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Qazi Mustabeen Noor

My name is Konok. “Golden,” like the Harry Styles song, and “Koni,” for short. My almost-name was Chuni. It didn’t stick because we already have a Ruby in the family.

On a Pohela Boishakh afternoon forever ago, Ruby apa, our eldest, got into an argument with her school clique. She was up in arms about how the shari is not a deterrent to mobility, and how our grandmothers and their mothers and their mothers before them have accomplished every possible thing with their achol tied to their waist like a cummerbund.

“Their kids were in a shari-sling all the time, they jumped into the water, climbed trees, sat down in a squat to cut vegetables on a boti. We just end up wearing it for special occasions, what a shame!”

“What a shame indeed, but can you do it? Parbi na bole dilam,” said a rather level-headed friend of hers. “It isn’t practical. Either wear it on special occasions or maybe to the office at best. I don’t really see a use for it otherwise.”

Ruby apa, who had the air of a South Indian heroine about her, was overcome with a spirit of adventure. “Bet lagbi?” she challenged, taut as a bow, ready to launch into action. The wager was decided on the spot, and up-up-up went Ruby Rizvi! In the blink of an eye, she was on the highest branch of the guava tree just beside our house. I had climbed it before with my brother Heerok, to retrieve shuttlecocks from the roof, or even racquets, in winter. And how can we forget Shakrain, the festival of kites? Heerok, our in-house kite-flying expert, always checks the guava tree first for the unfortunate victims of his “bhokatta.” One has to be careful while retrieving those kites. Their strings are always razor-sharp–the result of a good “manja,” and you don’t want to get cut on your way up. Climbing that tree from the bottom, that too in garb doing everything in its power to work against you, is a heroic feat indeed. By the time Maa came out, choppol in hand, Ruby apa had gracefully landed back on the rooftop, not a pleat of her shari askew. “Petni, Shakchunni! Get off at once!” screamed Maa. Ruby apa simply curtsied and went back inside amidst enthusiastic cheers.

“Bedi ekta!” said Dadumoni when she heard. Quite the lady indeed.

Speaking of ghosts, bhoot, petni and the mean green Shakchunni, this is what our millennial sister passed down to us: a love for horror podcasts. In 2008, nobody had even heard the word “podcast” before. It was the golden age of FM radio in Bangladesh: everyone was listening on their Motorola flip phone, or that unbreakable Nokia with the snake game. For the morning commuter, there was the RJ of the morning show with a feel-good playlist, and for the serious office-goer types, the news bulletins came at every hour, plus the political talk shows which divided the nation like the Red Sea. “A buttcrack, more like,” supplied Heerok, my twin.

Then there was our type of show. The RJ with their raspy, mysterious voice, the bone-chilling sound effects of a witch’s cackle or the blood-curdling howl of a wolf; and there would be some stories. You won’t believe, Russel bhai, what happened next! the invited guest would cry, shivering in their seat, reliving that horror as though it had actually happened. Ruby apa’s favorites were these horror shows that aired at midnight: Bhoot FM being her pick of the litter. On summer nights, she would gather us kids, set up all the patis on the rooftop and have us bring all our pillows. Then we would start listening.

Ruby apa’s annoying habit of heckling saved us from many a heart attack back in the day. Whenever the studio wind would woosh a bit much or the jumpscare sound effects would become all too real, she would say something like, “Ufff, isn’t that convenient? A roommate whose hand just grows long and turns the light switch off? I’d kill for one like that!” or “Yeah, your Russel bhai will never believe it.” Getting scared is fun, but there’s always a limit. Ruby apa understood the limits, and I’d say, still does.


I’ll spare you her university life, prem-bhalobasha, heartbreaks, but Ruby Apa’s office needs an honorable mention. Not many Puran Dhaka girlies get to work in shiny Banani startups where people bring their golden retrievers in for mass-petting. Parvez bhai was bound to take notice of this strange colleague who waved at the fancy dog but wouldn’t go gaga over it like the rest of them. “Not a fan of dogs?” he asked Ruby apa.

“Huge fan. I was just thinking about the dogs in my area, and what biscuits I can get for them today,” Ruby apa had said matter-of-factly.

“Tell me about the dogs in your area then, what biscuits do they like?”

“Energy Plus! Great as a quick pick-me-up. I try to get them proper meals too.”

From that day on, Parvez bhai’s world became the crinkly blue wrapper of Energy Plus biscuits. At their wedding, our Bagha, Bhulu, Hachi, Kashi and Gunda were treated, some would say, even better than the invited guests.

Sounds like the perfect love story, don’t you think? But what if I tell you that Ruby apa knew exactly what she was doing?

On the night of Ruby Apa’s holud, as things were wrapping up, we sisters and Heerok were gathered around her on the makeshift stage on the rooftop. We were all cozied up with pillows, as if huddling to hear the radio, but this time it was, as Ruby apa had termed it, “A life lesson for my sisters and brother.”

“Shotti kore bol dekhi, what kind of a person am I usually?” Ruby apa demanded to know. Her outstretched hand rested on a stool so it wouldn’t tire. Who was her henna artist you ask? Panna apa, of course. She may be deficient in iron and vitamin D, may be lactose intolerant and allergic to many things, but her hands are the steadiest in the family. Parents like to use those cliches about her: handwriting like pearls, and that other kids should wash her feet and drink her dirty foot-water to get grades like hers. She expertly hid the letter “P” in the henna design she drew on Ruby apa’s hand.

“Loud, scary, onek joss?” Heerok’s answer.

“Tough on the outside, but very kind too,” said Neelu, our youngest. I’d done her henna a few minutes ago. It was still drying, so no sudden movements for this sweet creature.

I decided to be nice to her since she’s leaving tomorrow. “Apa, you’re very principled about your causes.” This isn’t a lie, but she’s no sanity basil leaf bathed in milk either, is what I’m saying.

Satisfied with the answers, Ruby apa nodded at us and began, “When there’s an opportunity, try your best to lunge at it without letting anyone else know. Eije dhor, the story about Parvez and the street dogs. Do you think everything started there? Nope.”

Heerok started saying something along the lines of, “What do you mean? You said you didn’t even notice him. What is this behavior?” but Panna apa glared at him. Let the woman talk.

Ruby apa resumed, “I’m a simple girl from Puran Dhaka at a posh startup; if I go in there acting like that, I’m finished. So, I walk in with the biggest smile on my face, get all the pop culture references, and keep the gossip within earshot. I don’t care much about the job anyway; I want to keep making jewelry and build that business up, so it’s just supplemental income.” She cleared her throat. That was my cue to give her a sip of tea.

“Yeah, the job gave me a plan B. What if my karigor doesn’t deliver or the designs are a flop, thik kina? Also, I couldn’t keep making Koni work for free as a social media manager, I needed a proper, professional one ASAP.” We all understood that much, but what next?

“You think I didn’t notice when the startup founder noticed me? This is an insult. Wear sharis at an office full of kurtis, tees and jumpsuits? That’s your “not like other girls” card. Gets you noticed. Don’t pet the cutest golden retriever ever, but feed street dogs? Gets you noticed. But now, the important part: Be a bit naïve sometimes.”

“And how exactly?”

“What would I have said to someone else asking why I didn’t pet the pretty dog?”

Panna apa mumbled, “Adopt, don’t shop” and “That dog is just a status symbol,” all the while piping out swirls and vines from the henna cone, not once looking up.

“When Parvez asked, I was about to blurt one of those lines out like Koni would have.”

I gulped down my urge to say “hey!” or “no fair!”

Ruby apa took notice. “Quick learner, very good. I decided to flip the script, something to appeal to the senses and the heart. I love dogs as much as you all do, of course, but why not? Why the heck not?”

Heerok’s entire world came crashing down. He let out a little shriek and said, “Apa, tui gold digger?”

“Of course! I design jewelry, remember? And we are all named after gemstones!”

The trouble started a week after the last of the wedding festivities had ended.

Everyone was busy that night, even Heerok, who usually wants to binge an anime or serial. “Chol, let’s start Jujutsu Kaisen or finish up what’s remaining of Jojo,” he’d suggest, but he was nowhere to be found. I flipped through Netflix and couldn't make it past My Demon’s OST: Tell me the truth / This is the end / I feel I’ll lose myself. How very original. I decided to take a shawl and go up to the rooftop.

Things were dark out. It takes a while for things to get dark in a city unlike villages, and Dhaka never sleeps. The sky is a bluish yellow for a bit and then things start to roll—the yellow turns more fluorescent, the setting sun adds some pinks and reds, the void of the night sky darkens the colors, and then swallows them up. I realized as I stepped out that it was past that stage and a bit misty. I shivered a little, even with my shawl around me. Turning to the right to face the guava tree I… nope… turn around, head back, slowly. Yes, good. Nope, nope, nope, nope.

On the guava tree, perched on the tallest, sturdiest branch, sat a certain somebody. Big hair, slender limbs, legs dangling in the air like she was having a lot of fun. It was too dark to see her face, but I saw her clothes alright: a white shari with a red border running through the sides, “shada shari laal paar,” like you wear for Pohela Boishakh. The white of the shari brought out something even more unusual: the green tint of her skin. Her white teeth bared in a growl or a grin, one or the other. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the eyes, and I left before I could.

I know what you’re thinking. I had almost said, “Apa tui?” to whatever that was, but that wasn’t her, nope, not Ruby apa. I know my sister intimately and that wasn’t her hair, and that wasn’t her smile. That wasn’t her shari either. It was too dated to be in any of our closets. Even Panna apa’s.

More importantly though, she wasn’t even around. Not in Dhaka, not even in Bangladesh. Ruby apa was in Koh Phi Phi for her honeymoon. The newlyweds had left two days ago; I saw her Instagram stories in the morning, and we texted too. She couldn’t possibly have come back so soon.

I kept it to myself for three days and stopped going to the rooftop at night. I had to keep tabs though, so I looked at the guava tree through the kitchen window every night.

She was there alright, every time. Unmistakably spectral, otherworldly for sure, a ghost who likes her greens. A thing of legends in the countryside: a Shakchunni.

I grabbed a hold of both Neelu and Heeru one evening to ask them the standard question: do you see anything on the guava tree or do you not?

“Where do I look? Branches or the hollow? No way! Are there baby owlies in the hollow again?” and “Nothing at all, is this a trick question?” were the responses. I had to disappoint the little one with the lack of owlets in the hollow, saying “No, it’s nothing.”

I thought hard about Panna apa during my walk, but every lead about her dried up. She’s not the type to joke around, nor does she have the headspace or energy to plan such an elaborate prank. I didn’t say “time” and energy, because she does have a lot of time on her hands. Panna apa goes to her university, reads in transit as much as the crushing crowd allows her to, reads during class if she doesn’t like it, reads on her way home, and reads at home till 9 PM, straight to bed after. Her wearing a wig is out of the question; she would need my help with that sort of thing. Is she lazy? Yes and no. Too lazy perhaps to climb a tree and scare kids dressed as a Shakchunni, but she always has this project or that going on. Then there’s this other issue, she’s stick-thin and her body is nothing like the woman on the tree. She may be a bit hard to understand, but I know this sister of mine intimately too.

Which is why I didn’t ask her if she could see it. Panna apa rejects the supernatural. Not only that, when we were younger, she would skip our nightly Bhoot FM sessions too, as if she were above those things. As far as I remember, she had just one comment about things that are a bit up in the air.

After her HSC she got into every possible university in the city, even the ones outside of Dhaka that she reluctantly traveled to just for the entrance exams. I tippy toed into her room and sat down on her bed on one of those days. She was on the rocking chair hugging her knees to her chest, a book lodged in that cramped little space, her eyes glued to it. Bad posture like a shrimp, like L from Death Note. She even has hollow eyes to match.

“Apa, ki porish?” I couldn’t read the cover or spine because it was clothbound, so a bit less likely to be blown off with a, “Can’t you see?”

“Maitreyi Devi’s Na Hanyate. You’ve read the other one too, right? The Mircea Eliade book?”

Fantastic. Panna apa, that too in a good mood. I met her at her level as much as I could, “Yup! La Nuit Bengali gave me the heebie jeebies. People find it so romantic but…”

“Yeah, this book is written in response. Some white man doesn’t get away with giving us the heebie jeebies.”

“Love Maitreyi Devi so much, bedi ekta!”

“She was indeed. Now tell me, what’s up?” That’s Panna apa, never gets carried away.

“Apa, you made it into DU, JU, and whatnot, but why didn’t you try other places? Abroad, I mean.” This is genuinely something that bothers me to this day. Panna apa is “one piece made karigor is dead,” she’s the pride and joy of the family as much as I hate saying it. We may not be rich like Ruby apa’s in-laws, but we’re not doing all that bad financially. Couldn’t we have arranged something for her? People a lot less accomplished are going places all over the world. Couldn’t we have sent her to HKU or NUS or something?

Panna apa looked up and studied my face for a bit. “No regrets,” she said rather flatly.

“Why not at least try at some schools? There’s still time!” I’m sure our restless, ambitious Ruby apa would ask her the same question. I'm an “almost Ruby” after all, but got turned into gold.

“Jodi thaake nosibe, apna apni ashibe,” a smile and right back into the book she dips. A strong proverb, this one: if it’s fated, or meant to be, it’ll come to you. If it’s written in the stars, on your forehead, in your koshthi or the horoscope section of the paper, it’ll come to you by itself. “It,” the whatever it is that you want, will grow legs, and walk to you if it comes to that. There you have it, her very short comment on fate.

That’s it, I thought, I’m not sharing my Shakchunni sighting with her. She would laugh or scowl at me; my ego wouldn’t be able to handle it.

It’s not like I had ruled Heerok out completely, I did think to share with him what I saw. I was sure, though, that he had no hand in having somebody climb a tree and scare me for a whole week. I decided to keep it to myself, because we don’t have what people think is a “twin connection.” He wouldn’t exactly be the most sympathetic.

A week passed, a fortnight, a month. I wasn’t eating much. My routine was the only thing I relied on—morning music practice on the rooftop with Neelu and her horrible harmonium skills, making everyone’s poached eggs and proceeding to fiddle with mine, admission coaching, tutoring the kids till 6 or 7 in the evening, some TV, doomscrolling, carrom if anyone wanted to play, and reading if Panna apa had anything fun for me. No evening strolls on the chhad, no outside time in the backyard after sundown, hair always secured in a bun after dark and covered with a shawl if necessary. I kept seeing her through the kitchen window. It felt like a safe enough distance. The Shakchunni didn’t sit motionless. She shook her arms, dangled her legs, sometimes put her feet up on a nearby branch, as if this was her home turf. There was something eerie about that; you’d expect a specter to stare at you and pierce through your soul, but this one minded her own business—whatever that was.

We have always known what, or who, a Shakchunni is, or so we believe. This petni, this ghostly figure has always been a part of our childhood folk tales. We honestly found the concept of her rather funny—a ghost who steals shaak, greens like spinach, puishaak, or kolmi shaak. Does it really matter what you eat after death? Panna apa will probably have something to say about caste dynamics, but I’ll tell you about my first introduction to the Shakchunni in the good old Thakumar Jhuli. It’s the most comforting collection of folk tales narrated by a grandmother as the children huddle around her; like how our own Dadumoni would tell us stories. I’ve read it, watched it on TV, I even know a few stories by heart.

The Shakchunni from one of those tales had an agenda, she wanted to replace the Bamun’s wife and enjoy living as a human, as a bride. “Gaaye boro jala dhore,” she would say, craning her long, long neck, “Mone jaage hingshe!” What was she jealous of, you say? The life of a bride, that too a village Brahmin’s bride. Be nice to your in-laws, serve them rice and niramish on a banana leaf thrice daily, cook and clean around the house, feed the animals, fan your husband when he’s overheating with a taal patar pakha, that sort of thing. I never saw the appeal of it all, even as a child, when we would watch these cartoons on one of the West Bengal TV channels. A supernatural being who can extend her limbs to whatever length she wants, climb any tree, materialize anywhere: one can have so much fun with these powers, and yet.

I felt bad for her a little bit because she’s having to make do with a guava tree rather than a banyan, sacred fig, or sandpaper tree. No, that’s not right, it’s got to be either a bot, oshottho or sheora gaach for a Shakchunni. Better the Bangla names. Sometimes I had an urge to offer her some spinach or pui shaak as a kind of truce. “Okay sis, woman to woman, what is it that you want?” I’d ask.

On certain nights, I’d find myself dreaming of her, and I’d give her this elevator pitch:

Eije, hello, Ms. Shakchunni? I have a proposition, listen carefully. Let’s just hang in there, you and I. Climb trees, frighten people, eat guavas, and never change. Let’s shitpost from the accounts nobody knows I run. Let’s go around town eating all the fuchka and chotpoti. Let’s stop time right here, never grow up, never leave. I won’t ask you what you want, or why you’re here, just tell me which way your feet are turned. Won’t you?

Why am I so obsessed with her feet? Hey, hey, whoa whoa whoa, I’m not that kind of person okay? We’re not opening a business that sells green feet pics. Here’s why the feet are important, and why we should know which way they’re turned.

In the countryside when you’re traveling on foot, steer clear of the trees I mentioned earlier: bot, oshottho, and sheora. Sometimes pakur too. These ancient trees have seen more than you have, and they house unspeakable, unimaginable things. Perhaps they are not as unimaginable as we think; it’s just the dreams and longings of people who didn’t wish to leave after death. A poor man’s dying wish to see his mother, or an ailing child’s last craving for dudh-bhaat. Those kinds of longings. You don’t want one of those hungry ghosts to haunt you or worse. And if there’s someone in the mist, between the tall stalks of paddy or the cottony soft kashful on the riverbank, if there’s a misty somebody blocking your way on the narrow dirt road late into the night, look not at their eyes or their face. It’ll be too dark to see anything anyway, and you won’t be able to tell friend from foe, human from superhuman. If you really must look, start from the bottom.

Look at the feet, do the toes point toward you? Are they “normal” or are they…?

Longings, memories, wishes. I thought hard, real hard.

Then one day, I asked Ruby apa if I could give her a call. Urgent.

“Apa, tell me, do you need anything from the house?” I asked, after the “kemon acho, bhalo achi” pleasantries.

“Na, keno re?” Ruby apa seemed preoccupied with something. She wasn’t getting it yet. I’d have to elaborate.

“Your bangles? I could get the whole box to you tomorrow, just ask.”

“Let those stay where they are, I’m building another collection here.”

“What about your books? At least the Humayun Ahmed titles?”

“I have them backed up on Drive, where are you going with this?”

“Your plushies?” One last try.

“I can cuddle with them when I come home, and I have enough in this house! Ki hoise bolbi toh…?”

We were finally getting to the point. I took a sip of water.

“Apa, what does a girl leave behind when she gets married? Her habits? Her comfort? What is it that cuts the cord so easily? You’ve had it for what, twenty-six years? What did you leave behind, really?”

“Whoa, no, no, no, Koni shonamoni, are we spiraling? Okay, take a deep breath. We’re not doing this over the phone. Absolutely not.”

I heard footsteps behind me, the soft pitter patter of a small-ish person. The shrimp, book in hand, looked at me through the corner of her eye. Panna apa’s classic, the bombastic side eye. I lost track of what Ruby apa was saying for a second.

“Why don’t you come visit? I know you don’t teach on Saturday mornings; come to Salahuddin Park! There’s a nice North East Coffee there, and The Book Café has shifted there too. Panna might like it if you get her a book on your way home.”

“Yeah…”

“Alright then, we’ll have our own talk show that day: Coffee with Koni. Shokal shokal ashbi, see you at 9 sharp before the traffic gets worse. I’m hanging up. Allah Hafez!”

I was conscious of where I was going on Saturday. I picked an outfit the night before: cargo sweatpants, an oversized hoodie in the same color, a light coat to go on top with the hood sticking out, white sneakers, all neutrals. No salwar kameez at a place like that, posh parks call for athleisure even though you’re not running. Salahuddin Park is a paradox, it’s a park and everyone has access to it, but it’s also not for everyone. It has Dhaka’s best coffee place and the best English bookstore housed in the same premises, amidst nature. A running track surrounds an artificial lake, and there’s a little amphitheater. All the trees are painted red and white from the waist down as if to brand them, discipline them. When word got out that the city would place a café and a bookstore in a public park, there was a bit of an outcry from activists and woke netizens. I’m pretty sure you’ll find the same crowd hanging out and taking photos there now, for the aesthetic of it.

I spotted Ruby Apa before she saw me. She was in a shari alright, but this was a different kind of look. The cream-colored achol was pinned to one side over a checkered tweed jacket with strong shoulders, cropped just at the waistline, and on her feet, a pair of maroon Mary Janes replaced her usual strappy heels. The hair was new too; an A-line bob diligently straightened with her beloved Dyson Airwrap. I had tried ironing my bangs with the old straightener she had left behind, but that rickety old Phillips was no match. The pearl drop earrings and the matching bracelet were her own designs, perhaps unreleased. I hadn’t been keeping track of her business Instagram.

“Fit’s giving, Ruby-doo!”

“Gosh, aar bolish na! People are dressing up like mob wives these days, not sure if this works.” Rather, the tweed jacket gave her the look of a K-drama chaebol wife, if they wore sharis that is. She did marry into a business magnate family, so that checks out. People were turning their heads and craning their necks to look at Ruby apa, and not just because of her outfit. An interview of hers had come out just a few days ago; a full-page spread in the lifestyle supplement where she calls her mother-in-law her inspiration. “Sponsor, more like,” Heerok had said.

After our orders arrived, apa noticed me picking at my chocolate croissant. She dipped some of that in her coffee, a smooth red liquid from a pour-over, and motioned me to open my mouth.

“Eat up. Life is pain au chocolat!”

Ruby apa’s relationship with coffee has changed. She had always been an instant coffee kind of person. It was my job to pick up her weekly fix from the roadside tea shop; a line of thirty thin sachets of Nescafé 3-in-1 and sometimes the occasional plump packet of Tora Bika cappuccino. She would never drink coffee on our Bhoot FM nights, the sachets were reserved for the actual need for sleeplessness. Say an exam is coming up, or a work deadline, or a client is really asking for that jewelry set. Ruby apa would tiptoe into the kitchen late at night, heat up water in a steel kettle older than any of us, and pour the contents of a sachet into her mug. I’d sometimes see her on my way to the bathroom or when I too needed a midnight caffeine fix. “Make it yourself if you want one, there’s more water in the kettle,” she would say. We never drank our coffee black. “I don’t know how people do it!” exclaimed Heerok one day. “Coffee without milk and sugar? Where’s the joy in their lives?” With the most dramatic scorn on her face apa would pronounce: “Might as well be dead!”

We didn’t know what a pour-over was until we saw one on Crash Landing on You. “That’s a very strange coffee pot,” observed little Neelu. We scurried to look it up. Hail image search. The male lead, our favorite Hyun Bin, roasts the beans in a sand pit and grinds them himself. All that hassle just for the woman he loves. The complete package, that one: a handsome face, a fine pedigree, willing to go as far as crossing the DMZ for his lady love. What more does one need? Ruby apa seems to have all she needs, married to a quiet Hyun Bin type and all. Now she drinks coffee from pour-overs and French presses, and black coffee too, at that.

“Apa, remember what I asked you the other day?”

“I remember, yes, and that’s why we’re here.”

“How are you doing, really?”

“How am I really? I miss home, I miss all of you, I miss being able to do certain things that, well, aren’t socially acceptable anymore.” I thought I saw her blink back some tears, but those were only the pearls.

“Were you scared? Like, everything has changed, right?”

She took an elegant sip from the cup and a deep breath. “When I stepped into Parvez’s home, I was bracing myself. I was like, any moment now. My in-laws are going to say something weird to me and I’ll have to pack a bag to go home. But no! They absolutely love me. I said that Mum, as in my mother-in-law, was my inspiration in that interview, right? Well, wrong, she isn’t my inspiration.”

I knew it.

Ruby apa went on, “She helps me, every single day, to navigate this world. I mean, look around! It’s one thing to be at an office surrounded by this from 9 to 5, but 24/7 is a bit of a stretch don’t you think? Mum holds my hand every day. She doesn’t touch my designs or give feedback, but she gets me my connections. And Parvez is just lovely; he’s been raised well thanks to Mum. You’d think he can’t pour himself a glass of water, but he’s resourceful, level-headed, supports me with a hundred percent.”

None of that was a lie. I’ve seen Parvez bhai and her “Marco-Polo,” their little catchphrases at each other, or how they always have an eye on each other’s plates at the dinner table, swiftly passing the exact dish that the other needs without having to ask.

“Then, why is there such a…,” say it, say it Koni, tell her! “… such a void? I feel like I see you everywhere, in your room, on the guava tree…”

I couldn’t bring myself to tell her.

“No philosophical mumbo-jumbo, no bullshit; you miss me because I’m not there, as simple as that. But think about the ways I’m growing and getting to see the world now. My tour group and I are going to Turkey next month, with my own income! Can you believe it? And there’s more!” A sketchbook came out of her tote bag. Ruby apa was teeming with excitement as she flipped to a certain page. “Remember this design?”

It was a gold-plated choker from forever ago with all the little stones: emerald, sapphire, AD stones (“because real diamonds are a real piece of work, Koni”) and a single pigeon blood ruby at the center. I could see some revisions to the design and a matching piece sketched beside it: a cummerbund, also known as a bichha. There’s that song too, which demands one’s beloved to be reborn as one’s komorer bichha. People want weird things from love: control, proximity. But of course, of course I remembered.

“You won’t believe, Russel bhai, who’s going to wear this piece!” Ruby apa chuckled at her own Bhoot FM reference. “Joyee Hasan! That too at Cannes!”

“What?!”

“All thanks to Mum!” she cried, but lowered her voice for the next part. “Joyee auntie and Mum are friends, they go way back, and they only have a two-year age gap. Don’t tell anyone the last bit! Khobordar!”

Anybody who keeps track of Dhaka’s film scene, be it mainstream or indie, knows that actress Joyee Hasan doesn’t age. There’s this cold, vampiric quality to her; it’s beauty that pierces through hearts and fills you with jealousy. Those who know her, said Ruby apa, know that she has a heart of gold, donates to animal shelters and whatnot. Early career Joyee even looks innocent and has that girl-next-door vibe. Not anymore though.

At Cannes, she obviously ate with her outfit. No bride in the two Bengals had ever worn such a red benarasee, no woman could possibly walk that red carpet with alta-dipped feet with as much poise. No heels, as part of a feminist protest, only her bare feet on a carpet red as blood. The photographers ran after her, ignoring the blonde starlets in conservative, tasteful black gowns. Joyee Hasan stood there as a challenge to taste, because only the predator gets to taste the goods. The pigeon blood ruby had all the hearts in its thrall. “Bedi ekta…” said Panna apa, in her floaty faraway voice. Two birds with one stone, a compliment for the ruby at Cannes and the one in Dhaka.

Made me think of a certain somebody, sitting on a tree, h-a-u-n-t-i-n-g.

Ruby apa had sent us some of those photos before they were in the news. I looked at all of them long and hard, especially at the feet. When I used to dance, and I danced till Class 12, I would put on the entire ensemble, including the red alta, on my feet. The other girls and I did a quick, identical design for performances. First, I poured some alta from the bottle into a flat steel bowl, then dipped a cotton bud in the thick, red liquid. My toes would all get painted first, then a light tracing of the cotton bud around my foot. Finally, a red circle on top, a rising sun of sorts.

Which way are they turned, the feet?


I ended up skipping dinner.

“Maa, I’m feeling a bit allergic. We got Fenadine at home?” I knew we did, just needed an excuse to sleep a bit better. Sleep did come, like the strongest wave at the beach—the one you can’t jump over, and it topples you instead.

Which is why I couldn’t get up even though I wanted to when someone rustled into my room at night. Neelu made a “mmfff” sound in her bed but was fast asleep just like me. Bless the Fenadine; looks like it employed some sleep paralysis demon to keep me out of harm’s way. As if saying, no matter what, Koni, don’t look. Sleep it off. Stay put.

When I woke up, groggy from the demon’s bind, I found a neatly folded note under my pillow. No need for glasses to read this one, the handwriting is intentionally huge. These letters in this style have always been around me, they regularly appeared in the photocopied notes I still use to tutor my students. Notes that are famous in the neighborhood because the owner had aced every possible test imaginable. The mark of a model student, handwriting like pearls.

Little Neelu was already up and rubbing her eyes. “Oh, Konipu, when did you come to sleep?” she asked. “I thought you went up to the roof with Panna apa.”

“Tai? You saw her go upstairs?” I didn’t really have to cross-check, but still.

“Sure did. It was a bit strange though.” Neelu’s eyes darted across the room.

“Keno? Why was it strange?”

“She had bhaiya’s hockey stick with her for some reason.”

For good reason, I’d say. I brought my attention back to the little piece of paper.

The note had two words written in Bangla. Which way were the feet turned, you ask? Well, here we go, moment of truth.

In Bangla, it’s either “shoja” or “ulta.” Straight or crooked. “Shoja pa” or “ulta pa,” the feet are straight, or turned the other way. One or the other. Which one is it? What does the piece of paper say?

I read the note carefully. How careful can you be with just two words, and now what?

I crumpled the note up in a ball and threw it, swoosh, straight into the trash.

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