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Spotlight

That All-Important "N "

Naomi Ahmad

He was wandering around aimlessly in the mall. People gave him suspicious dark looks; but he still kept on gliding through the crowd. He saw the lines of stalls in the food court, the crowd buzzing around excitedly, the groups of happy teenagers in front of the CD stores. But nothing touched him; the laughter, the smells, nor the youthful vibes.

Taking the escalator down, he passed a glittering store. He tried not to look at the displays, but somehow found himself looking from the corner of his eye. It was still there! Hanging near him was the bight red dress that his youngest sister, age 5, had longed for. It was almost a week ago. On one of the rare family outings that they had, his sister had taken a fancy to a red dress. But it was one of those luxuries his middle income family couldn't afford to enjoy. He felt her jaw muscles tighten at the thought of that
bitter disappointment in his baby sister's eyes.

He stood in front of the store, looking in through the display window. Fingering the bundle of crisp notes in the pockets of his worn out jeans he stood, a prisoner of his own thoughts. I have more money in my pocket right now than what my father would have in a week! But gripping the bundle he knew it wasn't his to spend.

He looked like just another thin waif. But no one could have guessed that this shabby boy, in the worn out jeans, dirty fotua and scuffed shoes was carrying six thousand taka in his pockets. He was the unlikeliest person to be involved in this business. But his job was to sell the stuff, bring back the money to the gang and then he would get his due share. And to think that selling only 20 yaba would fetch six thousand taka!

He knew his share was one-sixth of what he managed to sell. So today he had earned a thousand for himself. A thousand would only get him three or four yabas. Was that enough for the day? He looked again at the red dress, and thought of the thousand that was his to keep. He could almost imagine the surprise in his baby sister's eyes. How she would grab the packet and run around the house, showing it to everybody. Look what boro bhaiya has bought for me! She would tear open the packet with her small hands and squeal out in joy at the sight of her dream come true. And then she would jump up and encircle his
neck with her chubby arms.

But the familiar pain stirred up again. The cravings came back and he knew that in an hour it would hit him bad. He sighed; took one last one look at himself in the window of the shop. Three or four yaba would only last a few hours. I shall just have to sell more tomorrow...

It is funny how like a circle he kept coming back to the starting point of all this. If only I had said that all-important "NO" in the first place. Turning away with disgust he started to make his way back.

(Student, Department of Media and Communication, Independent University, Bangladesh)