NOTARIZED NOTORIETY
NOTARIZED NOTORIETY
NOTARIZED NOTORIETY
NOTARIZED NOTORIETY

Rumman R. Kalam

    Shoeb Ahmed held a piece of paper and stood by the entrance of the notary public office. All he needed was a signature on the document and he’d be done. This was the place his friend had told him to visit if he needed a document to be made “official.” 

He entered the building, took a meeting ticket, and waited his turn. An office messenger showed up to take his document.

The messenger paused, glancing at the paper. “Bhai, did you write this?” he asked.

“Yes,” Shoeb replied.

The messenger looked at Shoeb for a few seconds, unsure what to make of him—a man in his early twenties, all suited up in the middle of a June heatwave. The lack of sweat threw off the messenger. Only a man travelling in the industrial-grade air conditioning of an SUV could afford to look like this. Just to be safe, he looked around for cameras before he gestured Shoeb into the office room.

A stern-faced woman was there, sitting behind an old wooden desk, with a towel draped over the back of her chair. Shoeb approached her desk. She looked up at him, peering over her glasses, and wordlessly took the document from his hands. She read it.

“Did you write this?” she asked, her voice rising.
“Ji,” Shoeb quickly glanced at her nameplate, “Selina apa.”
“Is this some form of a joke?”
“No, ma’am. I need this as proof,” he replied.
“You cannot bring a document like this to a married woman like me. I am old enough to be your mother!” Her voice rose.
“If I had a mother, I would not need this document, ma’am,” Shoeb replied, his voice almost a whisper.

Selina apa looked at the paper then back at Shoeb. What pandora’s box of family problems have I opened, she wondered. She looked Shoeb up and down as her glasses threatened to glide off her nose.

She handed Shoeb the document back.
“I am sorry, we can’t process such documents.”
“Can you tell me who can?” Shoeb asked.
“You can get someone to sign it. Then we can notarize it for you, but that is the best we can do.” 

With that, Selina apa went back to the other papers on her desk, pretending Shoeb never existed.

Standing outside the notary public office in Paltan, Shoeb looked up at the sky, crisscrossed through with internet cables, posters, and banners.

Shoeb was beginning to regret his decision to wear a suit. He wanted to appear serious about his request. But now, sweat seeped through more and more, sticking to him with each passing moment.

A nearby shopping mall provided momentary relief with its air conditioning, as he thought about his next course of action. He thought about how his visit to the cops had gone yesterday.

He’d gone there at 11:30 PM. He handed his paper to a constable who read it and quickly called over other members of the station. Shoeb was then escorted straight to the officer-in-charge’s desk.

“Shoeb… Ahmed?” asked the OC, glancing at the paper and Shoeb in turns.
“Sir, it’s pronounced ‘Ah-mod,’” replied Shoeb.
“Shoeb… Ah-mod?” the OC said, “why did you write this?”
“As proof, mostly. I need to know this in an official capacity.”
“What does your father do, Mr. Shoeb?”
“Sir, my father is the great Khan Pori Shaheb from Jatrabari,” Shoeb replied.
The policeman’s eyes widened, instantly recognizing the name.
“What is Khan Pori Shaheb’s son doing here?” The policeman quickly gestured toward someone to bring tea and biscuits. “Why can’t Khan Pori Shaheb sign this for you?”
“My father received a spiritual command on my eighteenth birthday that he is to let me live my own life without any interference,” explained Shoeb. “He hasn’t spoken to me in two years.”

“What about your mother? I am sure she can help,” suggested the OC, as the tea and biscuits were set before them.
Shoeb sipped his tea and stared at his hands.
“This feels like a family issue,” the OC continued, “and I can’t stress enough that you should not get the authorities involved.”
Shoeb dipped a biscuit into his tea. Just as he raised his hand to bite into it, the biscuit broke off and fell into the cup. He looked up at the OC.
“If this biscuit falls to the bottom of the cup, it’s not a good idea to use my fingers to get it out, is it, sir?” Shoeb asked, gazing unblinkingly at the officer.
The OC stared at him for a while before they both silently finished their cups of tea.

As it was past midnight, a constable had escorted Shoeb back to his house, for his own safety. The officer-in-charge was polite because he knew Shoeb’s father. However, his problem was nowhere near resolved.

Shoeb snapped back into reality as his eyes rested on a political banner across the street.

This had to be his last chance.

Monu Miya’s office was inside one of the residential neighbourhoods of Paltan. This local ward councillor was a popular figure in the area. His family had been councillors for three generations before him.

This was it. Monu Miya had to be the one. Shoeb redrafted the writing with Monu Miya’s name and designation added. He was sure this would be the last stop. After all, Monu Miya had made a promise on his campaign banners to the residents of Paltan.


A man in a striped white shirt and beige pants was loitering at the door of the councillor’s office. He was wearing those leather sandals which look almost like shoes but never do because of its random slits and backstrap. His toothbrush moustache flexed in anticipation as Shoeb approached the office.

“Assalamuailaikum bhai, who were you looking for?” that man asked.
“Wailaikum salam, bhai. I am Shoeb Ahmed, I am looking for Monu Miya to get a document signed,” Shoeb replied.
“Hand it to me here, let me take a look at it, then I’ll take you to Monu Miya,” the man responded.
Shoeb handed him the paper and stood beside the doorway.

The man glanced at Shoeb repeatedly as he made his way through the paper.

“Did you write this?” he asked.
“Yes,” Shoeb replied.
“Is this a joke? Did someone pay you to bring this nonsense here?” his voice rose.
“I need this signed as proof,” Shoeb replied.
“I’ll show you proof, you—,” the man grabbed Shoeb’s tie, pulling him in to land a slap on his cheek.
“You think,” he threw Shoeb down on the ground, “This is funny?” The man began yelling now. “YOU THINK MONU BHAI WILL JUST SIGN THIS SHIT? YOU THINK YOU CAN GET AWAY WITH A SCANDAL JUST LIKE THAT?” He kicked Shoeb in the ribs.

This last act of violence seemed to have caught Monu Miya’s attention, who peered out from inside his office.

“What happened, Habib? Why are—” He noticed the suited man lying on the floor. “Habib, stop. Stop! Explain to me what is happening here,” he said to the man beating up Shoeb.

The man, Habib, handed Monu Miya the paper.

“Bhai, look at this paper. This bastard wants to ruin your good name. You are a family man and beloved by everyone in the area. Look at what he wrote!” implored Habib.

Monu Miya took the paper and read it, repeatedly glancing at Shoeb.

“Why did you write this?” he asked, his voice unmoved.

Shoeb got up finally, gasping and holding his ribs. He took his phone out from his back pocket, now with a fresh new crack across the screen. He showed Monu Miya the banner he saw at Paltan.

“Bhai,” Shoeb gasped, “You promised.”

Monu Miya looked at him for a little while before gesturing to Habib.

“Habib, here take this…” He handed him a 500 taka note. “Go calm down and then come back. Tell Sobuj to send something cold in.” He beckoned Shoeb inside.

As they sat down at the councillor’s desk, a few cans of soft drinks arrived. Monu Miya handed one to Shoeb.

“Put it on your brow, it looks a little swollen. I am sorry about Habib. I am not justifying what happened, but you can understand how protective he feels when put in a situation like that,” he explained.
“Thanks,” Shoeb groaned, holding the can of cola to his brow.
“Tell me, Shoeb bhai, are you a YouTuber? Are you a journalist? Why are you doing this?”
“Bhai, I just need your promise kept. I can put it in writing that I won’t publish this anywhere,” said Shoeb.

Monu Miya stared at Shoeb, considering. Then he called on Sobuj to bring a piece of paper. He took it and wrote down the terms and conditions for Shoeb to not disclose the document. Then he signed both pieces of paper.

“Shoeb bhai, I am extremely sorry for what Habib did. I hope expediting the signing of this document solves your problem and you forgive me for what happened,” he told Shoeb.

“Thank you, Monu bhai. Now I know why all the residents speak so highly of you.” Shoeb beamed at his ward councillor.

︎

“You did WHAT?” Anika yelled, outside their BUS101 class.
“Yes, I got proof. You’re wrong, Anika,” Shoeb replied, his voice icy cold.
Anika read the paper again and looked up at Shoeb.
“Look, Shoeb. Us breaking up was never about—,” she brandished the paper at him, “THIS!”
“But you told me to—” Shoeb began to explain.
“I DON’T CARE, SHOEB. Your apathetic attitude towards everything absolutely kills me. That’s why I said it’s so difficult to love you. I never meant it literally!”

She threw the paper at Shoeb and walked away towards her class.

Shoeb looked at the paper and read it one last time.

“TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

This letter signifies that I, Monu Miya, Councillor of Paltan Ward 30, love Shoeb Ahmed as a member of my constituency.

Notarized by

Selina Akhter”

“I will never understand women,” Shoeb whispered to himself before entering class, which had “Profit = Revenue - Expenses” written in large letters across the board.

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