Over and Over Again

Despair reigned. Anju’s frail body lay cocooned in sheaths of soft cotton. Perched on top of the antique mahogany bed, I surveyed the room like an eagle scouting the land. I wanted to cry but my voice gently fizzled in the ambers of unspoken thoughts. I was mute, silent but alert. The carriage of women, older peers shrouded in white, floated through the rooms commiserating. What a tragedy, they whispered. How can life be so cruel to such a young girl….it wasn’t accidental…they say she was pushed exclaimed others. She was so beautiful…how could she have fallen from the roof like that…and when there were other people there too, they continued... what a misfortune! Look at the catatonic father curled in a corner in the bedroom. Look at the mother, despondently pleading to have her child returned. What a shame, the women said….what a dreadful tragedy!

I was six when he started. It was never in a dark room. Shards of memories are my only proof. They rear their heads from the depths of an abysmal darkness to prick and pierce me with their truth. I can see and understand with a clarity that shields my shame. Random scenes unfold like parts of a narrative film that I cannot piece together yet am forced to replay over and over again.

I remember my pigtails bobbling up and down, my worn plaid dress brushing against me as I hurried to catch the commotion. Oh Oh Oh, I thought, I must see why the children were shouting outside. His bedroom opened out into the biggest and longest balcony overlooking our courtyard. One could stand there and glimpse the very boundaries of our neighborhood. The neighborhood, then, was bordered by lush vivid greenery that shimmered and shimmied under the sun’s adoring gaze. Here and there were patches of masked white blocks of houses protruding from the earth, aesthetically complementing and blending within nature’s dominance. Our house was the oldest. Our land the largest. Our family the foremost settlers on this once-fallow land.

I exploded through the doors, oblivious to his presence in his bedroom, and made a beeline for the balcony door. It was locked and I banged headlong into it. He laughed as he saw me rub my forehead wincing and befuddled. He materialized from the bathroom, adjusting his pajamas, and with one swift movement scooped me up to his chest. I wriggled and squirmed as he admonished me to be careful. Open the door, oh open the door, I pleaded. Laughing, he gently planted me on the floor, and unhinged the locks. Once my feet touched solid ground I plunged into the balcony fearing the commotion had dissipated just at my arrival. But it hadn’t.

Someone had thrown a brick from our rooftop and it had landed on the brand new car that Sajid bhaiya, the dashing boro bhai of the neighborhood, had bought just the day before. It was prominently displayed at our courtyard, beaming its lustrous silver visage. The windshield was broken; a huge icy gash ran across its body with hundreds of little cracks branching out like small crooked fangs. The brick lay on top, halved, exposed, and shamed. The culprit was absconding. Sajid bhaiya stood silent next to his car, disbelief penetrating every pore of his face. His mother stood slightly apart screaming and accusing anyone in sight. Shouting and cursing obscenities over and over. I leaned against the wall of the balcony, teetering on my toes, brimming with unbridled excitement. What will happen next? Who is responsible? What will Sheila mami do? Will Sajid bhaiya talk?

I heard my name softly whispered. I turned back expecting him to conspiratorially wink at our bond in relishing in other’s misfortune. But he didn’t wink. He was staring at me. Oddly. At my shoulders peeping from where the strap of the dress had fallen over my arms. At my bare legs where the dress fell in soft folds. A chill soared through my body. I took a step back unconsciously creating distance between us. He abruptly turned his back to me and returned to his bedroom. I returned to the commotion outside…

…. He had me pinned against the bed. I looked at him but his face was a blur. I could smell his warm sticky breath, as he whispered my name nuzzling my ears. His free hand was roaming, wandering, meandering, and feeling my sullied skin. He gently lowered his body on top of mine…. I looked at the locked door….he placed one of his hand gently over my mouth and whispered “ aita shudo ador…this is only affection” over and over again….

I heard my bua calling my name outside his door, the swelling panic in her voice. He emerged from the bathroom and yelled to give him a minute. He walked over to where I was lying naked, trying not to stare at the small puddle of milky liquid gathered in the folds of the bed sheet. With a soothing voice, he put my clothes on one at a time, gently repeating “…aita shudo ador…this is only affection…”

When he opened the door, my bua almost tripped in her hurry to pick me up in her arms. She started instantly chastising me for disappearing. She apologized for disturbing Choto Sahib. She assured she wouldn’t lose sight of me again. She noticed the crumpled bed, the milky puddle, and my numb state. She didn’t say a word.

I cannot remember other episodes, or even if they were more. But his stench, his kisses on my shoulders, on my chest, on my arms, on my legs, on my crevices I cannot cleanse.

As I sat quietly in a corner of that room which was brimming with disbelief and misfortune, I sighed in a relief that seemed twenty years too late. I noticed Choto Chacha in his daughter’s bedroom clutching a framed picture of him and his daughter on her ninth birthday, wailing at the injustice of his loss. Curling and uncurling my aching fingers, I remained in the corner staring at Anju’s body displayed at the center of the room, whispering voicelessly, “ it wasn’t my fault, it wasn’t my fault” over and over again.


Tisa Muhaddes believes in fairies, mermaids, unicorns, and even pots of gold under the rainbow's end. Her one searing goal in life is to actually discover a pot of gold that comes with a lifetime warranty of supply. Till that fortunate day arrives, she amuses herself by observing and noting the idiosyncrasies that compose people, her surroundings, and life in general. With a little bit of ingenuity, and a dash of magic she attempts to weave stories that craftily capture everyday experiences that make human beings at once frail, humane, endearing, and magical.

Living History

Watching the inauguration of President Obama is definitely not the end but the beginning of a new era. But this era has been long overdue. Witnessing and experiencing the stages of an epic journey undertaken by an optimistic and revolutionary team lead by a fortuitous individual is nothing short of living history. His somber and calm demeanor, his highly evolved sensibility, his insatiable aptitude to know and learn, and his sheer inspiring oratory skills makes me feel just about anything is possible in this lifetime.

I may be at the other end of the world yet I felt cradled by the tangible unity and universality that his historical presidency already incites in citizens around the globe. I feel, at once, at one with my fellow citizens in their plights, greivances, happiness etc

This monumental universalism inspires me to be a part of a social change, a generational upheavel that will bring about an era of diplomacy, sensible ruminations and planning, effective implementations, and an overall dedication in achieving beneficial results through proper and humanitarian channels.

The feud continues

The new year begins with an ill-conceived war between Israel and Hamas. It is the 11th day of the battle, Israel has sliced Gaza into two parts, rockets are still set forth, and the carnage continues.

News media repeatedly shows the death and destruction caused in Gaza and the hundreds of wounded civilians admitted in hospitals. Children are the casualties du jour.

Israel's claim to initiate such a mass scale invasion of Gaza are in self-defense, in retribution of the rockets shot by Hamas on Israeli's grounds and people, and to eliminate Hamas from the political front effectively. However one has to ask how such a disproportional invasion will determine the long-term results of the political map between Israel and Palestine?

The more images of Palestinian casualties are shown on the news media, the more volunteers line up on the doorsteps of Hamas, Hezbollah, and other such militant political machinations. What is the end result of so much carnage? Neither states are secure from each other.

Israel cannot salvage or undo the damage to their image and to their cause by the numbers of death between the two states - Israel 5, Palestine 555 to date. These numbers alone will severely undermine Israel's claims that it is a state that deals with negotiations and diplomacy foremost.

In any case, the war continues and the deaths accumulate.

Election Day Bangladesh

Yesterday, Bangladesh voted. Millions of voters made their presence felt. They voted for the other party. The party that did not reek of inhumane corruption. The public spoketh, and the public choseth. But what happens now?

Eerily, AL winning the majority of seats in parliament harks back to the 2001-2002 elections when BNP returned with a clap of thunder and lightening netting almost 2/3 of the majority votes. And look where that led us? 5 years of incessant greed and open corruption that bled the country and its citizens stark naked and dry of almost all resources and dignity. Really, who thought BNP would be re-elected again?

Sure, I have misgivings about AL and their promises to reshape, reignite, and revolutionize the lives of Bangladeshis and the country. We've all heard the speedy promises before. Jaded I am about how much they can ultimately accomplish to regain the momentum and push Bangladesh onto a progressive and solid path.

However, I am once again reminded of the sheer love and power of the Bangladesh populace. You can beat them, rob them, heckle them, spit at them, starve them, wave fool's gold at them, however, they are not ones to stay down for too long. Bangladeshis have spirit, they have strength, and they have an inherent tenacity to fight for their country and their rights. So what if we have unwittingly handed the reins to control our fates to evil doers, haven't we wrested the control back? Haven't we shown them that deceive us for too long and the roof will be crashing upon your heads?

We are a mighty nation, that feeds on poetry, literature, love, and the pursuit of individual and communal prosperity. But we are not fools. You cannot run away by robbing us. Let us hope AL learns from BNP's vast mistakes and truly works for the people and the country that gave birth to their existence.

Ssssh...abortion

The new I-pill advertisement has a unique angle in convincing the public to use i-pill as their desired morning-after pill. The angle being that the girl in the story can forgo anguish and the prospect of having an abortion IF she only had taken an i-pill after unprotected sex. The ad caught my attention for two solid reasons. Firstly, when the ad rolled I thought it was a PSA cautioning against unprotected sex, and so while on that angle the ad was doing a remarkable and stirring job of connecting and conveying the traumatic experiences involved in having abortions. However, once the i-pill box abruptly floats on to the screen at the end consciously curtailing the conclusion of the girl's fate in the story I was left with a bitter and perturbed after taste. The angle could have been better utilized. More importantly, the ad completely failed to underscore the preventative aspect of sex i.e. always use condoms if you want to avoid unplanned pregnancies. Displaying i-pill as a viable solution for mistakes does not properly educate, prevent, or dissuade the naive public. The public must be educated and assured incessantly and consistently that unprotected sex can lead to several undesirable consequences such as STDs and pregnancies. But then India has implemented several effective messages in various media in sex education. But what about Bangladesh? Having a huge billboard on Gulshan one circle (although quite refreshing and ballsy) of a condom brand doesn't make much leeway in educating the public that unprotected sex is a big NO NO. The Bangladesh media must embrace whole-heartedly and propagate resolutely sex education to all layers of the social stratum. Even at the cost of severe public embarrassment and even if completely uncultured. The more well educated the public is about sex ed the less chances of girls undergoing at times life threatening abortions to rectify completely preventable mistakes.

The Iron Curtain of Sex

Looking for a young unmarried individual willing to openly disclose their sexual histories? Do you fit the bill? Are you daring to have sex before marriage? Is premarital sex a gender-biased act? The debate rages on and the opinions espoused by young adults in their twenties hailing from diversified socio-economic milieus are startling. The most vocal adults readily communicating their perspectives come from the most surprising quarters.

Virginity, particularly female virginity, is a sacred social establishment. As one female individual in her late twenties from an prosperous background states, “basically growing up here we have been conditioned never to talk about it…. hence pms {premarital sex} is considered a dirty, vile thing….” Her assertion exemplifies the factors that govern, oppose, and shroud the concept of premarital sex - social conditioning armored with religious tones propagated and heralded in sync with the social stigma associated with the act of engaging in sexual intercourse.

And how does male virginity factor within the same cultural and social umbrella? Men across the social horizon assert it is “quite natural and ultimately necessary” to indulge in sexual intercourse before marriage.

However does premarital sex and sexual liberation depend on the level of the social echelon you inhabit? Is premarital sex more acceptable and expected among the upper ranks while the bourgeoning middle and lower classes are shackled by cultural and societal expectations? Both genders have stringent and divergent opinions on that matter.

In talks with young female adults from Dhaka University and private universities, there are currently two schools of thoughts. One reverentially opposes all sexual activities as a desecration of the social custom of abstinence. Annie, 21, a Dhaka University student strongly states, “In general, the social rules should not be broken...they should be adherently followed.” Labona, 22, agrees by noting, “sex should happen after marriage.” Mashuma, 22, echoes similar sentiment “premarital sex is uncultured!” The other thought allows females to engage in premarital sex as long as their relationship with their male partners culminates in marriage. Saika, 22, says, “ premarital sex depends on personal preference”. And Shammi, 22, states “sex is a need so people should give into it.”

Females from affluent backgrounds appear to be supremely elusive on this topic. The ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy is rigorously enforced. They indicate their opinion on premarital sex is ‘progressive’, yet they would rather not partake in the social dialogue. They further imply their sexual liberation solely depends on ‘absolute discretion’. Several females, also, admit abstaining from sexual activities due to the social mechanism that educates them to hide behind their chastity belts. Deviation from this doctrine is inconceivable and will shatter the very foundations of their adult identity. As one female, 26, notes, “This is what I know….I cannot act otherwise.”

Within the upper social stratum, males are seemingly tolerant of their female partners having a sexual past, albeit not an extensive one. In some cases, it is expected that both genders will have engaged in past sexual pursuits. As one male, 28, notes, “Physical intimacy and compatibility are vital to a successful marriage and premarital sex gives an opportunity to discover that before getting into a binding commitment such as marriage.” However, males from this socio-economic field think twice before seducing virgins. Their rational being that virgins ‘undoubtedly expect marriage’. In addition, some of them further assert that the sexual inexperience of virgins is ‘a big turn off’.

More young men from the middle social sphere expect their future brides to be uninitiated in sexual matters. Abir, 25, authoritatively says, “premarital sex is okay…but when I marry I prefer a virgin bride.” It seems premarital sex is a given prerogative for males only. However there is also a rival philosophy. Hasib, 25, states, “premarital sex is a necessity…regardless of how many people disclose it…not having sex affects mentally and physically.” Adnan, 24, readily agrees to premarital sex as long as “both parties are consensual”. But the young males practicing this particular attitude opines while sex before marriage is justified and warranted, “random sex’ with several partners is ‘perverted’ and socially deplorable.

At the end, premarital sex is a complex and a deeply personal topic. Contrary to the males of the upper echelons decreeing premarital sex is a ‘social norm’; sex before marriage and the social stigma it carries has a paramount impact on the individuals especially upon females; irrespective of their socio-economic backgrounds. While males may have the sexual emancipation to experiment and identify their sexual needs; females are encouraged to either unwaveringly honor their chastity belts or covertly engage in sexual activities. Furthermore, broaching the topic of premarital sex instantly unleashes evasiveness upon the individuals. Unfortunately, the looming social stigma curtails any form of open and honest discourse about the sexual liberation of both genders.

In a Brief Second

As she lay nestled in the hollows of his body, deeply inhaling his poignant scent, she stared beyond the windows into the waking sky. Has anyone felt such tranquillity as I, she thought? Her body warmed by their heat, her hair cascading down the pillows over his slumbering form, she gingerly traced his heaving chest, up and down with her fingers in perfect rhythm with his heart. She inched closer and closer to his body, hungry to have their flesh touch.

A lone crow's pitiful cry caught her attention. The first streaks of dawn were splashed across the horizon. A misty gray dipped in brazen bronze appeared behind the cloudless veil. In a few hours, he will be stirring and grudgingly waking for work. The weekends seem so short now that summer was in full swing. Yawning and stretching her arms, she hesitated between getting up for a quick run or prolonging the lazy contentment in bed. The health nut in her won and she quietly got out of bed.

The arousing sun by now faintly lighted the room. She silently foraged through her closet and extracted a pair of track pants and a comfy t-shirt of his. Once dressed, she walked over to his side of the bed and sat softly on the edge. He was flat on his back with one arm casually resting above his head on the pillow, the other arm resting in the empty spot that her body had vacated. Her heart swelled staring at him. As she bent to leave a soft kiss on his forehead, a whiff of his scent flooded her with delicious memories. Goosebumps erupted. Five years of togetherness hadn't diminished her cravings one bit. Five years of togetherness hadn't dissipated the fervour they generated together. They were intertwined together, their lives fated to leap and bound over each other. She longed to stay behind, cradling around his body once more, but his words of wonder at the sudden formation of a belly cajoled her to stick to her morning fitness. She knew he hated excess of any kind, especially excess of flesh. She, too, wanted to look fit and stunning for the upcoming events as well.

In ten minutes, she was outside her building, heading towards the park. As the morning light slowly torched the mirrored towers, the city seemed to stir herself awake. She already recognized many neighbours out for their morning runs as well. They nodded or grunted greetings as they passed each other. Early mornings were her favourite part of the day in New York. The absence of large crowds at that time imparted the sensation of the city truly belonging to her and only her.

As she neared the park, she changed the track on her ipod. She retrieved the wedding album selections and opened it. Now was the perfect time to sort out those songs. She had been neglecting this pivotal aspect of their wedding plans for many days now. Work always took precedence in this part of the world. This hour of solitude served as the perfect opportunity to sort out her music. The end of summer would soon be nearing and she did not have much time left before she had to send her final approval back to their families. She relished in the detailed work and attention that entailed planning such an elaborate series of events leading to their wedding.

The large iron gates guarding the park beckoned runners to enter into its verdant belly…

He moved in his sleep from one side to another. Instinctively, his arm rested on the vacuum left by her absence. He jerked his head towards the emptiness, adrenaline soaring through his body as he belatedly realized she must be on her morning run. Dropping his head once again on the pillows, he rolled on to his back staring at the ceiling. Don't go now, a little more he vainly pleaded as sleep swiftly evaporated. The bed clock read six thirteen. Light flooded the room. Annoyance piqued as she had forgotten to close the curtains before leaving. She was becoming quite preoccupied with the planning and more and more absent-minded, he thought.

Instead of sleeping, his mind meandered over ordinary planes. His new plans for his small art management company flashed in his head. He had discovered a new talent that was on the periphery of making a brash statement in the art world. His new discovery could single-handedly reconstruct his company bringing in enough revenue to expand his business. As a failed painter, a deficiency he realized and accepted way before it became a handicap, he re-directed his love for art into a business that located, nurtured, and marketed new painters who would ordinarily never get a foot into the competitive and ruthless art world. As a person he found it quite gratifying to know he controlled the fates of the artists in his hands. He could make them or break them. It was no wonder that many of his new discoveries were females. He was quite well known in the art world, numerous articles cited him and some even ran profiles of him in their arts section.

His newest asset gave him immense satisfaction. She was unconventional and quite titillating. Her craft was seductive and surreal, provocative and primal, sultry and supreme. She was his new obsession. Cassandra Hudson rolled off his tongue in a brazen sexual manner. Her presence evoked long-repressed fantasies that he had forgotten. He felt rejuvenated, revitalized, and young around her. He could almost convince himself he was enamoured with her. But he wasn't a fool.

A distant siren ended his reveries. He checked the clock again, she was running late. Usually she would be back by now making breakfast before the mad dash to the showers. His eyes briefly rested on the framed picture of them. It was taken last Christmas, at a noted art critic's soiree, where he was galvanizing the art world with his latest profile in a prestigious art magazine. He was ensconced between them both. She had one arm tightly coiled around his side. Cassandra was wrapped around his other side. Both of them smiling for the camera. He was looking at something, or was it someone, away from the camera's prying eyes.

His mind tiptoed around the wedding preparations. She insisted that it took place in their country. He found this a comic notion considering they hadn't lived there long enough to claim possession. A country that was mistakenly identified as being their own by ill-fated births. A distant and detached land that faintly hinted of ownership. But he gave in to her. He usually did. He found it easier to go along with her instead of arguing his ground. Less resistance and more distractions for her. More distractions for him too.

She should be back by now. Maybe he should put the coffee pot on the stove…

She was heavily panting, her breaths caught between her throat, sweat clinging to her hot skin. She picked up her pace as she sighted the park's exit. She knew she was running behind time. Dread of a bulging belly drove her to exceed her usual number of laps. He must be up by now, definitely already in the kitchenette, brewing the coffee pot, settling down with the papers, waiting for her. She smiled at the image of him waiting for her.

As she finally emerged from the park, she stopped before the traffic signal. Traffic was already snaking along the road leading towards midtown. She strained to see the clock embedded in the colossal building dwarfing the park. She squinted as the sun's blare prevented her from seeing. As the green light flickered faintly, she sprinted across the street. A scorching burst of bright light knocked her sideways and she felt herself suspended in mid-air. She instinctively shielded her eyes from the intense glare. But the glare transformed into a pain that she never imagined. Garbled screams echoed in the background. An immense terrible pressure descended upon her. Her legs buckled under her and the ground rushed to embrace her. Her eyes pricked with annoyance as the distant cacophony inched closer and closer. A series of fading images rushed through her mind…images of him…of them…of him and her…of him and the other one…of them together…of him alone…of her alone…. Stop buzzing, move out of my way, I need to run home…I must select the songs…he's waiting for me…what is that song buzzing in my ears….

He heard the bell from the shower. He was waiting for her to open the door. When the bell kept on ringing, he emerged from a premature shower, annoyance blazed on his face. Where was she? Why was she so late? She was going to make him late now. She should have been here by now. He wrapped a towel around his lower torso and marched to the door. He called out her name. No answer. He looked around the room for signs of her return. Her trainers weren't tossed aside on the floor. There was no new coffee pot brewing. Her dirty clothes weren't thrown carelessly thrown on the bedroom floor.. She was late and now he would be late too, he muttered to himself, so inconsiderate of her to put him in this spot. He opened the door. Two policemen. Strange he thought.

"Mr. Imran Rahman?" asked one of them.

He nodded.

"Do you know a Ms. Areena Kha-der?"

He nodded, noting the enunciation of her last name. Quader, you half-witted American townies.

"We have some bad news…"