Mayabee

The incident happened almost three years ago—mid-2018, July 12th. It was my birthday. But the atmosphere was anything but celebratory. The reason? Our assignment was due the next day, and I was only halfway through mine. There was a reason for that, too. I never had the right environment for writing. That day, I decided to find a quiet place where I could concentrate. After thinking it over, the first place that came to mind was our university library. There was no better place for writing. So, at the c***k of dawn, I got ready and rushed to the library. My home was nearly twenty kilometers from university, and with Dhaka's infamous traffic, the commute was no joke. By the time I arrived, it was eight o’clock. Some students had already settled in. I went straight to the farthest corner, which was usually empty. For the first two hours, everything went fine. But then, suddenly, a group of students burst through the library doors, slamming them shut behind them. They were running around frantically, as if looking for a place to hide. The librarian tried to talk to them, but before he could say anything, one of them pulled out a g*n and pressed it against his head. The room fell into dead silence. Before anyone could process what was happening, loud bangs shook the door. Someone was trying to break in. And within moments, they succeeded. A group of police officers stormed inside. Relief washed over us for a second—until the gunfire started. Bullets flew from both sides. The gunfight didn’t last long, but it was enough to throw everything into chaos. Some of the students were shot with minor injuries to their hands and legs, but thankfully, no one was critically wounded. That was the moment many of us thought, "Thank God, they're here. They’ll finally get us out of this." But we were wrong. Before we could grasp what was happening, the police turned on us. Without warning, they started beating everyone with batons. I watched in horror as one of my friends' heads was split open right in front of me. I was never one to get scared easily. But that day, I could barely breathe. The ones who were supposed to protect us had become the very thing we needed protection from. At that moment, humanity itself felt like it had died. Since I was at the very edge of the room, the police hadn't reached me yet. I ducked behind a table, trying to stay out of sight. The door had been left open since the police arrived. My only goal was to reach it—somehow. That’s when I noticed her. A girl, crouching behind another table, trying to stay hidden—just like me. I stared at her for a few seconds, my mind racing. And then, without thinking, I grabbed her hand and ran. I shoved aside everyone in my way, knocking them down if I had to. A police officer swung his baton at me near the exit, striking my side, but I didn’t stop. Not for a second. I ran straight onto the street and jumped into an auto-rickshaw. By then, the chaos had spread. The driver seemed to realize what was happening and took off at the speed of a long-distance night bus. It was only then that I remembered the girl. I gave the driver my home address, but just as I spoke, a sharp pain shot through my right kidney. The baton had hit me hard. I clenched the spot with my hand, wincing in pain. That’s when I finally felt her presence. And as everything that had just happened flooded back into my mind, I turned red with embarrassment. Who was she? I had no idea. Yet I had grabbed her hand, dragged her out, and taken her with me—without even asking! I cursed myself silently. But even then, I couldn't gather the courage to speak to her. Half an hour later, the CNG stopped in front of my house. As I got out, I asked the girl, “Where will you get off?” She tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear and lowered her head before replying, “I am staying at the hostel.” I bit my tongue—unintentionally. After a brief silence, I said, “Well, for now, come with me. You can leave once things settle down.” She got out of the CNG. But I couldn’t take her home. I was a bachelor. At the moment, I lived alone. In fact, I had no family to speak of—I had always been on my own. Taking a girl to my place under such circumstances would undoubtedly invite misunderstandings. So, I took her to a nearby restaurant. After ordering some food, I said, “Sorry! Everything happened so suddenly. You didn’t get hurt anywhere, did you?” “No.” “Well, that’s a relief.” We didn’t talk much after that. After a long silence, she suddenly said, “I thought you would take me to your house.” “I actually live alone.” “Oh!” The restaurant’s TV was broadcasting news about our campus. From what I gathered, the incident had occurred due to the ongoing protests against fascism on campus. The police had already detained around a hundred students. That was all the news mentioned. The girl, after listening, remarked, “They didn’t say the real story. I mean, they don’t know anything.” Surprised, I asked, “Then what’s the real story?” “There’s a guy in our college—Alamgir Chowdhury’s son. The protests against fascism revolve around him. But today’s incident was different. Some outsiders had infiltrated the protest, causing chaos in the crowd. The police noticed a few of them and started chasing them. That’s why they ran into the library. But once inside, the police attacked everyone indiscriminately.” “How do you know all this?” “When the police tried to separate them from the crowd, I was there. Many of them ran toward the library, sensing what was coming.” “I see.” After finishing our meal, I asked, “From what I can tell, the campus will likely be closed for a while. The hostel might not be safe either. Where will you go? Do you have anyone nearby?” She looked around, hesitated for a moment, and then said, “I’ll go to your place.” I hesitated. “Are you sure that won’t be a problem? My place is completely empty. In fact, not just my apartment—the entire building is vacant. That’s the kind of place I live in.” “No, it won’t be a problem.” I brought her to my house. The time was twelve at noon. Even though I’m a bachelor, my house is quite organized. Using my key, I unlocked the door, and we entered a dimly lit room where only a soft blue light was glowing. I turned off the blue light and switched on the main one. The girl started looking around. As human beings, whenever we step into a new place, we tend to observe our surroundings first—to make ourselves familiar with the environment. “No one ever wanted to visit my place because I live alone in the entire building. You’re the first.” “I’d be happier if you spoke informally. Do you love the color blue?” “Not just blue—blue, red, and black.” “Oh! Your place is beautifully decorated. Many people think about setting up their home like this, but very little manage to do it.” “I started doing this since childhood.” “Does your family live in the village?” “No, I don’t have a family. I’ve been alone since I was six.” “Oh! What do you do for work?” “I live in this building. That’s my job. This is a house belonging to a distant relative. I stay here as a caretaker and get paid for it. He won’t return for another seven or eight years. Until then, I need to figure something out.” “Quite an interesting life! Just a bit lonely, isn’t it?” “Yes.” That day, we talked to each other until the afternoon. We learned almost everything we could about each other in a single day. Her name was Nabila. Nabila Akter. She was a student in the FDT department at our college. She had a deep interest in psychology. I haven’t introduced myself yet. My name is Shakib. A T Shakib. Everyone knows me by my nickname. I study CSE. Unlike Nabila, I don’t have any particular academic interest. My only passion is writing—especially poetry about the strange things happening around me! Besides that, I’m an avid reader. I spend most of my time buried in books. Nabila mentioned a library she knew, filled with unique books that weren’t easily found elsewhere. She promised to bring me some. In the evening, we went out together—to the market. Leaving her alone didn’t seem right, so I took her along. I don’t usually shop for groceries much. Most of the time, I survive on fried potatoes and omelets with rice. And, of course, tea at regular intervals. But today, I had to cook something special. After all, my first guest had arrived! When we got home, she said, “Cooking is my job. You, mister, just write me a poem while I cook.” “I can only write about love apart from nature.” “No problem. Just pretend I’m your beloved. Now, get to writing.” “Alright.” Tucking the edge of her saree into her waist, she went to the kitchen with the grace of a seasoned cook. I watched her and started writing. It was all imaginary. There was no romantic relationship between us—so the words had to come from pure imagination. ❝Beloved, do you know? You breathe within my soul so deep, In waking thoughts, in dreams I keep— A love that sets my heart aglow. Do you know what I have seen? The sky in tears, the earth embraced, The rain upon us, softly traced— A moment lost in silver sheen. You and I, the steps we share, The storm above, the world so still, A touch of fate, a fleeting thrill— As raindrops glisten in your hair. Your kohl runs dark, yet your eyes remain, A mystery deep, a tale untold, Like stars that burn in midnight’s cold— A beauty drowning in the rain. Just as I spoke, the wind conspired, My gaze fell low, where longing hides, Upon your lips, where love resides— A melody yet to be inspired.❞ “Wow! Quite well-written, I must say, poet. You’re quite the romantic! And a kiss right at the beginning? Impressive!” I ran my hand through my hair and put on an innocent expression. Then, we ate together. That’s how I first met her. As beautiful as the beginning was, the ending was equally terrifying.