I’m sitting in a chair somewhere. I can see grass all around. Green grass. While sitting, my feet are almost touching the small footpath in front of me. A girl was walking that way. She looked like she was in class seven or eight. Wearing a uniform. A color somewhere between green and sky blue. A pastel shade. Since my feet were on the path, she couldn’t pass. She politely asked for space to walk by. I paid no attention. Who was she? Why should I move my feet for her? Wait, why am I sitting here? Where is this place?
A little later, I noticed a school building nearby. Judging by its condition, it seemed like a government school. I saw the girl in a room on the ground floor. Making an announcement. After finishing, she walked toward me. She apologized, saying she felt remorseful for disturbing me.
I asked her, what announcement were you making? As I began to introduce myself, she cut me off and said, “Brother, I know you. Everyone here knows you.” I was astonished. I had no idea how I got here, or what this place even was. And they apparently knew me.
I thought I’d ask the girl. Where am I? What’s the name of this place? Which district is this? Before I could ask, I heard a train horn. Turning around, I saw that right where the school field ended, a railway line ran across. Vast fields on both sides of the tracks. Covered in green grass. A breeze was blowing. The grass was dancing with joy. While observing all this, the train arrived. Astonishing. A locomotive with just one single carriage. I noticed there were no passengers. The nameplate read ‘Turna Nishitha.’
I wanted to know the girl’s identity. She briefly introduced herself. I heard it through one ear and let it out the other. Who remembers names? She told me she was working in medicine. A girl in class seven or eight, working in medicine…! I was glad to hear it. Without me even asking, the girl said her mother had died from a very new disease. There was treatment available, but because of ‘intellectual royalty,’ the medicine apparently cost several crore taka. She had watched her mother die before her own eyes. In Jasimuddin’s poem ‘Pallijaanoni,’ a helpless mother counted the hours until her sick son’s death — and this girl had done the same for her mother. Since then, she had been determined to make medicine accessible to everyone. She wants to dedicate her life for it. Tears came to their eyes. The girl’s younger brother was with her too. While she was telling me all this, several more trains had passed on that line. In every case, the same thing — each train had only one carriage. Are the trains here always like this? Knowing that girls are bad at geography, I asked her younger brother — how many kilometers are we from Kamalapur Station? To the north, or to the south? He didn’t answer. Neither did the girl. I’m walking toward the railway line. Into the unknown.