(Translated by Mithila Ophelia Chakraborty)
Misir Ali has a thick file. On top of the file is written a label in English: Unresolved. The mysteries he couldn’t solve have each been described here. I have leafed through his file quite a few times. The information is scanty. Misir Ali has written in short notes. For example, there is this unresolved mystery (number 18) entitled BRD. I ask him what BRD means to learn that it means Bela Rani Das. Misir Ali has written—
BRD
Age 13
Intelligence 7
Banyan tree 100
Lightning strike 2
BRD Banyan tree union
Copper oxide
“What is all this?” I ask. “Age 13 understandable. Bela Rani Das was thirteen years old. Intelligence 7—what’s that supposed to mean?”
“There are a few tests, known as IQ tests, that are used to measure one’s intelligence,” said Misir Ali. “I don't trust them though. People like Einstein have fared rather preposterously in these tests. I use my own kind of tests to score intelligence. The minimum score is 1 and the maximum 10. In my calculation Bela Rani's intelligence stood at 7.”
“According to your measures, how much do you think I’ll score?”.
Misir Ali said, laughing, “Close to 6. But no need to be upset. A person's intelligence on average is 5. Besides, you are a writer. Creative people have low general IQ.”
“I am least bothered about my intelligence. What does Banyan tree 100 stand for?”
“I have mentioned a banyan tree, which, I presume, is a hundred years old.”
“Lightning 2?”
“The tree was struck twice by lightning. The last one had killed it.”
“Could you please explain BRD banyan tree union?”
“Bela Rani's parents had her married to a banyan tree. Hindus have many customs. Marriage with trees is but one of them. Although this custom is no longer practiced, Bela Rani's parents executed this ritual.”
“What's copper oxide?”
“A compound of copper and oxygen—CuO.”
“Tell me the story.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“There are certain stories one doesn't like talking about. This is one of those stories. All stories are not meant to be told.”
“I promise you I won't write about it anywhere. I won’t even tell anybody.”
“No,” Misir Ali says, lighting a cigarette.
He has a special way of saying "No". When he says no in that fashion, it won’t be a yes ever. So I put an end to my attempts.
“Talking about unresolved cases is no good. They tend to confuse people who then try to impose different spiritual explanations on them. They bring in ghosts, fakirs, dervishes.”
“Let’s keep ghosts aside, but fakirs and dervishes do exist. Or do you question their existence as well?”
“I don’t believe in them. Religion altogether is belief. And science, absolute disbelief. Religious beliefs stay the same from beginning to end. But scientific beliefs change due to experiments. Some aspects that were considered incredible are later accepted as beliefs.”
“But you are a psychologist, not a scientist.”
“Every human on earth is a scientist. It is in their nature to distrust. Say, walking through a forest, a man sees a snake. He starts by doubting his vision—isn’t that a rope? Or is it a snake? As he keeps on walking down the same path, he sees a rope, he disbelieves again—is that a rope, or is it a snake? Would you like some tea?”
“Yes.”
“There are nothing but tea leaves in the house. Would black tea be okay?”
“Yes.”
Misir Ali walks into the kitchen and comes out to say that he doesn’t even have the leaves.
“Let’s go to a restaurant; we can have tea there.”
“I don't feel like going to a restaurant,” I say. “Chatting with you, tucked away from everyone else, is much better.”
It is the middle of Ashaar. The clock ticks eight o’ clock. It has started to rain. Misir Ali's house has a metal roof. It’s pleasant to hear the sound of the raindrops hitting the roof. In this Dhaka city, the sound of raindrops is hardly ever heard, as the buzz of the city devours it.
Misir Ali, “Would you listen to the story of Habul Miya?”
“If it’s in your unsolved file, then yes. I find it really intriguing that even a person like you could feel entrapped by certain unsolved mysteries.”
“I do have Habul Miya's case in my unsolved file. No 38.”
“You can actually remember all the serial numbers?”
“I often sit with the file, so yes. I try to make something out of them. I haven't yet given up on it. It’s like the vast ocean. Which direction I should sail my boat, I don't know.”
“Let’s proceed with the story.”
Misir Ali starts his story. Usually, people who teach aren’t good storytellers. Their stories sound at one point like class lectures and after a while, the person listening is found to be yawning. At one point, the listener says, “I will hear the rest of it some other day. I have an important task to take care of. I have to leave right now.”
Misir Ali does not fall into that category of teachers. His narration is breath-taking. He knows when to pause in the flow of a story. His descriptions of the landscape and the characters are impeccable. If the narration was recorded it would have sold really well, I think. Be that as it may, I am trying to narrate the story the way he has done:
I am not sure about Habul Miya’s age. I asked him. He revealed his teeth which were stained evidently due to chewing betel leaf; he said, grinning, “I don’t know, sir. My parents are rather ignorant; they didn’t tell me anything. They were barely aware of these things. I think you should make a random guess.”
I couldn’t guess his age. There are some people whose age you cannot tell. Habul Miya fell into that category. His age could be 25 but then again his age could be forty as well. He was extremely thin and coughing constantly. His skin, once fair, was darkened by sunburn. His head was completely shaven. He was wearing a bright blue kurta. His lungi, once probably of a white colour, bore the shabby greyness of layers of dust and dirt that had collected over it. He was wearing leather shoes, which were new, shiny.
He stank badly.
“Do you smoke weed?” I asked.
Habul Miya flashed a smile with all his teeth revealed, “Yes, indeed.”
“You smoked today as well?”
“No, I don’t smoke in the daytime. There is a right hour for everything. The best time to smoke weed is after sunset and charas should be taken right in the middle of the day.”
“How far did you study?”
“Up to class five. I wanted to pass class five. One day the headmaster said: You don't have to study anymore. You should go.”
“Why would he tell you to leave?”
“I didn't ask him that. One can’t talk back to a teacher. I can only obey what he says. Teachers should be respected.”
“Looks like you are wearing a new pair of shoes.”
Habul Miya said in a happy voice, “Sir, this are stolen goods. I stole them myself. You would like hearing about it. Should I tell you about how I got them?”
“You can begin.”
“Sir, you really do not need to refer to me as a gentleman. I am just a halfwit person. I am not even worth the snot from your nose. Should I go on with the story?”
“The Prayer of Jummah had just started. I was near the Sobhanbag mosque. The streets were blocked for the prayer. In the last row, I spotted a man praying with his new shoes kept in front of him. Right in front of his eyes I lifted the pair of shoes. He was in the middle of his prayer so couldn't tell me anything. He eyed me just once and I made the run for my life. It’s a blessing that the shoes fit the size of my feet. The problem with stolen shoes is that they are not always of the right size.”
“So, you often steal shoes?”
“Yes, one mosque at a time. I had stolen a pair of sandals from the mosque at Banani. Those were foreign goods but I sold them out at two hundred takas only. I regret it now.”
“Why regret?”
“I could have kept them for my own use. Sandals are more comfortable. Could you manage a betel leaf, sir? I won’t need tobacco. I have brought my own tobacco, Gopal Tobacco. To me all other varieties are rather bland.”
“How many betel leaves do you have in a day?”
“I don’t keep a count. We eat a fixed amount of rice, two or three times a day. But when it comes to betel leaves and tea, one can’t keep a count.”
“I will bring the tea. Now tell me, don’t you feel bad about stealing other people's shoes?”
“No sir. Stealing is a fun thing to do. It interests me. People need to have an interest if they are to live. I am right, no?”
“Hmm.”
“Sir, you haven't brought me the leaves yet. I am getting restless.”
He stuffed a great deal of tobacco in his mouth and started to chew the raw tobacco.
Let me explain how I happened to meet Habul Miya. One of my students sent him to me. Habul Miya possessed a strange power. If you mentioned a fruit, he would clench his fists. When he opened the fists the fruit would be in his hands.
One who could obtain fruits by clenching fists could also obtain betel leaves in the same way. I couldn't understand why he wasn’t doing that.
I hadn’t paid any importance at all to what my student had said. It’s pretty clear that what the man was doing was a basic sleight of hand. The fruits that people were likely to mention were hidden in various places and they were presented right when the time came.
Let me make it clear. Some fraud once told me. “Sir, please name a flower. You name it, I will bring it out from the pocket of my panjabi.”
“Bring me dupurmoni,” I said.
“I can’t, sir. I haven't ever heard the name of dupurmoni flower. It’s the first time I am hearing about it,” he admitted.
“You have got roses inside your pocket and most of the time you perform this trick with roses. Seven out of ten people would ask you to present roses.”
The fraud scratched his head. “What you are saying is right. But I swear it’s not only roses. I also keep tuberoses. Recently many people have started asking for tuberoses.”
So, I had thought Habul Miya was no different. One look at his eyes and you could tell that the man was a damn fake. He had fooled many people before and now it was my turn to be fooled.
I didn't have betel leaves in my house. I went out to a shop and bought a few leaves for him. He put two leaves in his mouth at once and mumbled,
“Sir, tell me what you want to eat, I will bring it out of my fists.”
He closed his fists. I said, “Then bring me a walnut out of them.”
“What on earth is a walnut?”
“It’s a type of nut.”
“I haven't heard of such a thing in my entire life.”
“So you can’t obtain it then.”
Habul Miya said, “Why not, sir. You will have your walnut and I will taste it a bit as well. But I don't think I will get the taste. Tobacco has wasted my tongue. Whatever I eat, tastes like grass. It was my great wish to taste the balish sweet of Netrokona. I did eat it, but even that tasted like grass. I couldn't find a bit of sweetness in it. Sugar and salt are all the same to me now.”
After finishing his talk, Habul Miya opened up his fist. He held two walnuts in his hand. He stared at the walnut, amazed, and I was dumbfounded. Habul Miya said,
“How do you crack it? Should I split it with my teeth?”
Habul Miya started biting. After some time, he had managed to break the hard shell of the walnuts. As he put the cracked nut in his mouth and chewed, he said, “No taste at all, just like dried up hay.”
“Now could you obtain some other fruits?” I asked.
“Of course,” Habul said, “Name the fruit. But it shouldn't be bigger than the fist. I can't obtain fruits bigger than my fist. I can’t obtain watermelons or bananas.”
“Could you obtain a mango? Some mangoes are small,” I said.
“Mangoes, oh yes. I have obtained them many times.”
Habul Miya clenched his fists. He kept the left hand over his right and closed his eyes. With a slight jerk he uncurled his fingers—in his palm there was a mango. Handing me the mango, he said “Eat it, sir. See if it’s sweet. It’s supposed to be sweet as honey. Sometimes the mangoes are sour though. Once I had obtained a mango whose taste could banish all the crows from this land. It was so sour! If a crow ate it, he would surely leave this land for another. Sir, are you pleased with my tricks?”
“Yes, I am. Is this a kind of game?”
“The world is a game. A big match. A cricket match. Somebody scores a century, and some are like me, out with a zero. And then there are some who don't even get the chance to bat. They are out even before getting in the field.”
“How do you obtain the fruits?”
“I have told you just now, sir, that this a trick. The fruits are obtained by the trick.”
“And who is playing this trick?”
“I don't know. I haven't got any brain. I wished to pass class five and couldn't. Sir, do you have a knife?”
“Why do you need a knife?”
“I will cut a slice from the mango to taste it, I want to see if it is sweet. My mind says it will be sweet. But one can't really count on one's thoughts.”
I brought a knife. Habul Miya took a slice and so did I. The mango was sweet, sickeningly sweet.
Habul said, joyfully, “My honour is saved. Giving you a sour mango would have been a great shame. Now sir, if you permit, shall I leave?”
“Could you come again?”
“Why not? Whenever you call, I’ll be there, except for Fridays. I keep myself free on that day to steal shoes. Sir, would you give a some tip for my tricks?”
“Do you charge for your performance?”
“I do. I don't have any demands though. Whatever I get, I take.”
“How much did you get at the most?”
“Once I got five hundred takas. I forgot the gentleman's name. He was a very pious man indeed. His face bore that radiance. He thought I got my fruits from jinns. I got my acknowledgement. I had no business with his thoughts. He can think whatever he wants to. Why should I care?”
“The pious man had asked, ‘Habul Miya, do you have jinns with you?’ ”
“I said, ‘Thanks to all your blessings, yes sir, I do.’ ”
“‘How many?’ he asked.”
“‘Two. One is male, and the other, female. The male one is called Jahel. He is the one who obtains the fruits,’ I said. He believed what I had said. He gave me a tip of five hundred.”
I asked, “So it’s not jinns that obtain the fruits for you?”
“No.”
“Then how?”
“I told you before sir, it’s a trick.”
“Who taught you this trick?”
“I learnt it by myself. Let me tell you how. I was walking through Farmgate and I saw a man selling guavas. I didn't have a penny in hand; I would have bought one if I could. Suddenly, I don't know why, I closed my fists. When I opened my palm there was a guava in there. Sir, would you give me a tip? I'll be happy with whatever you choose to give—fifty, hundred, two hundred...”
I gave him one thousand takas. The two five hundred taka bills astounded him. I told him to come again next Wednesday. He said, “Your man would be there right before ten o’ clock in the morning. If not then I swear I’ll go eat mud, I’ll eat mud right out of the grave.”
“Can’t you obtain other things apart from fruits?” I asked.
“No, sir,” said Habul.
“Have you tried before?”
“I tried a lot. No luck. I once ran short of tobacco; I did not have a single penny in my pockets. I couldn't buy my tobacco and I couldn't even have my betel without it. My body went stiff. I had closed my fists many times. I uttered in my mind again and again, come here, tobacco, come here. I opened my fists to see nothing. Both the palms were truly empty.”
Misir Ali stops. I say, “That guy should have been here with us. He would close his fists and tea would arrive, fresh from the gardens. We could have our tea. Without tea to sip, this incredible tale is not having its maximum effect. Do you have a flask? Give me the flask, I will bring tea from a shop.”
“You won't have to. Tea will come to us on its own.”
“Will the tea emerge out of thin air as well? Just like Habul Miya’s trick?”
“No,” says Misir Ali. “The proprietor of this house will send tea along with shingaras. He adores shingaras made at a specific shop. He often buys aplenty. He sends me some as well. I just saw him walking home with his packet of shingaras.”
Before Misir Ali can finish his sentence, a servant boy enters the house with a flask full of tea and six shingaras. The shingaras are small, exceptional in taste. The owner of the shop selling this stuff must be a millionaire by now.
“Then, what’s next?” I ask while sipping tea, “Did that man turn up next Wednesday?”
“No.”
“So when did he come next?”
“He never did.”
“What? Really?”
“I suppose he must be dead. I had read a news in some newspaper headlined ‘Shoe thief beaten to death by people at prayer’. There is no doubt that the shoe thief is our Habul Miya,” Misir Ali said.
“So you couldn't know what happened in the end.”
“No.”
“Then, this is where the story ends?”
“No, not yet. A little bit is left.”
“What else is left? The protagonist is dead. What else can remain of the story?”
“I do have the mango. The bird might have flown away but it has left its feather. The mango is the bird's feather.”
“Then, what did you do with that feather, I mean the mango?”
“I talked with a magician,” Misir Ali went on. “Perhaps there is some secret trickery involved in the obtaining of the mango that I may not be aware of. Once I saw a magic show in Atlantic City. There the magician planted a mango seed in a flower pot. He covered it with a kerchief. When the kerchief was removed, we saw that a mango plant had grown out of it. Again, he covered it with the cloth. He removed the cloth and there was a mango tree, with mangoes hanging on its branches. Did Habul Miya apply any of these tricks?
“My magician friend heard the whole story and said it might be a hypnotic suggestion. Sometimes, hypnotic suggestions can be so strong that even a lump of mud will seem like a mango or any other fruit. If the hypnotist says that the mango is sweet, then the lump of mud will taste sweet. If the hypnotist says that the mango is sour then it will taste sour. But the effect won’t be long-lasting. After the state of trance passes the lump of mud will become mud again. The mango that was given to me did not turn into a mud ball or anything of that sort. It remained a mango. And three days later, I noticed something extremely crucial.”
“What was it?”
“Do you know about fruit flies?” Misir Ali asks.
“Are you talking about those tiny little insects that fly over ripe fruits?”
“Yes. In length they are one eighth of an inch. The eyes are red. The first segment of the body is also red, the rest is black. They lay eggs over ripe, fermented fruits. Each female fruit fly lays about five hundred eggs. It takes about a week for the eggs to hatch. My significant discovery was, even after many days had passed, not even a single fruit fly was seen hovering over the mango. Basically the mango had not decayed at all.
“That time of the year wasn't the growing season for mangoes. But perhaps due to a great revolution in the agriculture sector, you can find all sorts of fruits in all seasons now. I bought a ripe mango from a shop. I placed it one foot away from the unusual mango. Before an hour could pass, the fruit flies were hovering over it but none of them dared to go near the enchanted mango.”
Misir Ali sighs deeply.
“So the story is over,” I said.
“A little bit is left. Will you hear it today or should I tell the rest some other time? It has stopped raining now, you’d better leave for home. It’s way too late at night.”
“I will only go once I have heard the whole story, not before that.”
“In the continent of Antarctica, there had been once a meteor shower. In 1995, the scientists of NASA's Johnson Space Flight Centre examined the meteorites. The meteorites have been coded as ALIT84001.”
“How come you still remember the code?”
“I had to collect a lot of information while researching about the magic mango. I have the code written in my notebook of unsolved cases.”
“The meteor shower and the case of the magic mango are connected?”
“I will finish with this, then you can deduce if there's a connection or not.”
“The scientists found some organic atoms in one of the meteorites, not very complex ones though—Polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons. Because the meteorites were found to be laevorotatory, the scientists announced that the atoms did not belong to the planet earth but had emerged from outer space. All the organic compounds belonging to the planet earth are dextrorotatory. Meaning that they turn plain polarized light clockwise. Through a very simple experiment, scientists can figure out if an object belongs to planet earth or not.”
“So you examined whether the mango belonged to this planet?” I ask.
“I don't have the qualifications to carry out such experiments nor do I have the necessary equipment. But, I sealed the essence of the mango in an airtight jar and sent it to Anthon Laboratory, Italy. From there it was said that the essence of that mango was laevorotatory. Therefore, it does not originate in the planet we call Earth.”
“Wait, what!”
“But I did a little experiment of my own. Carefully, I planted the mango seed in a pot, I just wanted to see whether it grows into a tree,” says Misir Ali.
“Did it grow?”
“Let it be a secret. You will only remember this story as long as it retains its mystery. Human beings are but fond of mysteries. It’s only the mystery that matters, everything else can be forgotten.”
Humayun Ahmed was Bangladesh’s most prolific and popular fiction writer. Immensely creative in all fictional genres, his novels and stories in the Misir Ali series are very popular among young adult readers.
Mithila Ophelia Chakraborty is an aspiring fiction writer. She occasionally delves into translating short fiction from the Bengali into English.
