The pukur, p.1
The Pukur, page 1
The Pukur
D.K. Powell
The Pukur

Addison & Highsmith Publishers
Las Vegas ◊ Chicago ◊ Palm Beach
Published in the United States of America by
Histria Books, a division of Histria LLC
7181 N. Hualapai Way, Ste. 130-86
Las Vegas, NV 89166 USA
HistriaBooks.com
Addison & Highsmith is an imprint of Histria Books. Titles published under the imprints of Histria Books are distributed worldwide.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publisher.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022938743
ISBN 978-1-59211-144-2 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-59211-223-4 (eBook)
Copyright © 2022 by D.K. Powell
Table of Contents
Chapter One – A Beautiful Morning
Chapter Two – The Accident
Chapter Three – The Silent Beauty
Chapter Four – The Darkness and The Light
Chapter Five – Father
Chapter Six – The Holiday
Chapter Seven – My Golden Bangla
Chapter Eight – The Land
Chapter Nine – Didi
Chapter Ten – Ghosts
Chapter Eleven – The Pukur
Chapter Twelve – Friends and Enemies
Chapter Thirteen – Rakkosh
Chapter Fourteen – The Sun and The Dark
Chapter Fifteen – A Surprise for Sophie
Chapter Sixteen – Didi’s Story
Chapter Seventeen – Mangsho
Chapter Eighteen – Kuwasha
Chapter Nineteen – Ashroy
Chapter Twenty – Rebel
Chapter Twenty-One – Caught
Chapter Twenty-Two – Grief
Chapter Twenty-Three – Birthday
Chapter Twenty-Four – Tiger
Chapter Twenty-Five – Going Home
Chapter Twenty-Six – Ondhokar
Chapter Twenty-Seven – The Breaking of Chains
Chapter Twenty-Eight – The Flood
Chapter Twenty-Nine – Bagh!
Epilogue
Glossary
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Dedication
To all those who lived, worked, and shared their lives with me at LAMB, Bangladesh from 2006 to 2014. There’s not a day that goes by I don’t think of you and miss you. You brought me the greatest moments of joy and I will always be thankful.
The traveller must knock at every foreign door to reach their own,
and meander through all the outer worlds,
to reach, at the end, their own innermost temple.
— Gitanjali, Rabindranath Tagore
Chapter One – A Beautiful Morning
She quietly watches both of them as they die.
The girl doesn’t get up from her seat. She doesn’t say anything. She just watches. She doesn’t lift a hand to do anything. The twelve-year-old doesn’t even shed a tear.
She just gazes at them.
The man looks quite peaceful, really, almost sleeping like a baby, as they say. Only the sharp rasping coming from deep in his chest gives any indication something is amiss. He is, at least, breathing. There’s that.
A humming rises.
The woman sits further away behind her, and the girl can’t see if she is breathing or not. She notices red drops dripping from the woman’s face and the growing dark pool spreading out from just below her belly. It goes through her mind that the burgundy stain clashes badly with the bold yellow fabric.
That beautiful dress, she thinks, I’ve always loved it. She’s so pretty when she wears it. It’ll be ruined now.
The sound of rasping stops, and the girl turns her head slowly to look at the man again. Movement from his chest has stopped; the colour has completely drained from his face.
No blood…
Sophie glances down at her own legs, realising her own unique stain spreading across them for the first time.
Oh…look at that…
She glances up at the man again and then closes her eyes. She doesn’t want to look at him again. Not like this. To stop herself from thinking about him, she instead allows the warm sunlight coming through the window to shine down on her face. For the first time, she realises her cheeks are cold. The rays feel nice, but they aren’t enough to take away the numbness of the freezing air.
The humming rises. Louder and louder, needles pressing on the ears.
She turns her head again to the woman. It’s getting much harder to think now. The pain. Sleep, she thinks and closes her eyes. This little girl speaks just three words the entire time she is awake; softly, barely a whisper, and just before the humming takes over completely.
“I love you,” she says simply, without emotion. It’s a fact.
Such noise, such pain, needles piercing the brain.
Sophie rests her head as best she can and gives in to sleep. Something deep inside tells her not to do this, but she’s tired. So very tired.
It’s two hours before the police find the car, lying in a ditch, half covered in pure, untainted white snow, freshly lain.
It is a beautiful morning.
Chapter Two – The Accident
It really had been a beautiful, crisp winter morning when the Shepherd family decided to go for a picnic.
It had seemed like a great idea. Pack up a big hamper of delicious food, throw it in the back of the car, go for a drive to some deserted park and have a summer picnic in the middle of winter. After all, no one else would be out on the roads today, not with all the snow that fell that week. It was ludicrous but also thoroughly British.
It had been Stephen Shepherd’s idea. He was always a crazy fool and as headstrong as they come. Elizabeth Shepherd was more sensible and worried about safety on the road, but Stephen wouldn’t hear any of it. In the end, it was Sophie’s pleading insistence that made her mother give in and allow it to happen. Who can resist their own daughter, after all? Secretly though, her mother was pleased and thought the whole idea a lovely surprise to take advantage of the bright sunshine that, for once, was shining down on the world. The weather forecast said it would be ‘changeable’ today, but it had been shining all morning; so clearly – like usual – the BBC weathergirl had it wrong again. That was also thoroughly British.
But her father was wrong, as it turned out. There was someone else on the road that day. A youth, newly passed his driving test, was ‘giving the car a spin,’ and he was the best driver in the world with the greatest skills and had the meanest sports car ever – so he believed. The reality was something else.
To be fair, that particular stretch of country road was known for being treacherous. Although only a couple of people had died along it over the decades, this was simply because hardly anyone ever used it. The road was full of twists and turns to avoid ditches and trees so that tractors from the local farms could still use it. It had been turned from a lane used by farmers and village locals into a ‘solid modern and reliable road’ by the local council who hoped to see it become the main route for distant villages. The scheme didn’t work. There were many skid marks left by cars going too fast on the 1000-yard stretch of road where it left the main junction until it reached the first village hamlet. As the villagers often complained, the youth today were always in a hurry and usually overestimated their ability to handle corners; or underestimated the angle of the bends. Just as well not too many youths lived round here.
But even with that allowed, if this kid knew the road at all, he should have known better. Instead, it was a classic case of driving too fast, and when the other car came around the bend that day, the youth’s car was already zigzagging across both sides of the road, having lost control seconds earlier.
Her father did his best to slow down and get out of the way, but it all happened too fast. The car careered into the driver’s side, sending both cars off in opposite directions. The youth’s vehicle went head-on through the hedge and into a huge oak tree which stopped the car swiftly and with great efficiency. The youth, of course, was too good a driver to need a seatbelt. He was killed instantly when he went through the windscreen and before he hit the tree.
The other car had no hedge to slow it down. Instead, it went down and was stopped by the solid earth at the bottom of the ditch even more effectively than the oak tree had stopped the youth’s car. The car flipped over and would have ended upside down had it not struck a glancing blow on a large tree stump that caused it to twist. It ended more or less the right way up, albeit now facing the opposite way from whence it came.
Unlike the youth, everyone in this car had been wearing seatbelts which is why the girl wasn’t killed by the fall. But it was an old model car, and there was no airbag in the steering wheel. When the father’s chest hit it with full force, the metal had no give and crushed his chest, causing major internal bleeding. The mother, who had been sitting in the back, had cracked her head on the window and the low roof above several times after the other car hit her side. That first blow had knocked her out. She never woke up.
Because no one knew either driver was out and about that morning, no one called the police. It was, after all, wintertime, and the weathergirl had assured everyone i t was changeable weather and people should avoid going out if they could or risk getting caught in a snowstorm.
The snow did come about half an hour after the crash and fell for about an hour after that, laying thickly, covering both cars before it stopped. Two vehicles went past that stretch of road at separate times, but the drivers didn’t see either car. They had been too busy concentrating on keeping to the bendy road, now half-hidden by the snow, and avoid hitting the hidden kerb.
The third driver had noticed the youth’s car and called the police immediately on his phone while he drove but didn’t stop to check. It was cold and the clouds were turning a dark grey. More snow was coming and they had to get home. Perhaps they would have stayed had they seen the youth sprawled on the bonnet, but his body had been completely covered with snow and it just looked like a badly smashed and abandoned car. The driver only made the call to make absolutely sure and to do his duty.
Even when the police arrived and found the youth’s body, they did not initially see the Shepherd’s car, further up and low down in the ditch. The snow had hidden the skid marks of both vehicles, and the ditch was particularly deep. Several minutes passed, and just as the paramedic crew was in the last stages of getting the youth’s body into the ambulance, one copper noticed what looked possibly like a car half-buried further down in the ditch on the opposite side. A great cry went up, back-up was called for, and two policemen raced down the steep and treacherous slope as fast as possible.
Initially, everyone thought that all three members of the Shepherd family inside were dead, but the lead paramedic felt the slightest hint of a pulse in the young girl’s neck. She was a mess, no doubt of that, but she was alive.
Just.
Chapter Three – The Silent Beauty
Even when she is doing the housework, she is a real beauty. She has never had to work at this; her entire appearance is as delightful as it is innocent. Perhaps this is what makes her so astonishing and makes men stare so; and perhaps that’s what makes the other maids jealous of her too.
She stands in the kitchen, brushing away, occasionally throwing back her orna, which keeps slipping from her shoulders as she bends to swat at the occasional cockroach with the broom. Her bare feet pad softly on the concrete floor, which feels particularly cold this morning. Her soft, light-brown skin contrasts with the harsh white of the floor. It is not an unattractive combination.
If anyone had been in the house at that point, they wouldn’t even have known she was there. She is as silent as the dawn rays and no less marvellous to look upon. But no one is in the house. No one is ever here except for the owner. No one would dare – apart from this young girl, and one other too, but that particular fearsome creature has no desire to enter here anyway.
The beauty finishes her sweeping, lays down her broom under the cooking stove, turns to the work surface, also made of concrete, and picks up the stacked tins of the tiffin box by the metal handle. Leaving the kitchen, she walks through the hallway – always with no trace of a sound no matter how easy it is for even the slightest noise to create an echo here – and enters the front room. Crossing the house’s largest room, she nimbly wraps one length of her scarf loosely around her head with her free hand.
Reaching the other end, she takes her chador from the hanging rack next to the door and notices a small trail of ants marching in single file down the faded white concrete walls. She makes a note of their general direction for dealing with later, then, with the blanket wrapped tightly around her neck and shoulders, she opens the door and steps out onto the small veranda.
Her sandals are damp from the early morning fog which permeates everything before evaporating in the bright sun. Gripping the tiffin in her left hand, she leaves the veranda and heads out towards the centre of the village.
The sun is sharp and bright, and she feels the rays prickle her cold cheeks. It is a wonderful sensation, and she welcomes this companion, aware that it will be a friend no more but ‘the enemy’ in a few months’ time. It is a good metaphor for so much here. That which feeds you and brings you life will also kill you and make you suffer. For now, though, this sun is longed for and blesses all.
Walking past trees and bushes, she keeps her head down as befits her status. There are no men around at this moment, so it doesn’t matter. Nevertheless, out of habit, a natural urge for protection maybe, she tugs on her scarf under the chador to pull it a little tighter around her head. The winter fog may have lifted, but there is still a chill in the air. She knows that he likes it best at this time of the day.
Soon she arrives at the fencing. The wire mesh almost reaches the height of her head, but she can see through it anyway and indeed has done so while approaching to check where he has placed himself today. She spies him over in the far corner and turns to the left to walk over to the gate. She tramples dark and dry leaves as she goes, yet even these make barely a sound under her feet. This woman all but floats.
Passing through the gate, she pads slowly and gracefully along the path made up largely of disused bricks sunk into the silty mud. She doesn’t walk too close to the edge where the steep drop of the bank leads to the water. The path is slippery at the best of times, and childhood experiences taught her long ago how easy it is to end up swimming for your life.
So, she keeps to the centre, stopping only for the occasional snake to scurry from some hiding place and slither quickly down the bank before disappearing into the green waters. She is not fearful of these creatures, although childhood experiences have also taught her that it hurts when they bite. She remembers once picking up what she thought was a fish from a pool just like this one and discovered to her dismay and pain that it was a water snake instead. She knows that they startle easily, but they will return the favour if you leave them alone.
Finally, she reaches the place where he sits, rod in hand, motionless and wearing his perpetual look of frowning at something displeasing him. A fly bothers around his grey-white beard, but he either doesn’t notice it or has no desire to swat it away. His entire concentration is on the patch of water where the line from his rod has landed. It is as still as he is.
She says nothing as she reaches his bench and bends to place the tiffin quietly by his side. Rising, she looks at his face – or at least as much as she can see under his cream Panama hat, and wonders if he has more creases around his eyes now than he did when she first met him. His skin is barely white any longer. Has he been in this land so long that the sun has finally baked him brown?
For his part, he doesn’t notice her at all or at least doesn’t acknowledge her if he does. He does not look at her. He does not see how astonishingly beautiful her eyes are. He does not admire her almost perfect form. He does not consider how she makes even the working clothes of a maid seem more captivating than a princess in the most costly of gowns. He does not feel a heart full of love beating alone. He cares not about such things.
Hesitating for a moment, she opens her mouth to speak.
“Bugger off!” he shouts without moving his head even for a second. A little bit of expelled spit catches on his beard.
She closes her mouth again and turns to leave as silently as she came. Only when she is back at the gate on the other side does she turn around to look at him one more time before fixing her mind on dealing with that trail of ants she recalls in the front room.
He hasn’t moved at all. It is not a good sign. Later, when she examines the contents of the tiffin, she’ll know if this morning will be a good one or not. She prays she will see nothing inside, but a feeling tells her she will find the snacks untouched.
The sun is cutting through the last remnants of the morning fog, drying and warming everything it touches. But it cannot penetrate the cover of trees surrounding much of that area. There, the fog lingers, still and cold, and nothing inside can be warmed if it chooses to stay.
Chapter Four – The Darkness and The Light
The darkness…
…a screeching sound…screaming and then…
…light.
