Chapter 1
The sun had dipped below the skyline of the megacity, casting a warm, nostalgic glow over the Uttara-North. The sidewalks buzzed with the sound of the evening rush as office workers, their spirits as crumpled as their newspaper subscriptions, scurried homeward. In the heart of this urban sprawl, a city bus groaned to a halt at the corner of 5th and Elm, belching diesel fumes and a pattern of complaints from its weary passengers.
On board, three figures sat in silent contemplation. The dogmatic man, his tie slightly askew, clutched a worn leather-bound book titled "The Rules of the Righteous" as if it were the last bastion of truth in a world gone mad. His eyes scanned the page, nodding in solemn agreement with the misogynistic doctrine etched within. Across from him sat an honest soul, her gaze out the window, her mind racing with thoughts of the young woman she had seen earlier that day, a beacon of beauty amidst the grey. And beside her, the condescending figure leaned back in his seat, stroking his chin as he mused over the inferiority of the fairer sex, his smirk as subtle as it was unsettling.
The bus jolted to life again, the diesel engine roaring like a creature awoken from a deep slumber. The whimsical mood of the early nineties hung thick in the air, a mélange of forgotten melodies and the faint scent of burnt microwave popcorn wafting from someone's bag. The record player, a relic from a bygone era, sat in the corner, the needle bobbing gently as it traced the grooves of a vinyl that spun tales of love and loss. The lamp above it cast a warm, flickering light, throwing shadows that danced across the plastic seats like silent whispers of the past.
The dogmatic man looked up from his book, the caw of a crow outside piercing the cocoon of the bus's rumbling. He frowned, as if the bird's call was an affront to the sanctity of his thoughts. "It's always the loudest that have the least to say," he murmured, his voice a gravelly echo of the words he had just read.
Across the aisle, the young man, barely out of his twenties, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His eyes darted to the window, where the reflection of the neon lights painted a kaleidoscope of colour on his cheekbones. Earlier that day, he had seen the young woman standing on the corner, her red dress a stark contrast to the monochrome office attire that surrounded her. Her makeup was thick, a mask that could not quite conceal the shadows beneath her eyes. He knew the type—desperate, destitute, yet oddly alluring to the men who frequented the nearby hotel. Her trade was the kind that whispered sweet nothings in the ears of those who sought solace from the cold steel embrace of the office world.
In his mind, women were a commodity, a means to an end. They existed solely for the pleasure of men and to ensure the continuation of the species. Housewives, too, were merely vessels for reproduction, their purpose reduced to cooking, cleaning, and catering to the whims of their husbands. They were creatures of habit, demanding without cause, their moods as fickle as the weather. His thoughts grew darker as he pondered the mysteries of the feminine psyche. It was a puzzle he had yet to solve, a riddle wrapped in an enigma that left him feeling both fascinated and repulsed.
He cleared his throat, the sound echoing through the bus like the toll of a funeral bell, and spoke, his voice a blend of confidence and contempt. "You see, women are the downfall of society. When they stray from their God-given roles, they bring about chaos. They're like wild animals that need to be tamed, lest they ruin everything we've built." His words were as sharp as the creases in his shirt, cutting through the silence with the precision of a knife through butter.
The woman beside him, her eyes still on the window, felt a shiver run down her spine. She had heard these words before, whispered in the hallways of her childhood home, shouted from the pulpits of her local churches. It was a tune as old as time, but no less jarring for its familiarity. Her mind raced with rebuttals, with the stories of strong women who had shaped the world, but she held her tongue, fearing the wrath that often accompanied the disruption of a man's soliloquy.
The condescending figure leaned forward, a glint of amusement in his eyes. He had heard this sermon before, but it never ceased to entertain him—like watching a dog chase its own tail, round and round in a cycle of ignorance. He interjected, his tone smooth as silk, "Ah, but what is the use of a well-behaved woman? It's like a gun without bullets—pretty to look at, but utterly useless in a real fight." He smirked, watching the man's reaction, baiting the hook.
The dogmatic man's eyes narrowed, his grip on the book tightening. "Exactly," he said, his voice gaining a new edge. "They're to be seen, not heard. The moment they start thinking for themselves, they become a problem. Take Eve, for instance—the very epitome of female disobedience. And look what she did to Adam!" His voice grew louder, his words echoing through the bus, drawing glances from other passengers who were now too curious to ignore the conversation.
The young man nodded in agreement, feeling a kinship with this stranger who shared his views. He leaned in closer, eager to hear more of this man's wisdom. "They're like chameleons, aren't they?" he said, his eyes never leaving the red dress in the reflection. "One minute they're all sweetness and light, and the next, they're changing colours to suit their moods. You never know what you're going to get with a woman."
The dogmatic man harrumphed, his eyes flitting over the other passengers as if daring them to challenge his words. "Indeed, the very essence of a woman is deceit. As Byron said, 'Now what I love in women is, they won’t; or can’t do otherwise than lie, but they do it so well that the very truth seems falsehood to it.' They are the architects of their own misfortune, leading men astray with their cunning." His voice grew louder, his finger stabbing the air for emphasis.
The condescending figure chuckled, a sound that grated on the nerves like nails on a chalkboard. "Ah, but isn't that what makes them so delightfully... enigmatic?" He leaned back in his seat, folding his arms across his chest. "Without the thrill of the chase, what's the point of it all? It's their unpredictability that keeps us on our toes, that makes the conquest all the more satisfying."
The young man smirked, a glint in his eye. "You're right," he said, his voice low and conspiratorial. "It's like betting on a horse race. You know most of them are going to lose, but you just can't help hoping that maybe, just maybe, your pick will break a leg." The two men shared a laugh that was as dark as the shadows that played across their faces, their mirthless chuckles filling the bus like a toxic cloud.
The woman beside them shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her knuckles white as she gripped the handrail. She had heard enough of this vile discourse, enough of the casual degradation of her very essence. The words of Freud swirled in her mind, a question that had haunted her for years: 'What does a woman want?' But she knew the answer—respect, equality, the right to live without fear of judgment or scorn.
The bus lurched to a stop, and the door hissed open, releasing a gust of cool evening air. The woman took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the conversation press down on her like a leaden shroud. She stood up, her legs shaky, and made her way to the exit. As she stepped onto the sidewalk, the condescending man called after her, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Careful now, don't trip on your way to your liberation meeting!" The dogmatic man's laughter followed her like the echo of a bad joke.
The young man leaned back in his seat, watching her go. "Women," he sneered, shaking his head. "They think they can just throw their weight around and demand respect. If she knew her place, she'd have kept her mouth shut."
The dogmatic man's laughter grew, a deep, belly-churning sound that seemed to come from a place of deep-seated contempt. "You see what I mean," he said, wagging a finger. "Look at her waddling off. If she'd just stick to her kitchen, she wouldn't have to deal with the real world and its harsh realities."
The condescending man couldn't help himself. He leaned over and whispered to the young man, "It's like they stuff themselves with their own self-importance, thinking it makes them more appealing. And when they don't get the attention they crave, they throw on a pair of those ridiculous chest inflators and expect the world to bow down."
The young man snickered, his eyes glued to the woman's retreating figure. "Yeah, like a couple of water balloons strapped to her chest is going to make up for her lack of wit. Bitch probably thinks she's fooling everyone with those fake tits."
The dogmatic man nodded sagely, his eyes glinting with spite. "It's true what they say, the emptier the vessel, the louder the noise it makes. And these bitches with their silicon bags—they're the loudest of all." His voice was a mix of disdain and amusement, his words a symphony of misogyny that seemed to hang in the stale air of the bus.
The condescending figure leaned in closer, his gaze lingering on the woman's receding figure. "They think those ridiculous balloons they've got strapped to their chests give them some sort of power," he sneered. "It's like watching a clown in a parade—funny at first, but eventually, you just feel sorry for the sad fuck trying to be something they're not."
The dogmatic man snorted, his eyes never leaving the page of his book. "It's all about the illusion of power. They can't handle the truth, so they resort to these pathetic attempts at control. It's like watching a child throw a tantrum—amusing, but ultimately pitiful."
The young man nodded, his thoughts drifting back to the woman in the red dress. "You know, I've heard that some of those working girls have hearts of gold," he said, his voice tinged with a hint of wistfulness. "It's like they're forced into it by society, by men who expect them to be nothing more than playthings."
The dogmatic man snorted in disbelief. "Don't be fooled," he said, slamming the book shut. "They're all the same—deceptive and manipulative. They'll say anything to get what they want, especially if it involves playing the victim. It's in their nature."
The bus pulled away from the curb, the engine's rumble a cacophony of agreement with the man's words. The young woman's silhouette grew smaller and smaller, until she was just another forgotten face in the city's vast tapestry. The two men continued their conversation, oblivious to the stares of the other passengers who had grown uncomfortable with their blatant disrespect.
"It's like they're so simple-minded that they'd vote for a man based on something as trivial as a shared birthday," the young man mused, his voice laced with contempt. "As if that could make a difference in how he runs the country. Or, God forbid, they vote for a woman just because they share a gender. It's like picking a dog based on the colour of its fur."
The bus lurched to a stop, and the doors swung open, releasing a gust of crisp evening air. An elderly woman, her back bent with the weight of years, shuffled in, leaning heavily on a cane. She wore a faded dress that had seen better days, and her eyes searched the rows of seats with a desperate hope that flickered briefly before dying out. She settled down in the front, her granddaughter, a girl of no more than fifteen, clutching her hand tightly. The child's eyes were wide and curious, taking in the strange men with their hushed, scornful whispers.
The dogmatic man's gaze drifted over them, a sneer playing on his lips. "Look at that," he said, his voice a low rumble of disgust. "A woman her age, still out gallivanting around town. What kind of world is it where the young are burdened with the old? And why isn't she with a man? It's unseemly, dangerous even."
The young man's eyes narrowed as he studied the pair. The old woman's eyes were sharp, despite the lines etched into her face, and the girl's grip on her hand spoke of both dependence and protection. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. "Maybe she's just waiting for the right man to come along, to save her from herself."
The condescending figure nodded, his gaze lingering on the girl. "And what a prize she'll be," he leered. "A fresh canvas, unblemished by the brushstrokes of experience."
The dogmatic man's eyes lit up, his thoughts racing. "You see, it's a man's duty to protect, to provide," he said, his voice rising slightly. "But they just can't resist the urge to meddle in everything, to think their opinions matter. It's like watching a squirrel try to solve a Rubik's cube."
The young man chuckled, his gaze following the old woman and her granddaughter. "It's like they're hard-wired to cause trouble," he agreed. "My ex was like that—always sticking her nose where it didn't belong, trying to 'improve' me. As if I needed it." His voice grew bitter, the memory still raw.
The condescending man nodded, his smile cold. "Ah, the great quest for the perfect man," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "As if such a creature exists."
The young man leaned back in his seat, a smug look crossing his face. "They do," he said, his voice filled with the conviction of youth. "Six-figure earners, six-foot height, and a chiselled jawline. It's like they've got a checklist for the ideal man, and if you don't tick all the boxes, you're not even in the running."
The bus groaned to a halt, the brakes squealing like a pig being slaughtered, and the dogmatic man's eyes shot up from his book. His stop had arrived, the neon lights of the "Purity Hotel" flickering through the grimy windows like a siren's call. He looked at his fellow passengers, then back at the young man with a knowing smile. "Remember, son," he said, his voice low and measured, "it's our duty to guide them, not to be guided by them."
The young man nodded, the words sticking to him like a burr to a woollen sock. He watched as the older man stepped off the bus, his shoulders squared and his gaze fixed straight ahead as if navigating a minefield of indecent thoughts. The doors hissed shut, leaving the young man to his own devices, his thoughts a tumult of anger and confusion.
Just as the bus pulled away from the curb, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, expecting a text from his buddies about the game tonight, but instead, it was a photo from his daughter. It was a portrait, crude but earnest, of her favourite teacher, Miss Bella. The woman in the drawing was smiling, her features soft and welcoming. It was a stark contrast to the harsh words he'd just been fed.
He stared at the screen, the image of the chubby woman from the bus suddenly popping into his mind. He squinted at the phone, his thoughts racing. There was something oddly familiar about Miss Bella's smile, something that reminded him of the woman they'd just been tearing apart. His heart skipped a beat as he realized that the teacher was none other than the woman they'd just degraded.
With trembling fingers, he typed out a response, trying to keep his emotions in check. "Well done, sweetheart," he wrote, his voice cracking slightly. "You've got a real talent. I'll be back in town soon to see your masterpiece in person." He hit send, feeling a knot of guilt tighten in his stomach. The promise of an early return was a lie—his job kept him away more often than not. But the thought of seeing his daughter's face light up when he praised her art was enough to push the dark thoughts aside for now.
The bus rolled on, the scenery outside the windows a blur of neon signs and shadowed faces. The young man's thoughts drifted back to the woman in the red dress and the harsh words they'd thrown her way. He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd seen her somewhere before, and not just in the fleeting glances of his daily commute. The way she'd carried herself, the dignity in her silence—it was all too familiar.
Suddenly, the condescending man's phone rang, the shrill sound piercing the silence like a siren in the night. He answered with a gruff "What?" that made the hairs on the young man's neck stand on end. It was his wife. The young man pretended not to listen, but her words were like a punch to the gut. "What have you been doing?" she demanded, her voice strained with frustration. "I had to borrow money from my mother again to pay the rent. What kind of man are you?"
The young man couldn't help but eavesdrop as the conversation grew more heated. The condescending man's face turned red, his jaw tightening as he hissed into the phone. "You know I've been working overtime," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Don't you dare question me." But his wife's accusations continued, each one a dagger that seemed to cut him deeper.
He glanced over at the young man, who feigned ignorance, staring out the window. But the words had seeped in, planting a seed of doubt that grew with every syllable. Was this really the man he wanted to be? A man who talked trash about women and couldn't even support his own family? He felt a twinge of guilt as the woman's voice grew more desperate.
The condescending man's eyes narrowed as he ended the call, his jaw clenched. He turned to the young man, a forced smile plastered on his face. "You see what I mean?" he said, his voice a low growl. "They're never satisfied, always wanting more. It's a never-ending cycle of greed and manipulation."
The young man nodded absently, his thoughts racing. He'd never seen that side of the man before—the desperation, the fear of losing control. It was a stark reminder that everyone had their own battles, their own demons to fight. And maybe, just maybe, the woman they'd been mocking had her own reasons for being the way she was.
Their stop came, and the young man followed the condescending figure off the bus, his thoughts heavy. The cool evening air was a welcome respite from the oppressive atmosphere inside the vehicle, but it did little to clear his conscience. He watched as the man strutted down the sidewalk, his confidence seemingly restored with each step. But the young man knew the truth—the facade was cracking.
The city was alive with the hum of traffic and the chatter of pedestrians, yet the young man felt isolated in his contemplation. As he walked, he couldn't help but think about the woman in the red dress, her dignity in the face of their scorn. He found himself drawn to the curves of passing women, his mind wandering to the softness of their flesh and the warmth of their embrace. It was a primal instinct, one that had been stoked by their earlier conversation, and he felt a mix of excitement and shame at the thought.
The chill in the air grew sharper as he approached his apartment block, the towering concrete structure looming over him like a judgmental sentinel. His mother's welcoming smile washed over him like a warm blanket as he stepped into the dimly lit hallway, the smell of her home-cooking wafting from the kitchen. She was a bastion of strength and patience, a woman who had given him life and nurtured him despite his flaws. He felt a pang of guilt for his earlier thoughts, realizing the stark contrast between his mother and the objectified creatures he'd been discussing on the bus.
"I have someone I want you to meet," she said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "This is my Auntie Shohely. She's come all the way from the village, and she's brought her granddaughter, Rabeya."
The young man's heart sank as he turned to face them. Rabeya, a girl of about sixteen, had the same fiery hair and determined gaze as the woman they'd been talking about on the bus. She looked at him warily, as if she could see the darkness of his thoughts reflected in his eyes.
"This is my son, Kuddus," his mother said, beaming. "He's going to help us figure out the best place for Rabeya to stay."
Rabeya's grandmother, offered a tentative smile. "Thank you for having us," she said, her eyes flicking to the young man before returning to his mother. "It's just for a few weeks, until Rabeya finds her footing."
Kuddus felt his stomach churn. He'd just spent the last hour spouting hateful rhetoric about women, and now he was face to face with one who had the same fiery spirit as the one they'd so casually mocked. Rabeya looked at him, her eyes unreadable, and he knew he had to tread carefully. He forced a smile that felt more like a grimace.
"It's no problem at all, Mrs. Akhtar ," he said, his voice a little too eager. "We've got plenty of room."
As Rabeya and her grandmother settled into the small living room, Kuddus couldn't help but feel the weight of his mother's expectant gaze. He knew she was watching him, waiting for some sign that he'd learned from their earlier conversation, that he'd grown up enough to treat Rabeya with the respect she deserved.
"How was your trip?" Kuddus's mother asked Rabeya, her voice a gentle coax. Rabeya shrugged, her eyes flicking to her grandmother before returning to the floor. "It was fine, thanks," she said, her voice barely more than a murmur. "The bus was okay, but then Aunt Shohely's back started acting up, so we had to get an Uber."
Aunt Shohely, a sturdy woman with a no-nonsense attitude, nodded in agreement. "Aye, that's the truth," she said, wincing slightly as she sat down. "Bloody back, can't trust it for a minute."
Kuddus's mother bustled into the kitchen, the scent of frying onions and spices wafting through the air. She brought out a tray laden with steaming Bengali snacks—puffed puris filled with spiced potatoes, crunchy shingaras that melted on the tongue, and sweet jilapis.
Aunt Shohely, beamed at him "You've grown so responsible, Kuddus," she said, patting his shoulder as she handed over the Katla fish, still wrapped in newspaper. The fish had been caught that very morning from their village pond.
Aunt Shohely then handed Kuddus a box of sweets, the lid adorned with an intricate pattern of sugar crystals. "These are from our local sweet shop, the one by the old banyan tree," she said with a twinkle in her eye. "We brought them especially for you and your mother."
Taking the items from the guest, Kuddus walked over to the refrigerator. The kitchen was a flurry of activity, with pots and pans sizzling on the stove and the sound of chopping vegetables in the background. As he carefully placed the Katla fish on the bottom shelf of the fridge, he couldn't help but feel a sense of pride knowing that the special meal they were preparing was not just for their guests, but also for the bond that the families shared. The fish was a symbol of the hospitality and generosity that the villagers were known for.
As they sat down to eat, Rabeya's grandmother began to recount tales of their village, the simplicity of life there, and the joy that came from hard work. Rabeya listened with a quiet fondness, occasionally adding her own anecdotes. Despite his earlier misconceptions, Kuddus found himself drawn into their stories, his prejudices fading with each bite of the food that had been so lovingly prepared.
Rabeya's grandmother had insisted on bringing the Katla fish as a gift, and Kuddus's mother had masterfully prepared it with a blend of spices that made his mouth water. As they ate, Rabeya spoke up, her voice strong and clear. "In our village, everyone works together. Men and women, young and old, we all contribute. It's not about who's in charge, but about making sure everyone has what they need."
Kuddus's eyes snapped to Rabeya, his thoughts racing. Here was a living, breathing example of the very things he'd been dismissing so casually on the bus. Her words were like a splash of cold water, jolting him out of the haze of misogynistic rhetoric that had clouded his judgment. He swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his own ignorance.
As Rabeya spoke, he noticed the way her hands moved, animated and expressive, and how she looked directly into his eyes when she talked. There was a strength in her, a resilience that seemed to belie her youth. Her words were like a gentle rebuke to his earlier beliefs, and he couldn't help but feel a spark of admiration.
Suddenly, the TV in the corner of the room caught his attention. The news was on, and the banner at the bottom of the screen read: "Purity Hotel Raid: Underage Trafficking Ring Exposed." His heart skipped a beat as the camera panned over to the dogmatic man from the bus, surrounded by police officers. The reporter spoke rapidly, but the words barely registered. It couldn't be. This man, who had spoken so confidently about the purity of women, was now caught in the very vice he'd been condemning?
The young man felt his stomach drop as he saw the familiar smugness on the dogmatic man's face replaced with a look of pure terror. The scene unfolding before him was surreal—the man who had so confidently spouted his views on the inferiority of women was now the subject of a police investigation. Rabeya's grandmother, noticing his distraction, followed his gaze to the TV. "Oh, not again," she sighed, shaking her head. "It seems like every week there's another scandal with these hotels."
Kuddus couldn't tear his eyes away from the screen. The images of the police raiding the hotel, of the frightened young women being led out, their eyes downcast—it was all too much to process. The man who had so proudly called himself a guardian of morality was nothing but a monster in disguise. The irony was not lost on him.
"It's disgusting," Rabeya said, her voice filled with a passion that surprised him. "How can anyone think they're better than anyone else? That they can control and use people like that?"
Her words hung in the air, a stark contrast to the laughter and chatter from earlier. Kuddus felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. The conversation on the bus had been a game to him, a way to pass the time, but now the reality was slapping him in the face like a wet fish. He looked at Rabeya, her eyes shining with indignation, and realized she wasn't just some girl to be ogled or talked down to. She was a person with thoughts, feelings, and experiences—experiences that were likely vastly different from his own.
The TV droned on in the background, the reporter detailing the horrors of the hotel's illicit operations. Rabeya's grandmother put a comforting hand on Rabeya's shoulder, her own expression a mix of anger and sadness. "It's a harsh world out there," she said, her voice tinged with a hint of warning. "But Rabeya's got a good head on her shoulders. She'll make it through."
Kuddus nodded, his mind racing. He hadn't expected this—his own prejudices laid bare by the very people he'd thought of as lesser. Rabeya looked up at him, her gaze questioning. He took a deep breath and met her eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I didn't mean any of that."
Her expression remained guarded, but she didn't pull away. "It's okay," she said, her voice soft. "But you should know better."
Kuddus felt a strange sense of relief. It wasn't the dismissal or anger he'd been expecting—it was understanding, almost as if Rabeya had seen through his bluster to the scared little boy who hadn't yet learned the value of true respect.
Rabeya leaned in, her expression lightening slightly. "You know," she said, "my grandma always tells me that the best way to deal with a snake is to show it you're not afraid."
Kuddus's mother chuckled, her eyes crinkling with amusement. "That's true," she said, passing Rabeya a plate of shemai. "But sometimes, it's better to just leave them be and let them slither away on their own."
A glimmer of mischief visible in Rabeya's eyes as she took the plate, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "Or," she suggested, "you could always pretend you're a bigger, scarier snake."
The room erupted in laughter, the tension dissipating like a popped bubble. Kuddus couldn't help but join in, his guffaw echoing off the walls. Rabeya's grandmother winked at him over her plate, and he felt a strange kinship with the two of them. They'd come from such different places, but here they were, sharing a moment of pure, unadulterated joy.
