It was the 8th or the 9th, I don’t remember which. After class I had gone to the pond at Shahidullah Hall for something when I ran into Danny. “You’re coming to the picnic, right?” he asked. I searched my memory. A picnic? Had there been a plan like that? “When? What picnic?” I asked. “Haven’t you seen the post in the group? The Dhaka-based Shibganj Upazila (Chapainawabganj) Students’ Welfare Association group is buzzing about it. They’re going to Comilla on the 12th. You’re coming, aren’t you?” “Yes, of course, why wouldn’t I?” I went home that day planning to talk it over. Inside I was thrilled, because the spots listed for Comilla were the War Cemetery, Magic Paradise, BARD (the Bangladesh Academy for Rural Development) and Shalban Bihar. I had wanted to see these places for a long time, BARD most of all. One thing kept going round in my head. Could Zaman come, or did he have an exam? The moment he walked in I was about to ask, but before I could he said, “Let’s go to the picnic. Register us quickly.” He was in and I was in, so what was the problem? I registered through Mozammel bhai. Now there was nothing to do but count the days. Friday was almost here. Why wasn’t it coming?
How do we get there so early?
I was a little worried about getting there on time. The bus was supposed to leave TSC at 7 a.m. I was fairly sure they wouldn’t leave without us if we were late, but I didn’t want anyone kept waiting because of us. I didn’t want anyone thinking badly of us while they waited either. Zaman asked me the same thing every day. How are we getting there that early?
There’s the Dewan bus, but you won’t find one that early, and there aren’t many of them anyway. The number 6, then? No, that doesn’t go to Shahbag. What about Winner? No, that one goes around the whole world and takes forever. What other bus is there? Uber? Uber costs a lot. Was a CNG auto-rickshaw really the only option? So many things went through my head. What were we supposed to do? I missed Subastu. When the Subastu bus was still running, this was never a worry. I’d get on in front of my house at any time, get off at the GPO and walk ten minutes to Curzon Hall. Nothing was easier. But Subastu is gone, and that’s our problem. One person does wrong, the whole company gets punished, and ordinary people pay the price.
Anyway, whenever he asked, I just said Friday was still a while away and we’d figure it out when it came.
Thursday night. Zaman asked again. “How are we going? At least tell me today!” We were still talking when Abdul Momin bhaiya called. When he mentioned going to the picnic I was taken aback. How did bhaiya know about the picnic? After a moment it hit me. Oh… he’s from Chapainawabganj too! His call was such a relief. I never imagined all our problems would be solved like that. I told him we’d go together then. That settled it, and a weight came off my shoulders.
Ten buses, ten mangoes
Friday finally came. I got up early and set off for bhaiya’s place. It isn’t far, so I got there quickly, and he was already waiting outside. Then we headed for campus. On the way a friend of his joined us, and I found out later that he’s a relative of ours too. That was nice. The four of us took an Uber and got to campus on time. I couldn’t help being amazed. So many people? All from Chapainawabganj? It was hard to believe. The place was packed. I didn’t recognise most of the crowd. They had come from all over, pulled together by their roots. I was stunned to see Ashik Anjum bhai. He came too? I couldn’t remember when I’d last seen him. We hadn’t even met last Eid. I spent the time chatting with him.
At 8:30 in the morning we finally set off for Comilla in ten buses. Ten buses, each named after a mango. Ours was Langra. There was an unofficial plan for which year rode in which bus, but for some reason a few senior brothers suddenly joined our bus, so we lost our seats in the front row and ended up on one of the long seats at the very back. Nothing to say there. They’re seniors, they deserve respect, and respecting them is our job. It made me a little sad, though. They could have shown some kindness to their juniors and said, “Stay where you are, we’ll manage.”
The heat or the smell?
And so the bus slowly set off. The Kanchpur jam that Robiul had warned me about was on my mind. Get stuck in that and the day is over. I kept praying that Allah would save us from it, but in the end there was no escape. Calling it a jam doesn’t do it justice. Anything I compare it to sounds too small. We sat and sat and sat. The bus didn’t budge. It stayed exactly where it was and didn’t move an inch. It was maddening. At one point it got so bad I can’t even describe it. The bus stopped right in front of a garbage dump. We were already worn out from the heat, and now the dump smelled so strong it felt like we would choke. Holding a handkerchief over my nose didn’t help, the smell went straight through it. And there was no sign of the bus moving. We shut the windows and sprayed some perfume, and that helped a little. It’s hard to imagine how people live in the houses next to that dump. Doesn’t it bother them?
Ashik Anjum and I talked about this for a long time. The first thing he said was, “If this were my house, I’d sell it and move somewhere else.” I asked him, “What if it wasn’t yours but your father’s or grandfather’s?” This time the answer was a bit different. “If it wasn’t mine, I’d rent it out and move somewhere else.” After a while he said something good. “I’d tell the City Corporation people to clean this up. Why should they dump rubbish near my house?” It was nice to hear such a solid answer, but nice feelings don’t last forever. Soon the heat became unbearable. The windows were shut and everyone was soaked in sweat. Want to escape the heat? Take the smell. Want to escape the smell? Take the heat… So which is better, the heat or the smell?
While I was thinking about this the bus lurched forward, and we finally got past the dump. The windows went straight back open and we could breathe again. Then we crawled along, moving a bit and braking, moving a bit more and braking again, as if the brakes were keeping the beat. Ashik Anjum bhai was really fed up. He’d sit down, then stand up, and if he could have he would have got off and walked. After a long, long time the bus finally started moving like a bus, and now it was going fast. Suddenly bhaiya called. Their bus had already reached the first spot, Magic Paradise. I checked my watch. It was 1:20.
Magic Paradise
Ah, just a little longer and we’d be free of this bus! Five minutes later the bus turned onto another road and I got very excited, but slowly all that excitement turned into frustration. The bus showed no sign of stopping. It just kept going. We finally got there around two. When we reached the gate of Magic Paradise I forgot my hunger and tiredness and the excitement came right back. I had never seen anything like it. Three dinosaurs were set up as if they were playing guitar and drums and singing. I really loved that. The gate looked just like the ones in Disneyland cartoons. But inside I was a bit disappointed, because almost all the rides were closed. Don’t judge a book by its cover. I saw how true that is all over again. Coming back in a year might be better, because a lot of things were still being built or redone.
My favourite part was the water park. It was the only part I really liked. We got into the water. It was only my second time doing anything like that. Something changes in you the moment you get in the water. It’s such a different world from the air we live in. There were three kinds of slides and I tried every one, as many times as I felt like it. We all had a lot of fun. There were games too: morog lorai, cricket, ludo for the girls and musical chairs. Evening came and we didn’t even notice. Oh, there was a little train as well. Right at the end we rode it, and that was the end of our time there.
That night we pulled ourselves away from the magic of Magic Paradise and went to the Comilla SP bungalow, the home of Nurul sir, the pride of Chapainawabganj. A lot of things were made easy for us because of him. He did more for this picnic than anyone. After dinner there, the music started. I fell asleep sitting in my chair. My body was exhausted, and after the water every muscle ached. You know the saying, it hurts everywhere, so where do I put the ointment? That was me. I dozed against the back of the chair and the time went by. Then Zaman nudged me. “Come on, we have to get on the bus.” It was 3 o’clock. Three! So what I had heard wasn’t a rumour after all. On the way there we had been talking. I said we wouldn’t make it back by ten, we’d be a bit late, and if we got home after half past eleven the gateman would lock up, so I’d better let them know. Someone nearby said, “They’re leaving at three, what are you talking about, late at ten?” I laughed to myself. The event said 7 a.m. to 10 p.m. He probably hadn’t noticed and was just saying it. Now he’s probably the one laughing at me. If I had been staying in the hall, maybe I’d have known the right time from the start and there would have been no problem at all.
The way back
We got on the bus. I don’t remember much after that. In the morning I opened my eyes and saw the road, with our bus stuck in the middle of it. What a jam, brother. It could steal Gazipur’s crown! I sat with my face at the window watching everything around. The vehicles got smaller and smaller into the distance, until the last one I could see was the size of an ant, and even that ant-sized car wasn’t moving at all. It was about 7 then. Bhaiya called. “Where are you? Our bus has reached campus.”
What? How? We were only at Sonargaon, not even at Narayanganj yet! I told bhaiya not to wait for us and to go home. On any trip, almost 90 percent of the time is spent on the road, and the person who matters most is the driver. If he isn’t good, you don’t enjoy the trip and you don’t get any peace. That was exactly our problem. We had all left at the same time, and some were already on campus while others sat in a bus counting cars on the road. My arms and legs ached from sitting, and I was getting hungrier. If the bus had been moving even a little, I could at least have guessed how much longer, but it was standing perfectly still. I raised my head to see how everyone was doing. Most were asleep, some with their head on someone’s shoulder, some with their legs folded up on the seat somehow. The ones awake were looking around like me. The weather outside was nice, so sitting there wasn’t too bad. Every now and then a cool breeze came in and made us forget everything. Then bhaiya called again. I don’t know why my eyes always go to the clock when I answer the phone. If I didn’t see the time I wouldn’t get frustrated, but my eyes go straight to it. It was 8:30. Bhaiya said they had reached home. Alhamdulillah, okay, I said, hung up and looked out of the window.
A little further on I realised that part of the reason for the jam was a Hindu pilgrimage that day. Everyone had gathered in Narayanganj. We reached campus around 10:30, and Nafiul bhai and Parvez bhai were there. I asked, “Bhai, I guess we’re the last bus?” The only thing I could make out from the answer was that we were the only ones this late. Everyone else had reached campus at more or less the same time.
Finally I said goodbye to everyone, headed toward Shahbag and got home at 11:30, and that was the end of the Comilla trip.
I have only one regret. I don’t have a single group photo, not even one with Anjum, after spending so much time with him. If someone shares a group photo, that’s all I can hope for.
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