A Beautiful Boy
By: Adnan Adnan
What does any of this have to do with my father travelling to India at fourteen and Hemingway?
By the time his mother, Aklima Khatun, discovered Rabiul was gone, he had already crossed the border from Bangladesh into India. The year was 1973, and Bangladesh was still struggling to find herself after the war of independence in 1971. Like his country, there was
uncertainty and restlessness in Rabiul’s heart too.
It was afternoon, in early summer. His mother was cooking dinner. She was tired from the late afternoon heat and the chores of cooking for twelve. Their walled house in Jessore with the big green gate stood about a mile away from the city center.
One of Rabiul’s friends came over to the house and said to his mother, “Auntie, did you hear?”
“Hear what?”
“Rabiul went to India.”
“What! When?”
“This morning. By now he must be there.”
“How come you did not tell me sooner?”
“Rabiul told me to tell you this evening.”
“Are you certain that he went to India?”
“Yes. He took Musa with him. They went together. They want to see the whole country before coming back.”
“This boy would kill me one day. Did he say when he will return?”
“No, but it could be months.”
“Months?”
“They want to see everything.”
“I hope he comes back alive. How could he see everything in a big country like that!”
“Don’t worry, Auntie! He is knowledgeable about these sorts of things and he’s got the gut.”
“That gut of his might get him killed.”
“Musa is with him. They will look after each other.”
“Why did you go too?”
“My father would kill me if I did anything like that.”
For days prior to that, Rabiul had begged his father, Sheikh Afsaruddin, for money so he could travel to India with his cousin, Musa. His father denied, saying, “You are too young.”
“I am fourteen!”
“Not old enough.”
“I know everything about India.”
“You know nothing. Boys like you get lost out there. You might even get kidnapped and sold for body parts.”
“I can protect myself.”
“No, you cannot. I will give you the money when you are twenty.”
“Why wait when I can go now?”
“Because I will not pay for your death.”
“I am not going to die.”
“I am done talking.”
After his conversation with his father, for days Rabiul lived a solitary and quiet life. His mother knew he was planning for something. He was that kind of a boy. Whenever something
entered his head, he had to have it.
It was almost evening. Time for Afsaruddin to return home from his office in the main Bazar. Aklima finished cooking. She barely finished taking her evening bath when she heard her husband’s secretary Akkas calling her from the front yard. Akkas’ voice trembled. She knew there was something wrong. Her heart sank. Did anything happen to Rabiul, she wondered. She hurried, dressed, and got to the front yard.
“What happened?”
“We are in trouble!”
“Did something happen to Rabiul?”
“No, but he caused it.”
“What did he do?”
“He took the wheels off of fifteen of our trucks and sold them.”
“What did he do?”
“He sold the wheels of our trucks.”
“Did he do that? Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“The buyer informed me.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He needed the money to go to India.”
“Does his father know about it yet?”
“No. He is going to kill him. That is why I am here to see you first.”
“Does anyone else know about it?”
“Yes.”
“You did the right thing. Make sure his father does not find out. Go to the Bazaar and buy his father’s favorite yogurt and bring it back immediately.”
“That is a brilliant idea. Yes. Have you cooked beef today?”
“No.”
“You need to cook beef. He loves beef.”
“I don’t have any meat at home.”
“I will have the butcher send you some meat. Cook it quickly before he gets home. I will go get the yogurt.”
“Go now.”
“Please don’t mention my name to your husband.”
“I will manage. Go!”
That night during the dinner, there was everyone at the table, except Rabiul. Afsaruddin asked, “Where is he? Why isn’t he here?”
Aklima said, “He must not be home yet.”
“It’s late. I worry about him. Such a beautiful boy. He is going wasted. He is not doing well in school. He is with the wrong crowd. He has all these lofty ideas. His head is full of
nonsense. Storybooks are ruining him.”
All six of Rabiul’s sisters looked at each other, but said nothing. They avoided their father’s eyes. They all ate quietly and left the table.
After the dinner, Aklima brought her husband a bowl of his favorite yogurt. He sat on the bed, resting his back against the headboard, and ate the yogurt slowly.
“Why yogurt today?”
“Is it good?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want more?”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“Something terrible. Two terrible things, actually.”
“What is it?”
“Which do I say first?”
“Just say it.”
“Rabiul and Musa went to India.”
“India?”
“Yes.”
“When? How come no one told me about it?”
“They left early this morning. By the time I found out, he was already in India. I did not want to alarm you at the office.”
“He will die out there. He cannot deal with all the cheats and thugs on the road.”
“Musa is with him.”
“What is Musa going to do? Nothing. They are children.”
“I’ve prayed for their safety.”
“Did you give him the money?”
“No. That is the other thing that I need to talk to you about.”
“What now?”
“He did a terrible thing.”
“What else did he do!”
“He sold the wheels of some of our trucks.”
“He did what?”
“He sold some of the truck wheels.”
“No, he did not! If the wheels were missing, I would have been informed first.”
“He did.”
“This boy will kill me. He will kill us. He will get himself killed.”
“We need to pray for his safety. That’s all we can do now.”
“Who told you that he went to India?”
“His friend Nasser.”
“And who told you about the wheels?”
“Akkas.”
Afsaruddin went completely quiet for some time. Aklima sat there watching her husband eating the yogurt. In her mind, she prayed for calm.
“Do you know when he will be back?”
“No. Could be months. He wants to see the whole of India.”
“And all this because he read that book by that American author?”
“I think so.”
“Madness. He will get himself killed out there.”
“He is smart, strong, and brave.”
He fell silent again. A dog barked outside. The room was heavy with silence.
“This might do him good,” he said finally. “I left home at seven to escape hunger. I was half his age. I survived. Let the boy roam. Let him see the world. A restless man is not a
responsible man. Let him roam like a tiger. Let him find calm and become a responsible man.”
“You are not angry?”
“I am.”
And that was how Hemingway entered our bloodstream, entered but never left. As I roam the world now, he roams in my blood.
Adnan Adnan won the Ruth MacLean McGee Award for Outstanding Achievement in Creative Nonfiction in 2013. In 2018, he won the Chalk Hill Artist’s Residency grant for his memoir, The Sentimental Pigeon Keeper. Inspired by Jon Fosse’s works, he authored 108 plays in 2024. Adnan’s works have appeared in the Flash Fiction World, Mukto-Mona, Reed Magazine, TWO@SJSU, Pinyon Review, and The Rumpus. He is currently finalizing his memoirs, The Sentimental Pigeon Keeper and Do Not Die Out There. He lives in San Jose, California, with his wife, Farzana, and daughters, Rain and Arabella.