The Daily Star.