Serialized Story
Samira - part 7 A New Year Awrup Sanyal
S
Awrup Sanyal is an ex-advertising professional and a fiction writer.
8
am’s invitation to the New Year’s party came from unlikely quarters. The brusque-mannered Creative Group Head – who always lounged around in his Bermuda and stank like a skunk – had shrugged his shoulders, shook his frizzy headful of hair, and said, “How about you join us for the Silly in Black New Year’s party at the Radisson?” The festive mood had set in; party plans were being hatched all around her. Themed parties in Dhaka, it seemed, were quite le dernier cri. Dhaka has a few unpredictable surprises it seems, thought Sam. After coming back to Dhaka she had been a bit of a social recluse; in fact she had been turning down a few invitations, even from the old network. She had been quite intrigued by the Skunk’s unabashed approach. They were not really on the best of terms. They hardly saw eye to eye on any matter. The traditional ‘The Suits’ Vs. ‘The Creative’ war was very much on as far as they were concerned. Only last week they had an ugly confrontation. The team was still working on the 5-way pitch that was slated for first week of January, and she was putting together the presentation – incorporating feedback from Rumi and Jon, fixing the inevitable typos, inserting the vox pop videos, and checking the flow. The creative plans were still sketchy, and nothing had come in for review. When she approached the creative team, Mr. Skunk – the sobriquet she had chosen for him, both for his unbearable BO, and as a diminutive of what she thought was a rather pompous name, Sikander – had shrugged his shoulders and said, “A few more days and you will get the hang of things. The creative files will reach you when they are supposed to reach you.” A supercilious nobody is what you are Mr. Skunk! She had thought, but had kept her cool. Now she wondered if the invite was his way of holding out the olive branch, or was there something more to this? “You seem quite conflicted, Ms. Murshid. Let me put it simply. I thought you could do with a break. Feel free to ignore … ” “I am in,” she cut in. In retrospect she was quite perplexed at her own response. I can really do with some unwinding, she justified. “Fine, it’s decided. I’ll be your escort and ride.” With that Sikander walked away before Sam could accept or dissent. Exactly at 10, on the night of New Year’s eve her phone had buzzed. The caller was Mr. Skunk. Mr. Punctual, I must say. Despite the initial antagonism Sam felt drawn to this oddball. He is definitely good at his work…probably the next big star in the creative horizon of Bangladeshi advertising. Original ideas and shameless plagiarism, his euphemism for wisdom, and of course, full of himself too! But, still … She had carefully chosen her attire. In fact, she had been quite reckless. A black halter-top koshered with a stole, a long, black skirt, and red stilettos were not what she would normally choose for a night out in Dhaka. But, somehow, she threw all caution to the chill of the cold wave that swept through the
country that night, killing quite a few, the reports said. She pranced down the stairs – she hated the elevator – nimble as a Spanish dancer. Once outside the apartment building she expected a car, but instead a motorbike – emitting a low growl – and a Black Knight atop it awaited her. The night seemed heady; the moon almost beckoned a howl. She walked crisply towards the motorbike. As she drew level, their eyes met. His helmeted head nodded her on to the empty pillion seat. She hitched her skirt and straddled. Tonight the rules don’t apply, Ms. Murshid, tonight is the beginning of something audacious. At the party Sam took in the scene, maintaining a studied distance. Seeing all, revealing nothing. There were quite a few known faces, mostly from the office, and a few from the old network — the high school classmates and their spouses. Sam stuck mostly with the crowd from work, with whom she felt less judged. Mr. Black Knight was nowhere to be seen though. After some conversations with random people and a few cheesy numbers later she started looking for him. W-t-f does he think he is? Promises to be my escort and disappears? Finally, having found him – deeply engrossed in a conversation with two men, one who sported a fake American accent and the other a smatter of Urdu – she tapped his shoulder. Black Knight turned around, and for some reason seemed antsy at Sam’s presence, but quickly recovered and said, “Ah! Ms. Murshid! May I introduce you … ” Why does he look like he has been found out? Sam interrupted, bringing her mouth close to his ears, “I need to talk to you. Now!” “Catch you guys later!” Black Knight turned around, “You look pretty distressed. What might be the reason, Ms. Murshid?” “What do you think you are playing at? What’s the meaning of leaving me all alone and disappearing? And, please call me Sam. This Ms. Murshid thing is extremely tacky!” “Hey … hey … hang on … hang on ... I hope you are not under the impression I am your date, Ms … erm … Sam? I brought you along because I thought you’ve been working too hard. Kindness should be rewarded, not scoffed at, no?” His comeback caught Sam on the offbeat. She inhaled and with certain equanimity said, “I am not delusional about us being on a date, but you were supposed to be my escort. Your words, those! And at least have the decency to have a drink, a conversation, if not a dance!” “Hmm. In my defense I wanted you to have some time and space to yourself. Please accept my apologies. I see your glass is empty. Let me get you a drink and what would it be?” “Gin and tonic, please.”
n
Deep inside Tejgaon Industrial Area, in front of a warehouse, a Cayenne dipped and dimmed its headlights at the gate. Stray dogs barked; maybe it was the moon. The darwan opened the gate after his torchlight had scanned the license plate twice over. The Cayenne parked beside a BMW X5 M50d. The driver killed the engine. But no one stepped out of the car. After about ten minutes a man in a white suit and matching shoes knocked on the window. The driver of the Cayenne got out and walked towards one of the warehouse sheds with the man in white. Inside, the Cayenne driver lit up a slim cigarette with a gold lighter. His IWC reflected the overhead lights. White SUIT nodded to a group of men waiting around a crate. As they crowbarred the crate open, the two men peered inside and inspected the stash. Doffing the ash with a flick of his thumb the Cayenne driver said, “Hope all’s watertight? Any faux pas and you’ll be dead meat served to the emaciated Sundarban tigers. Get it?”
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Dhaka Log : Three Ambition is an overrated must-have. It can bring you success and glory, or a spiraling downfall, but never, almost never, happiness. But then happiness is probably the realm of the mediocre. n
ARTS & LETTERS
DHAKA TRIBUNE SUNDAY, JANUARY 5, 2014