The Big Olives
 By Sabreena Ahmed 

 

Shaju was running as fast as he could. He had four big olives in his pockets…………

 

He had to reach the ground of  Mithapukur High School as soon as possible. Himon, Sohel and Majid would come from the other sides.

 

Being the eldest of a poor family from the filthy methor potti, this 13 year old had to shoulder the responsibilities of earning money. He collected paper scraps from the dustbins and sold it to a local recycling factory. Everyday his mother would go out to do part time maid’s work in the rich people houses in the neighbourhood. Though she was dark, her straight, firm body attracted many men in the slum. But no one dared to make an advance for her ill-tempered nature and the habit of abusing everyone. This probably was one weapon with which she could protect herself from other males. She was known as Paan Bibi to everyone. After doing the household chores at other houses, she used to sell paan in the streets. Shaju’s two younger sisters Korimon and Putul helped their mother by making the khilis of paan with yellow and red coloured coconut crumbs. Korimon looked after the cooking and cleaning of the house. Sometimes, when the waste water flowing down the drain between between the two huts swelled, she had to rush out to the main road and call the Methor uncles to help remove the obstacles in the drain before the water flowed inside the hut. Taking care of Putul was also one of her key responsibilities
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A week ago Paan Bibi had dragged Shaju out from the adult adda group of the boys. They were in the habit of smoking and drinking. Some of them even got caught selling pornographic CDs by the police. She did not want her son to be a part of this group.

Shaju whined: “I went there only to play danguly, Ma.”
“You won’t go there anymore.”Paan Bibi replied firmly.
“You insulted me in front of everyone.”
Paan Bibi looked at her son and slapped him hard with all her strength. The unexpected strike threw Shaju to the street and his lower lips hit the cycle pump of the road side rickshaw mechanic. A corner of his lower lip started bleeding. Shaju had promised not to talk to her mother again.

The existence of the man called “father” could be sensed in their lives every two or three years. He was a fencidile addict who moved from one location to other but would never provide any financial support to Paan Bibi for the family. Shaju would only remember that his father once gave him a small, red, plastic car to play with in his childhood. He kept it safely in the small wooden box inside the trunk. Father then stayed only for a month. A year after his disappearance, Korimon was born. The next time he came it was dark and it was raining hard. The rain dripped in from the hole in the roof and fell in the bucket underneath. He came in quietly and closed the door. The air inside the small straw thatched hut was humid; the smell of soggy earthen floor was unbearable. Shaju could feel the Korimon’s arms around his waist, she was in sound sleep. Mother had laid Korimon beside him for some reason. Shaju heard two whispering voices and a rustling sound in his dream.

“You shouldn’t……children are sleeping there.” A female voice said
“Shut up…………” Ordered the male voice.
Someone was slapped…….the sound of whimpers dissolved into Shaju’s sleep.
The next year both Shaju and Korimon were happy to have a newborn Putul in the house.

 

Shaju was running as fast as he could. He had four big olives in his pockets………..

Her dearest little sister Putul demanded for a clay made jackfruit-shaped coin bank.  He would buy it for her with his own money. He won’t take money from Paan Bibi. How could she hit her own son in public! He was not a child anymore!
Majnu Miah of the regular adda had given Shaju a task. He was good man. He never refused to help whenever young people requested for money from him. He promised to pay Shaju taka 200 if he would throw the olives amidst the large meeting being held in the school ground and addressed by S.M. Kader. But he had to throw them at the right time simultaneously with all the others. Shaju wanted to accomplish his first work flawlessly. Then Majnu Miah would help him more. May be Shaju would not have to collect scraps from the dustbin anymore.

 

    Shaju ran his hands on both the pockets of his pants.
“Yes, they are right in place.”
The the red and green triangular paper flags hung in twines were moving merrily in the breeze. The speeches of people of the stage could be heard from the loud speakers. But the words could not be clearly understood. Shaju could see the huge crowd in front him. He walked faster. Seeing a mango tree on the left side, he climbed up a few branches and looked towards the three other sides of the field. Sohel and Himon had reached their positions. Only Majid and he were lagging behind on the eastern and southern sides. Shaju should hurry up……… he had to reach the betel nut tree by the Nanda Pukur on the eastern side of the ground. He should have started out earlier.

While climbing down quickly, Shaju jumped from the second last branch of the mango tree. Instead of landing on both his feet, he slipped and fell to the ground on the right side of his body.
Booooooooom!

Everywhere there were screams of terror. Everyone was running for his life. A few of the people stepped on Shaju’s body while they fled away.
Shaju tried to call out for help in vain. He felt the blisters on his right side spreading quickly all over the body. It seemed to be burning. The effort to move his right hand was futile. He could see Putul’s smiling face with two little pony tails tied with yellow ribbon nodding and the warning of Paan Bibi echoed in his ears.

 

Two of the green olives blew off at the wrong place.
And a life ended before its right time.

 

 

 

Footnotes: Methor Potti is the lane where the sweepers/cleaners of the city live. It is a poor, slum area.
                Paan is betel leaf.
                Adda means chit-chat of friends in a gathering.
                Khili is the conic shape of Paan with betel nut and other edibles inside it.

 

 

 

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