Jessore Road 2031
Story by Shatabdi Vobo
1
They say people raise venomous snakes with milk and bananas—but Baul singer Fazor Ali raised a black myna bird. One of his disciples gifted him the myna three years ago after hearing him sing. Since then, the bird had become like a part of Fazor’s body. But his sorrow over the bird seemed endless. Fazor took care of the myna more attentively than himself, holding onto one desperate hope: that one day the bird would call him “Baba” (Father).
Fazor and his wife had no children. Doctors and shamans had failed them both. And so Fazor clung to the dream of hearing that word—Baba—from the bird’s beak. His wife used to say, “Many children start speaking late, maybe your myna is like that too.” But the bird didn’t utter a single sound, let alone say Baba. Every day, from dawn to dusk, Fazor would sit beside the bird and whisper just one line: “Myna, say Baba… Baba, please say it.”
2
Fazor lived in a village near the border of Jessore. Most of the villagers were Hindus, but that never bothered him. In fact, his songs were in highest demand during their festivals. Who would have thought that, sixty years after independence, the country would become a new Pakistan? Now it was in the hands of jihadists. Their first order of business upon taking power was to drive out the Hindus. Although this sort of thing had been going on in small ways since independence, the current situation was different. The second group targeted by the jihadists were poets, artists, actors, and singers.
But Fazor had nothing to worry about—or so he thought. He didn’t pray regularly, but he believed in God and the Prophet. And though he was a singer, he was also a rural Baul—insignificant, far from Dhaka’s prominent artists. Why would they bother with him?
But the village situation had deteriorated badly, as if 1971 had returned.
Hindu homes had turned into cremation grounds overnight. Most of the young men were killed by jihadists. Women, regardless of age, were being gang-raped. Even children weren’t spared.
Fazor’s wife suggested multiple times, “Let’s go to India.” Fazor snapped back, “Why? Why are you so eager to run to the land of the Malawans (a slur for Hindus)? Am I Hindu or atheist that I need to be afraid?”
What he didn’t understand was—when the city burns, even temples collapse.
One morning, during the call to prayer, jihadist forces stormed Fazor’s home. They burned his dotara and harmonium, shaved off his hair and beard. He narrowly escaped death by begging for mercy and repenting. They made him sign over his land, then let him and his wife go.
Within one night, Fazor became a beggar on the road, with nothing but his wife and child—his myna bird.
3
After three days without food, Fazor roamed the roads, exhausted and broken. The border was packed with people, all trying to reach India. The Indian government had apparently introduced an emergency pass; without it, crossing the border was impossible. Passports and visas were useless now. Not that it mattered to Fazor—he was just a penniless wanderer. Even the brokers and smugglers wouldn’t help someone like him.
By the roadside, his wife collapsed from illness—nearly unconscious. Fazor himself could barely keep his eyes open.
At that moment, a frail young man approached. He had a city look and eyes full of sympathy. He asked how they were doing. Fazor broke into tears and told him everything, holding nothing back.
The stranger revealed that he was a poet. If the jihadist government caught him, they’d kill him. He had somehow obtained a border pass and was rushing to cross before it expired. He sat Fazor down and went to a shop, returning with bread and water. He even fed the myna bird himself.
Fazor, drowsy and dazed, began to doze off. In that twilight state, something dark awakened inside him.
He thought—This boy is definitely an atheist. Killing an atheist means guaranteed paradise. And along with it, I get the border pass and the chance to live.
Even Fazor was surprised how quickly his heart had filled with religious fervor, despite never being devout.
He made his decision in less than a second.
The boy was feeding the bird when Fazor quietly came up behind him and wrapped a towel—his performance scarf gifted by his mentor—around the boy’s neck and began to strangle him.
The myna watched silently. Fazor’s wife still lay unconscious.
From a distance, the evening Azan echoed.
As the poet’s eyes bulged and his life slipped away, one final thought circled in his brain:
“The jihadists sleep within the heart of every Muslim.”
4
Even Fazor couldn’t believe how easily he’d escaped danger.
He had crossed the border long ago. It was nearly dawn, though the other side of the fence already looked like daytime. People were everywhere—countless people. Fazor couldn’t fathom where so many had come from. Jessore Road in 2031 felt like it had time-traveled back to 1971.
His wife had regained consciousness and was mostly recovered. She sat by the roadside, eating luchi and vegetables. Fazor had brought back some kul fruits. He had found plenty of money in the dead poet’s pockets—cash, rupees, dollars, even some foreign currency with strange symbols like “Ruble” or something.
Now, Fazor was feeding the kul to his child—his myna.
Suddenly, to Fazor’s shock, the myna spoke for the first time:
“Baba… Ba-a-aba…”
His wife stopped eating and clapped with joy.
Fazor stared at the bird in astonishment.
Then, in the very next moment, he crushed the bird under his foot, pressing its tiny neck.
It squirmed and gasped… then died.
That night, for the second time, Fazor’s wife fainted.
Far away, the sound of Fazor’s Azan echoed in the air…
.
Short Story: Jessore Road 2031
Author: Shatabdi Vobo
Writer & Publisher
Date: July 8, 2025
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