Finding the Unseen

by Taj63622

  Chapter 19

  She has fully checked out of the hotel. The staff did not seem too impressed with her one night stay. Indeed, they enquired much to the reason she leaves the accommodation. She said the truth, which they did not appear to believe. The numerous bags in their keep meant that they had to get a taxi. They scarcely drove ten minutes, when they hit a traffic jam.

  This was bound to happen. Whenever she encountered Taxi, she was embroiled in problems. Iqbal enquires to the reason of immobility, to which the driver says a crowd ahead is blocking the road. ‘It looks like the show is about to start,’ he adds, as a boy passes them, banging a spoon against a metal pot, yelling at every pedestrian and passenger to gather around for the show. The driver looks at them, and offers them to come along with him to see the show. He clearly appeared a fan of it. She could not resist the offer, and grew eager to see what show has such attraction as to form a huge crowd.

  ‘You will enjoy this,’ Iqbal says with a knowing smile, as they leave the taxi containing all her belongings.

  Passing through each observant person of this crowd, they stand upon a spot, from where they could see the centre, which will stage the show. A man no taller than five foot, wearing a white vest and pair of khaki green trousers rolled up to his knees, was also banging the base of a metal pot with a spoon. Another man was also present, but she could not see his face. He had his back turned to that part of the crowd amongst whom she was standing. He was busy looking at a mirror, which hung on a string of the tree branch, fixing his appearance.

  At length, he turns around, and as he does so, he places a hat on his head. His face finally comes into her view.

  To say she was in shock will be an understatement. To say she turned pale is a better effort, but still short of the truth, and to say her mouth was wide open with such disbelief that a fly could enter, is nearer the truth yet, but still unjust to what she experienced.

  ‘This is Shahiraj of Rajshahi,’ Iqbal explains, ‘a Street Entertainer.’

  The Shahiraj of Rajshahi is the very man that she and Dhadhi met in the eatery, dressed in the usual tuxedo, hat, completed with a silver pocket-watch. She blinked repeatedly, suspecting the credibility of her eyes.

  ‘Salaam to my brothers and sisters,’ he yells, scanning the crowd. Instinctively, she nips behind Iqbal before the Shahiraj of Rajshahi could detect her.

  ‘Friends and enemies,’ he continues, keeping his language Sylheti, which Iqbal dutifully whispered a translation to her, ‘the idle and the unemployed, gather around, gather around. Today’s session has started. As usual, I see my regular loyal fans . . . and some unfamiliar faces too,’ he remarks looking at a particular face in the crowd. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks in concern, approaching this particular person. ‘Recently lost your job?’

  The man reddens in embarrassment, while the crowd erupts in laughter.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ the Shahiraj cajoles. ‘We’re all vegetables of the same field. Why else would we be here?’ he asks the crowd fiercely, pulling away from the man, who was evidently relieved. ‘Why else would adults like us be here, in the middle of the day? You are a sample evidence of this country’s reality. But I must confess,’ he says taking off his hat, and lowering his head apologetically, ‘I am rather thankful at your unemployment status. Your idleness keeps my fire burning and my water running. I depend on the public to make my earning. I share my knowledge with you, and you pay me the due fee. I provide education. Talking about education,’ he says, as if suddenly remembering something very important, wearing his hat again, ‘there’s a new scheme in town. A town somewhere in a wealthy western country has a famous shoe company, Slarck. They are running a thoughtful scheme for the benefit of third world countries. For every worn pair of shoes our western beneficiaries donate, a third world country somewhere will receive a free exercise book and a pencil for one child. Round of an applause,’ he encourages everyone by initiating the gesture. The man with the metal bowl and spoon also starts to knock the two objects together to add effect to Shahiraj of Rajshahi’s clapping. But realising the crowd is not following his enthusiasm, he stops clapping and looks reproachfully at the crowd. ‘Aren’t you impressed with the help we are getting from the developed countries? Are you not happy that your child can get a free exercise book and pencil for the one pair of worn shoes?’

  He waited expectantly for an answer, but none in the crowd dared usher a word, carefully avoiding eye contact with the speaker lest he should approach them.

  ‘Are you not grateful that the wealthy in the developed country will donate their worn shoes so Slarck can fund our children’s education? Are you not happy that education is now worth only a pair of worn shoes? Are you not happy that the government does nothing to improve our future, but shamelessly depends on the worn shoes of the developed country?’

  ‘No!’ someone shouts from the crowd. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi follows the voice, and orders the man to come forward. ‘You look like an intelligent man,’ the Shahiraj of Rajshahi says, putting a friendly arm around the man’s shoulder. ‘What are you doing here? Tell me, do you have any children?’

  The man shook his head.

  ‘Then why did you answer?’ demands the Shahiraj of Rajshahi. ‘Get back in the crowd!’ and pushes the man into his rightful place. ‘Now, where was I?’

  ‘Education,’ his assistant dutifully reminds, ‘is worth only a pair of worn shoes.’

  ‘No,’ the Shahiraj of Rajshahi contradicts fiercely. ‘Education is not worth a pair of worn shoes. It is only worth what you learn from it. Reading five hundred pages of a book does not guarantee a five hundred-takka salary every month. I knew a man once, whose poor parents sacrificed everything for their son’s education. He was a very talented boy. He learnt to read and write at a very young age. He could calculate large numbers in his head. The boy was in a form of a saviour for his poor parents. They did not let their poverty eclipse their son’s talent. His parents made day and night one for his son’s study. With some difficulty, he gained admission to a respectable school. He saw the difficulties his parents experienced and wanted to reach a position one day that could prove that their efforts and sacrifices has not gone to vain. The child sacrificed no less. Where children of his age were playing, this boy was inside, lost in books and studies. He spent his childhood and youth in this manner, topping school exams and ranks, ultimately gaining a place at one of the country’s top universities to study engineering. Four years of devout study qualified him with first-class honours, and then. . . What?’ he asks shrugging in loss. ‘What happened?’

  No one answered.

  ‘He applied for many jobs,’ continued the Shahiraj of Rajshahi. ‘They asked him what experience he had. He had none. Others asked how deep he could fill their pockets. How could the poor boy fill the bribery demand?’

  A noticeable mellowness suddenly set about his face, as if the story he narrated was not about a boy he merely knew.

  ‘The boy’s certificates wore away with rejection,’ the Shahiraj of Rajshahi said absently. ‘In the end, he compromised with a job, which required no qualification at all. His parents passed away. He forever lost the blessing to make him the engineer before his parents.’

  The Shahiraj of Rajshahi descended into a deep thought. His sealed mouth diffused a silence across the whole crowd.

  ‘Education never truly did have any value,’ he says, looking about the crowd carefully. ‘Knowledge alone cannot progress anyone. In this country, where can the scholar apply his knowledge? They do not select the hopefuls. They choose the highest bidder. She also chose the highest bidder.’

  Curious to learn who “she” was, she asks Iqbal to elaborate. He did not know. Immersed in great confusion, she looks curiously at the Street Entertainer. His assistant friend comes beside him, and places a friendly hand upon his shoulder. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi wallows in this silence for a while longer, before finally recomposing himself quickly. His solemnness vanishes at once, replaced
with mischief in his dark eyes and humour in his voice.

  ‘Education only reforms a person’s character,’ he announces. ‘It enables one to justify their opinions and take commendable action. It does not ascertain a person’s employment. It does not make the false promise that qualification will redeem the expenditure taken on the book. The improvement of the country does not depend on the quality of one’s degree. The government will not take the necessary measures to improve the country,’ he states. ‘They are relying on the shoes of others so our children here can hold a pencil in their hands. Free primary education is an insufficient measure to produce opportunities for employment. They can treat corruption, but who will take to the costly task? The funds are available to better the country, but if they spend it for our benefit, how will they then fund their lifestyle? How will their children go to expensive English schools, while your children go to municipality school? Promises of improvement are broken on the very day they win their election. Whether it is Bangladesh or English-desh, politicians share a universal work protocol. Politics is no longer a professional embodiment, but a social club, in which we - the public - pay their membership fees!’

  A brief silence elapsed, as the audience revels in the Shahiraj of Rajshahi’s provoking speech. Each person was entranced, including her. Then, to her surprise, clapping hands radiates throughout the audience. The merriment was such that she also joined in. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi took off his hat, and bowed to express his appreciation.

  ‘That’s my session for today,’ he acknowledges the crowd. ‘Those of you, who know me well, will know that I don’t go by timetables or schedules. So, for those of you who have become new members in this club today, my next session will take place sometime in the near future, and as usual, they will be somewhere along these streets. Now, I don’t go around to collect my tuition fees, so if you enjoyed this session, could I kindly request you to support me through your charity. Donate as much as you like or give nothing at all. But whatever you give, don’t rob your stomach of food.’

  His assistant promptly takes the hat into his hands, patiently standing there to collect the crowd’s generosity. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi turns away, and walks up to the tree to reclaim his mirror and jacket. Iqbal also gathers some funds from his wallet, making his way towards the collection point. She quietly follows him and withdraws some money from her purse too. With no takka in her purse, she tips a total of three pounds into the hat. She made the transfer quickly. She feared the Shahiraj of Rajshahi will place familiarity with her face, and have him recall the comments she made regarding those subjects, of which he clearly felt sensitive.

  Where she turned away, the Shahiraj of Rajshahi came up to his assistant friend, holding a little stringed bag, conveniently named “Acc”, into which this session’s earnings will be deposited. He held the bag for his friend to make the transfer from the hat, but the familiar expression denoting his defeat with numbers, had him exchange the bag with the hat. He so began to unload the collection into the bag, counting each takka aloud as he does so. Quite unexpectedly, he stops counting.

  He peers hard at the hexagonal coin in his hand, uncertain to the foreign currency’s worth. ‘Fifty pence,’ he reads the inscription on the coin’s edge. He turns it over in his finger, making the coin gleam under the strengthening rays, to find “Elizabeth II” clearly inscribed on the silver surface. Bewildered, his head shoots up at the disintegrating crowd, but none wore any attire or had any apparent feature as to assume them a foreigner.

  ‘The Street Entertainer,’ she says as she and Iqbal climb into the taxi, ‘certainly has a strong objection to education.’

  ‘The man is fighting a war with himself every day,’ Iqbal says with a sigh. ‘He lacks faith in the prospect of education, but he himself is not illiterate. Word on the street is that the Shahiraj of Rajshahi holds first class honours in Engineering from BUET – Bangladeshi University of Engineering and Technology.’

  This news startled her greatly.

  ‘He certainly cannot have any objection to education,’ Iqbal shrugs, ‘despite what you heard. After all, there is education in his name and place of birth.’

  She did not understand.

  ‘Rajshahi is a division of Bangladesh, like Sylhet,’ Iqbal explains. ‘The city is referred to as Education City.’

  Her confusion complicates.

  He would not have hesitated to share the story, which marked Shahiraj’s transition, but the girl’s innocence demanded him to withhold the information.

  Her first trip to Bangladesh has exposed her to many reflections of life. Indeed, she was becoming ever more confused to understand the truth of the country.