1. প্রচ্ছদ
2. অফবিট ক্রাইম

Ramblings Over the Tigris
Abdel Zahra Amara

He took a secluded seat in the river café overlooking the bustling banks of the Tigris, carrying a stack of blank papers and a pencil. His mind swirled with countless thoughts. What should he write about?
He gazed at the calm waters of the Tigris and stretched his sight until it collided with the river's opposite bank. It was evening. The spring weather, the dreamy breezes from the Tigris, lazily tickled the faces. He paid no attention to those seated in front of him or to his sides.
He gently held the pencil, wanting to write something... but what?
He was waiting for something to break the block that prevented him from writing. He set the pencil aside, feeling an overwhelming urge to tear the paper, break the pencil, and leave in a hurry. His thoughts were interrupted by the waiter who said:
"Here you go... cold... tea... lemon?"
Without much thought, he replied, "Tea."
He continued to think and picked up the pencil again, intending to write. However, the breezes brought a feminine scent to his nose, causing his emotions to stir. He looked around, wondering who owned this fragrance, and muttered:
"God, what a wonderful perfume!"
His curiosity grew to find out who this woman was which stirred his feelings and turned his world upside down. He discreetly observed... a young girl in the bloom of youth, with a woman around forty years old, according to his estimation. He watched them until they took seats at a distant table in the café.
Gathering his papers and holding his pencil, he began to write freely, as if inspired:
"Women are three kinds regarding a kiss...
The first blushes when kissed,
The second laugh when kissed,
The third calls the police when kissed."
He paused and thought, "Which type is my wife? I don't know. I wonder which type this nymph in front of me is?"
He stopped for a moment, placed his pencil on the table, and stole another glance at the girl, marvelling at her beauty. A young girl in the prime of her youth, with a round white face, long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, a slender body, and a budding chest. She wore a yellow blouse, a yellow skirt, and yellow shoes. Everything was yellow, even the flower she placed in her braid was yellow. She paid meticulous attention to her appearance and makeup.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, placed one in his mouth, struck a match, brought it slowly to the cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled the smoke angrily, muttering:
"Why can't she be my wife, for instance? God has afflicted me with a talkative wife who doesn't care about her clothes, doesn't beautify herself in front of me, and doesn't excite me. Am I not human? Don't I have the right to enjoy this angelic beauty? Why, Lord? I want to live like the rest of my gender, enjoy life, look at my wife, and be drawn to her like the thirst for water."
Doubt crept into his mind. He grabbed the pencil again and started writing, hoping to forget his painful memories with his wife.
"The kiss is the flag of peace between spouses, the banner of love between friends, and the strong magnet that calms the storms of sharpness and anger."
He paused and smiled sarcastically.
"What kiss unites me with my wife? What flag, what banner, what magnet? This talk is nonsense, it doesn't apply to my situation. I wish I hadn't married. But why not follow the other path and divorce?"
Inwardly, he decided, "I have decided to divorce her and marry someone more beautiful. When I return home, I will carry out the decision. Let it be."
His thoughts were interrupted by the girl and her family leaving the café. He stood bewildered. His hungry heart had not been satiated by her beauty, and his eyes had not drunk enough of her charm. He stood there, astonished, and resumed writing:
"Love, this world for which Qays and Layla, Romeo and Juliet, and many others sang."
Finally, he stopped, feeling deceit and lies. He tore the paper and pressed the pencil until it broke. He got up, paid for the tea, and left.
On the bus ride home, he was disgusted with himself. He cursed the pencil and paper, cursed kisses, and cursed women and wives. When he rang the doorbell, the door opened. What did he see behind the door? He couldn't believe it... the beauty of women in front of him. He rubbed his eyes and stared.
"Oh, it's her... in the flesh... the same yellow clothes, the yellow flower in her braid, the same beauty. But what has changed? Am I dreaming? Strange! It's her... God, maybe I got the wrong address... impossible, this is our home. But who brought the café girl to my house?"
His confusion didn't last long as he felt a soft hand pulling him towards her, holding him close to her chest, and saying in a gentle voice:
"I am your wife... your wife... the one you saw in the café. Don't you believe it?"
"You've changed a lot."
"Yes, I've changed a lot. From now on, I'll take care of my appearance for you, my love."
He pulled her close, embraced her, and planted a kiss on her cheek, which made her laugh. He then said:
"My wife belongs to the second type of women."
She shivered and asked, "What type is that?"
He replied with a smile, "The one who laughs when kissed."


By  Abdel Zahra Amara
Translated by Faleeha Hassan