A Very Subtle Indifference

[Blacklisted]

A Very Subtle Indifference


The air was warm, dense and heavy. It was only about eight or nine in the evening, yet still the traffic roared no less than it would during the day. There were pedestrians swarming the busy streets of Dhaka, the very heart of the motherland Bangladesh, yelling at each other and passing cars, calling for rickshaws and taxis. The vehicles were much like the people on the road, there was no difference really; the same kind of people drove them after all. Horns blared in a disorganized symphony of different tones and pitches, some continuous and some intermittent.

We were going home from my khala, my aunt’s house, I believe. We had stood by the road side and Maa yelled at any and every free rickshawala that passed us by. Most didn’t refuse, however some would out of exhaustion. A rickshaw was like a horse-drawn buggy, except it wasn’t really horse-drawn at all. It was pedaled by a man on a bicycle, and this was how these poor men made their living and supported their families. It didn’t take long for one to stop, we climbed on and Maa gave the man the directions of where to go. Riding on a rickshaw seemed almost like a thrill ride at times. Especially on the busy and broken streets of the city, where the traffic followed no real code or set of rules, where anything went as long as you had your spot on the road. It was soothing too, feeling the breeze against your face and hair as the rickshaw sped forward.

However there was not much wind tonight. It was late August, almost September. Or perhaps already September. Whichever, there was not much of a breeze, even with the rickshaw. The night air was thick with humidity, and the sounds of cars and people yelling, some dogs barking here and there. Maa and I sat alone in our rickshaw, almost silent. There was not much to say. We were here on vacation, and we’d be going back to Toronto soon. Soon. I almost forgot to miss it at times. Toronto was home. But it was home away from home. The family was here. Grandmother, great grandmother, aunts, uncles, cousins, and nephews that were so much older than me that I’d rather call them my uncles.

We rode in silence, with no other sound but of the rickshawalas occasional huffs and puffs, and the rickety wheel along the cracked pavement. I thought about home. My home, in Toronto. About going back to my room, my bed, my television and xbox, all my belongings. Thought of my friends, my school; life in general.

“Can things be different this time, Maa?” I asked, breaking our silence in native Bengali.

“What do you mean, babu?” she faced me, her face unchanging and sincere, her eyes full of light even in the darkness.

“I mean,” I hesitated. “I mean, when we go back, you know? Can things be different at home?”

“Hmm,” she sighed. I figured she partly knew what I meant.

“Maa, I know, things happen. Arguments happen, and people shout. But can’t we try and prevent that?” I said.

“It’s not my fault alone, you know that,” she tried to explain. But I knew.

“I know, Maa. I know. I’m not saying it’s your fault. I’m just sick of all the yelling and fighting.”

She sighed again, “What can we do, babu?”

“Can’t you start a change in things, Maa?” I was almost pleading. I took her hand in mine and grasped them tightly. “Promise me, Maa. No matter how much he yells, you won’t yell back. Just promise me. Things can change.”

She was kind of dumbfounded. Sure, who would ever expect..?

“Maa, when someone does something to someone and the other person does something to get back at them, how much better does it make the second person? He or she has done the same thing that made the first person look bad,” I explained to her, “they’re indifferent.”

Maa was silent for a little while. Perhaps she was tearing up, I wasn’t sure. But she understood what I meant and she agreed. “I promise, babu. I promise not to yell or shout at your dad, even if he does with me.” She paused, “It’ll be different this time. I promise.” I was still holding her hand in mine and she returned the pressure. She released my hands and wrapped her arms around me as we rode home together peacefully. With a promise. With a promise that when we get back to Toronto, things would be different. Very, very different.

The reasoning given to Maa was given by a twelve or thirteen year old mind. And now, years later having grown older and evidently stupider, it is the same words that escaped my own mouth that night that Maa returns to me..

“When someone does something to you, and you do something to get back at them, then how much better does it make you? What difference is there between you and him? Are you being the bigger person? Remember, you told me those words on the rickshaw, try to keep them in mind..”


Yes, those words still haunt me till this day. Bigger person. Maa said that, to be the bigger person. So did another person, far wiser than I. Closing my eyes and taking both their words to heart, I let out a sigh and tell myself, “Yes, I will be the bigger person.”

Otherwise, how better, how different does it really make me?

[The Electron Zone]

Not as good as Empathy's but I like your word choice. Very selective.

[Toki]

You are a great writer, I love stories but I cannot tell them very well. You can piece everything together in just the right way to really convey what each person is feeling & I really like the way you set the atmosphere; I feel like I'm there. Great job keep 'em coming

[Vivi]

Sorry Blacklisted, but this one I do not like. First, it was way too short to convey a proper message. (IMO) If this is one you haven't done in a while, it shows more rust than the previous stories.

I find it lacking in description, and although dialogue can be good, it was a tad stale. But it's good you are having practice.

[Blacklisted]

Thank you all for your comments and critiques. Vivi, I do not "like", but rather LOVE your honesty. Thank you for conveying how you truly feel. I appreciate it a lot because I feel much the same way about it. Gotta rust-proof that shit. All in due time. Thanks again to you three.