“Seen? Yeah, I’ve seen her alright! There’s something ominous about her! Possessed! Since the time I saw her, I can’t even pull this properly! 19 years! Never had a problem!”

The man in the tea stall gestured with his lit cigarette as he recalled his encounter, his eyes welling up with tears during our interview.

“Stay strong, Nasir er abba. There’s a God. Leave it all up to Him.” The tea seller consoled the man as he rolled five loose biris on a piece of old question paper and handed it over to the boy in school uniform who seemed hesitant to enter the stall full of murubbis.

The incident has captivated residents across the area. Reports have been circulating of a young woman being spotted late at night on the balcony of a two-storied building, stirring a disturbance among all walks of life. According to eyewitness accounts, the woman is seen standing alone, gazing out into the darkness, occasionally making slow, deliberate movements.

“She’s not a good girl,” said Aisha, a housewife living in the adjacent building. “It’s unheard of, especially for a young, unmarried woman. Unless, it’s for business. People are starting to talk, and let me tell you, it’s not good.”

Similar sightings have been reported by numerous neighbors, sparking a series of speculation and concern throughout the community. Many describe the woman’s nature as eerie and unusual, leaving them in a state of complete shock.

“It was the strangest thing I’ve ever seen,” exclaimed Fatima, a garment factory worker. “I had to do overtime one night and came home quite tired and sleepy. And there she was, just standing there on the balcony. I couldn’t believe my eyes! I thought I was dreaming! I couldn’t sleep that night! And now, every time I see my husband, I’m reminded of that witch!”

“Nonsense!” bellowed Brig. Gen. Prof. Dr. Md. Golam Abdus Al Hossain, a Professor and Head of the Psychiatry department at Good Health Hospital. “This is an acute case of Dissociative Identity Disorder syndrome. Imams and religious figures dismiss science, they only tend to seek answers in faith. The poor girl clearly suffered enough trauma in early childhood and now she is split. Perhaps impersonating the person that inflicted the pain. The girl needs rigorous psychiatric evaluation and evidence-based treatment, not rituals.”

As a journalist, I fought to cover this story. When my source first mentioned it, I was already working in Cox’s Bazar on a story about the Rohingya murders. My initial reaction was to pitch it to a colleague, but the moment they said “Banani,” I knew I had to get directly involved. This was a story I had to chase down myself; it was my calling to uncover the answers.

I called my manager and arranged for two others to take over my Rohingya camp research. I then rushed to the airport, desperate to book a flight to the capital. With Eid ul Adha just two weeks away, travel tickets had already been snatched up. Unable to get a flight, I hurried to the nearest bus station.


“I told you, there’s nothing available. No use forcing yourself, there’s no spot even on the roof to ride!”
“Please. I need to get to Dhaka, it’s urgent.”
“Why? Has someone died?”
“Yes! My mom! My mom passed away, please, I beg you.”
“Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un.Well, in that case, let me see what I can do for you.”

The ticket seller hurried back to me, clutching a sheet of paper. Apparently, he had requested it from a passenger who was willing to sell his for the cost of an airline fare.

“Don’t you think it’s way too much even for an airconditioned bus?”
“Look, don’t drag me into this! Take it or leave it! And whatever you decide, make it quick; I need to go catch the Isha prayer.”

The requested amount was rendered, but the ticket man’s puppy eyes seemed hesitant to complete the transaction. I slid an extra five-hundred bill into his shirt pocket and was handed over the permit with a grin.

The bus departed at 10:30 PM. With little to occupy my attention during the journey, I decided to try and sleep through most of it. However, our driver appeared to be in more of a rush to reach Dhaka than I was, and I wondered if his mother was alright.

A chant played on the cassette: “La ilaha illal-lahu Al-‘Azim, al-Halim, La ilaha illal-lahu Rabbu-s-samawati wal-ard wa Rabbu-l-arsh il-azim.” My seatmate, an Imam, amplified it with his own voice. When I looked at him, he greeted me with a nod. He must have eavesdropped on all my phone conversations to finally strike up a conversation by asking if I was a reporter.

“Khub bhalo. But make sure you always follow a righteous path in your work. Never make false claims or misrepresentations for your own benefit.”

“I try to be as honest as I can,” I replied. “By the by, have you heard about the sightings of a woman on her balcony?”

“Nauzubillah Min Zalik. I have not seen with my own eyes but have heard the rumors. Such behavior can only be the clever deeds of a Jinn.”

I waited for him to elaborate, but he simply resumed his chanting until he abruptly stopped and sat up straight. For a moment, I thought the balcony girl had taken control of his body when he began making a sound similar to a snore, yet far louder and while fully conscious. As the bus slowed down, he spat out the window leaving a glistening trail of mucus string that connected his lips, his white jubbah, and the window frame like a spiderweb.

“What do you see out the window?”

The Dhaka-Chittagong highway was almost etched into my memory. I’ve traveled this route countless times, to the point that even the railroads along the way have become familiar. The vast, sprawling green fields, muddy roads, and scattered huts combined with dense thick bushes. This repeating scenery cycles by every ten to twenty minutes, but it never grows tiresome to my eyes. The night view however, offers a contrasting experience; darkness blanketed the landscape, broken only by tiny, flickering bulbs in the distance.

“It’s so dark, I can’t really make out much but I’m sure we’re in or close to...”

“Hmm… Dark. The building where she resides is enshrouded by unkempt bushes and people’s filth; an ideal environment for Jinns to dwell. And the murky lake behind…”

The Imam continued his tale about the lake, where an unusual number of unexplained drownings had occurred, pausing at pivotal moments for a paan break before slowly resuming his narration with curled lips to keep the juices from escaping his mouth.

When we arrived at a rest stop eatery, the Imam invited me to join his table, and his story carried on throughout our meal until the gentleman sitting beside us who introduced himself as a Distinguished Professor in the Department of Comparative Literature, eventually intervened and pissed him off.

“I beg to differ! These Jinn stories no longer occur in modern times. The world today has been giving birth to humans with lost identities. And how is this rectified? Through surgery! But don’t get me wrong! I am absolutely in favor of the sex changing movement. I am a righteous feminist as well.”

“Are you saying she…”

“He.”

“He?”

“Frailty, thy name is woman—Shakespeare is to thank to solve this mystery.”

As I made my way back to the bus, the Imam’s eyes locked onto me. His brows knotted, the creases carving deep across his forehead, as if the lines on the two ends might meet in the middle. The signals were clear enough for me to slide into the empty seat next to the Professor.

The rest of my journey ended with naps interrupted by phone calls and the chanting of the Imam joined by a few other passengers. The professor, however, showed me a video of him defending his doctorate in Birmingham before settling in to sleep through the remainder of the roller coaster ride.


By a quarter to 7 in the morning, I had finally made it to Sayedabad. I planned to spend the day gathering first-hand accounts from eyewitnesses, in order to prepare myself for the night. After twenty minutes of haggling, I finally boarded a rumbling CNG, ready to head toward Banani.

The moment my bottom touched down inside the cage, the engine was shut off and we happened to find ourselves trapped in a gridlock with vehicles honking away as though they were part of an orchestra that had long lost its conductor.

As we inched along at pedestrian pace, my driver suddenly steered over to park under a foot-over bridge; I can only assume he had an urgent need to powder his nose. I was then greeted by, and forced to play ATM, for a group of clappers, followed by two separate limping individuals who sprinted the moment the lights turned green.


By late evening, I was done with the interviews and after a quick bite, I went knocking on opposite doors to see if any stranger would allow me entry to witness the phenomenal sighting. Most doors were shut as soon as I stated my purpose and a few more declined before opening. It was then, one of the corner flats that I did not intend on knocking opened up and whistled me to come in. The doorway was stacked with plastic white sacks, cartoons, bed frames, and two red buckets. A semi-single mattress blocked two thirds of the door. I ticked-tacked through the pile of things and finally squished in. The whistler was in his twenties, half a coffin nail between his two fingers and an intact one on his right ear.

“Bro, you haven’t seen yourself, have you?”

“No, but I am determined to tonight.”

“Oh, it’s insane! It’s like she’s tryin’ to communicate with the cosmos, you know what I’m sayin’? She’s like this cosmic communicator! Wild, bro, absolutely insane!”

“People say she’s a demon, some a whore, some think it’s really a man, and some argue suffering from a terrible illness. What’s your take on the matter?”

“People say all kinds of shit! Any shit for some publicity, you know what I’m sayin’? She—or he—whatever the fuck it is, I don’t give a shit! What matters is the art, you know what I’m sayin’? Art, man, it’s this deeper expression of what we all feel, a way to capture moments that slip through our fingers, connecting us in a way that words can’t. You know what I’m sayin’?”

The whistler boy continued on with his philosophical insights, mostly focusing on artistry, astronomy, and the shapes of stones, until he suddenly transformed into a culinary master, raiding the kitchen like a raccoon on a midnight snack mission and emerging with a stash that could rival a convenience store.

“Any time now, bro, help yourself to everything.” He sank back into his gaming chair cradling a rolled-up packet of chanachur,some assorted biscuits in a polyethene, and a half-eaten shawarma.

“These days it’s all about trends,” I said. “Do you think this is modernity?”

“Bro, every new idea was modern once, until it wasn’t. You know what I’m sayin’?”

As he munched away, offering me some at intervals like a deranged buffet host, I found myself captivated by the chaotic patchwork of crumbs and sauces that decorated his t-shirt. Later, I shifted my gaze and glanced up at the balcony, and his feast became a mere backdrop to the scene unfolding before me.

There she was.

She appeared, a silhouette against the night, with a glowing ember alternatingly brightening the darkness as she brought it to her lips. The faint, orange, light flickered in the dimness, molding brief shadows on her face. She seemed lost in thought, her breath visible in the air as she exhaled slowly, leaving the trail of blue waves to disappear into the night sky.

Whistler boy was lost in his own world, eyes wide with excitement as he gazed at the sky, rambling about how the stars were merely stones scattered across the universe and that our discourse was the true constellation.

A few people from their homes could be seen peeking through curtains, their expressions a mix of curiosity and judgment. They exchanged glances of bewilderment, as if trying to decide whether to intervene or simply observe from a safe distance.

And I for one was caught in this disorienting moment, feeling as if I had squandered my time chasing shadows, trying to find meaning in a night that seemed utterly pointless.

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