Laughter spread throughout the whole shop. Even Jabbar, at whom the line had been directed, joined in.

Jabbar was a rickshaw-van driver. A rental van, deposit thirty Takas. After paying the van owner whatever was left was stretched to keep body and soul together. If one owned the van then one did not have to hand over the money earned by the sweat of one's arse. Jabbar's wife had taken out a loan from BRAC and handed over to him three thousand taka. But Jabbar, instead of buying a rickshaw van, had built himself an easy-room on stilts on the bit of land by his house next to the embankment. To lie down on the room's adjoining little verandah and play the flute felt very nice indeed! But in this neighbourhood building a machan room to lie down in instead of buying a van rickshaw was equivalent to selling one's crop to build a shithouse. With so much scrub and bushes around what was the need to waste money and space in building a place to shit?

The news had reached Sobhan Mollah's ears. He was the former chairman of the union parishad. Election season was near, and he was going to run again. Election strategy dictated that he keep abreast of what was going on in his constituency. Therefore he was not unaware of the fact of Jabbar's leisure room.

Listening to the words one might think it to be a rebuke, but the tone was indulgent. So even Jabbar had not hesitated to break into laughter, exposing his shovel-like teeth.

"So is that room of yours simply to enjoy the breeze, or is there provision for some paan-cigarette smoking too?"

"If all of you one day honour it with the dust of your feet," Jabbar replied, "there will be provision for everything."

"If there's some paan and cigarettes, why, we'll visit at least once every day. What say you fellows, eh?"

The question had been directed towards his hangers-on. All of them, including others in the shop, vigorously nodded their heads in approval. One them proposed that Jabbar arrange a milad in his leisure room: "We'll bless it."

This proposal was eagerly seconded by Sobhan's Mollah's associates. A milad meant a small gathering, which would lead to good results in elections.

Jabbar however, hesitated. Sobhan Molla guessed at its cause. He told Jabbar, "Don't you worry about the cost. You arrange your room for people to sit down, and I'll provide the sweetmeats."

Immediately joyous sounds rushed out of the shop to mingle with the outside air.

Then, from the far corner of the shop a question came floating, "Milad for what, Sobhan Mollah? For your funeral?"

The voice was measured, with not even the slightest hint of a threat. Yet instantly the festive air inside the shop vanished. The question hung in the air for some time. Sobhan Mollah, his three companions, the customers in the shop, all of them wordlessly turned their heads towards the dark corner.

One from Sobhan Mollah's group blustered, "Who are you? Who the hell are you to say such things?"

The previous speaker then stood up. His shadow on the wall behind him lengthened. That shadow then gave a small, mirthless laugh, more like a snake hissing. All the people seated inside the shop stared fixedly at it as if hypnotized. The shadow said, "All of you will know who I am later. But Sobhan Mollah, you, who are you?"

"You are a murderer."

The words came from the other side of the room.

All of them turned their heads to stare in the other direction.

Somebody else too had stood up.

Then three more figures came up to the store's door.

"Sobhan Mollah, you are a grain thief!"

"You are a class enemy!"

"You are a bloodsucker!"

"You are an enemy of the people!"

The five of them carefully threaded their way between the huddled bodies of the men sitting there and encircled Sobhan Mollah.

Sobhan Mollah seemed glued to the bench. His bloodless face was visible even in the weak light. His voice rattled in his dry throat: "You, you..."

"You are right. We are Sarbahara."

Then the man stabbed him in the heart with a long-bladed knife.

Blood when it spurts does not obey any laws. Faces were spattered by sticky, live tissue. The five of them raised their hands. The veins in their necks stood out as they shouted: "Enemies of the people will die."

And though they were full-throated slogans, yet no echoing cries rose.

2.
The river lay on one side of the house beyond the sandbars, while on the other was almost a mile of rice fields. On yet another side were rows of dwellings similar to this one. In all these one-roomed homes lived their supporters and sympathizers. If trouble were to present itself from any direction, they would be aware of it far in advance.

The room had one raised bamboo cot, for both sleeping and sitting. Currently sitting there and eating rice off a flaked-tin plate was a man almost past middle age. His hair was disheveled, and white as catkins. An inch-long stubble, which too was white. He was eating the rice with lip-slurping relish; coarse-grained Irri rice, cooked red spinach and plant-stem curry. After finishing his meal he luxuriously lit a cigarette. With every inhalation the man coughed a little and a soft rattle could be heard from within his chest, but he didn't seem to care--he kept smoking the cigarette with that air of utmost enjoyment.

Four men entered the room, ranging in ages from youth to middle age. They looked at him with eyes full of respect. A very brief exchange of greetings followed. The newly-arrived men addressed him with great deference. Which was as it should be. Ssince that man was Comrade Mujibul Haq, a legend among underground revolutionaries. Someone who had given his entire life to the cause of organizing revolutionary movements on behalf of the working masses. He was a constant threat to those running the state. A bounty has been declared on his head. Though he had spent much of his life underground he had never once been caught.

Even at this age he could not sleep in the same bed two nights in a row. His asthma sometimes got the better of him, and when one saw him writhing for a little air nobody would believe that this was the legendary revolutionary. It was only his indomitable spirit that time and again brought him back from death's door.

Today for this meeting he had walked on foot for six kilometers. Nowadays his body no longer had the strength of a tiger. When he walked for ten minutes at a stretch he could hear his heart pound. Yet he had come. The first reason was that this meeting was very important; the second was that he never posted a meeting and failed to turn up.

The other four were extremely important members of the party. Their names were also fearsome to the police, to the enemies of the class struggle. Especially the youngest one, Comrade Jamshed, head of the party's armed wing.

Comrade Mujibul Haq spoke haltingly, yet his voice carried authority. He began by saying, "All of you know the agenda of today's meeting. Comrades, you know that after the founding of our party we have had to withstand multiple assaults. All such attacks we revolutionaries are ready to meet and confront. But now we are faced with an attack which we had never even thought of. That is the attack on our party's image."

Mujibul Haq paused. Everybody sat with their heads down. Then his voice exploded, "Our party is now being called by the people as the party of dacoits, of murderers for hire."

One of them protested, "Comrade, that is the disinformation spread by the bourgeoisie media."

"I am sorry to inform you that it is not just the bourgeoisie media that is saying such things. Ordinary people are saying them too."

"We should protest it then."

"Protest? One can counter misinformation and lies. How does one counter the truth?"

Silence again descended for a while in the room.

Mujibul Haq spoke again, "Being underground does not mean living in a hole beneath the earth. Underground means to melt invisibly with the masses, to be like a fish in the water. Those of us who have sworn to revolution, the people will shelter them."

"That they're doing, comrade."

"Yes, but not of their own free will. I have been informed that some of our units are taking grain from peasants by force, taking money too. What do you say to that?"

"Some isolated incidents have taken place."

"And this matter of acting as hired assassins in the name of eliminating class enemies? I'm even hearing that in some areas our men are ruling party cadres by day and revolutionaries by night."

Jamshed now opened his mouth, "Comrade, in some areas it has become impossible to operate without the shelter afforded by those in power."

" 'Those in power'? Meaning that you have lost faith in the power of the masses? That there is no faith in the power of one's ideology? Those in positions of state power are our sworn enemies."

The meeting had started at noon. Discussion and arguments went on till everybody became aware that they no longer could make out each other's faces. At around 10:30 pm Mujibul Haq stood up. He cautioned, "Be careful about new recruits to the party. A lot of listed criminals have fled from their own areas and want to take shelter within the party. We have to identify these elements and rid us of them. Otherwise we'll not survive."

He bade them goodbye and started to walk towards the river where a trusty comrade waited for him with a boat. The village was swathed in darkness. He arrived by the riverbank and waited. There was one spot over the waters where the darkness seemed to be particularly dense.. That was where the boat lay.

"Are you there, Srikontho?"

In reply a torchlight shone on his face, its beam blinding him. He became aware that Srikontho was not alone; there were four others with him. He started to say something, but a strong hand from behind caught his neck in a stranglehold. A strong, sharp blade entered his chest. Even amid the great pain, he thought it has somebody among the five! Nobody else knew about this meeting. Then he fell down. A thirty-year legend met his end in total silence!

3.
After getting the signal from the torchlight Jamshed brought the boat to rest against the riverbank . Finally, he thought, the old fool was dead!

Jamshed's companions were now the party's most intrepid and armed wing. Money too they had plenty in their pockets. Government officials sought to give them protection. The more protection they gave, the closer they would nestle in their breast, and the more they would suck their blood.

Jamshed laughed a cruel laugh in the dark. Beyond the palm trees he could hear his companions walking towards him.

The rainy season was over, yet the water slapped and licked noisily at the sandbanks. The boat rocked on coming to rest against land. He lit a cigarette, covering the match flame with a cupped palm. All around him was darkness. It was almost two in the morning.

Anwar Chairman had hired them to kill Sobhan Molla. Today Sobhan Molla's brother Khaleque Molla was to give them money to kill Anwar Chairman. Jamshed's four associates had gone to collect the advance payment from Khaleque Molla. It had been arranged that they would meet him here with the money. As his companions neared Jamshed blew out a lungful of smoke.

"Did you get the money?"

One of them answered, "Yes."

"How much?"

"Half. The rest on completion of the job."

"How much is what I wanted to know."

"One lakh."

"One lakh?" Jamshed furrowed his eyebrows. One lakh was the whole payment. Advance payment was supposed to be fifty thousand.

"One lakh? Why did Khaleque Molla give us that much?"

"It's not one hit, but two."

"Oh." The riddle having been solved, Jamshed blew out another lungful of smoke. "Who's the other one?"

His companions did not answer his question.

"Do you know the hit?"

"Yes."

"Who is it?"

Again, there was no answer.

Jamshed now was very annoyed, "What's going on? Why don't answer me?"

In the darkness he strained to look at them. It was then that he felt that they were no longer standing beside him. The four of them had neatly encircled him. He stared at them. What was going on? Suddenly he got his answer. He knew who the second hit was. He grabbed for the gun at his waist. But the net had grown tight around him, very tight indeed. All of them stabbed and swung at Jamshed's body with axes and knives.

A little later they saw by the light of the torch that Jamshed's body was now a heap of bloody meat. Then out of habit they cried out: "Death to class enemies, death to them all!"

But everybody in the faraway village was fast asleep--and so nobody echoed their slogans. Perhaps a few shifted uneasily in their sleep and turned over on their sides.

(Zakir Talukdar is a Bangladeshi writer. Khademul Islam is literary editor, The Daily Star.)
*Slightly abridged for publication.