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Lesson 1: “Mr. Moti” by Rahad Abir

Economy and education are two major factors that segregate people in a society. 'Mr. Moti' is a story by a Bangladeshi writer Rahad Abir. Read the two sections of the story and try to understand the identity of people belonging to different social classes. Also, think about how the human world and animals/birds are inter-related.

āĻ…āĻ°ā§āĻĨāύ⧀āϤāĻŋ āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āĻļāĻŋāĻ•ā§āώāĻž āĻšāϞ⧋ āĻĻ⧁āϟāĻŋ āĻĒā§āϰāϧāĻžāύ āωāĻĒāĻžāĻĻāĻžāύ āϝāĻž āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āϏāĻŽāĻžāĻœā§‡āϰ āĻŽāĻžāύ⧁āώāϕ⧇ āĻŦāĻŋāĻ­āĻ•ā§āϤ āĻ•āϰ⧇āĨ¤ 'āĻŽāĻŋāĻ¸ā§āϟāĻžāϰ āĻŽāϤāĻŋ' āĻŦāĻžāĻ‚āϞāĻžāĻĻ⧇āĻļāĻŋ āϞ⧇āĻ–āĻ• āϰāĻžāĻšāĻžāĻĻ āφāĻŦāĻŋāϰ⧇āϰ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āĻ—āĻ˛ā§āĻĒāĨ¤ āĻ—āĻ˛ā§āĻĒ⧇āϰ āĻĻ⧁āϟāĻŋ āĻ…āĻ‚āĻļ āĻĒā§œā§‹ āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āĻŦāĻŋāĻ­āĻŋāĻ¨ā§āύ āϏāĻžāĻŽāĻžāϜāĻŋāĻ• āĻļā§āϰ⧇āĻŖā§€āϰ āĻŽāĻžāύ⧁āώ⧇āϰ āĻĒāϰāĻŋāϚ⧟ āĻŦā§‹āĻāĻžāϰ āĻšā§‡āĻˇā§āϟāĻž āĻ•āϰ⧋āĨ¤ āĻāĻ›āĻžā§œāĻž, āĻŽāĻžāύ⧁āώ⧇āϰ āϜāĻ—āϤ āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āĻĒāĻļ⧁-āĻĒāĻžāĻ–āĻŋāϰāĻž āϕ⧀āĻ­āĻžāĻŦ⧇ āĻāϕ⧇ āĻ…āĻĒāϰ⧇āϰ āϏāĻžāĻĨ⧇ āϏāĻŽā§āĻĒāĻ°ā§āĻ•āĻŋāϤ āϤāĻž āύāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āϚāĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤāĻž āĻ•āϰ⧋āĨ¤

Ameen is seventeen when the war breaks out. One Monday, after supper, he announces he will go to war. Sonabhan shrieks in surprise, "You want to leave me alone?"

āϝāĻ–āύ āϝ⧁āĻĻā§āϧ āĻļ⧁āϰ⧁ āĻšā§Ÿ āϤāĻ–āύ āφāĻŽāĻŋāύ⧇āϰ āĻŦ⧟āϏ āϏāϤ⧇āϰ⧋āĨ¤ āĻāĻ• āϏ⧋āĻŽāĻŦāĻžāϰ, āϰāĻžāϤ⧇āϰ āĻ–āĻžāĻŦāĻžāϰ⧇āϰ āĻĒāϰ āϏ⧇ āĻ˜ā§‹āώāĻŖāĻž āĻĻā§‡ā§Ÿ āϝ⧇ āϏ⧇ āϝ⧁āĻĻā§āϧ⧇ āϝāĻžāĻŦ⧇āĨ¤ āϏ⧋āύāĻ­āĻžāύ āϚāĻŽāϕ⧇ āϚāĻŋā§ŽāĻ•āĻžāϰ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āĻ“āϠ⧇, "āϤ⧁āχ āφāĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āĻāĻ•āĻž āĻĢ⧇āϞ⧇ āϚāϞ⧇ āϝāĻžāĻŦāĻŋ?"

"It won't take long Ma," he assures her. “I'll be back soon after the training.” That night Sonabhan cannot sleep.

"āĻŦ⧇āĻļāĻŋ āϏāĻŽā§Ÿ āϞāĻžāĻ—āĻŦ⧇ āύāĻž āĻŽāĻž," āϏ⧇ āϤāĻžāϕ⧇ āφāĻļā§āĻŦāĻ¸ā§āϤ āĻ•āϰ⧇āĨ¤ "āĻŸā§āϰ⧇āύāĻŋāĻ‚ āĻļ⧇āώ āĻ•āϰ⧇āχ āφāĻŽāĻŋ āĻļā§€āĻ˜ā§āϰāχ āĻĢāĻŋāϰ⧇ āφāϏāĻŦāĨ¤" āϏ⧇āχ āϰāĻžāϤ⧇ āϏ⧋āύāĻ­āĻžāύ āϘ⧁āĻŽāĻžāϤ⧇ āĻĒāĻžāϰ⧇ āύāĻžāĨ¤

After sun-up, she opens the duck coop. The flock streams out, stretches and quacks around her for their morning meal. She takes longer than usual. She mixes water with rice husks in an earthen bowl and puts it down. They gobble it up in five minutes and head for the pond.

āϏ⧂āĻ°ā§āϝ āĻ“āĻ āĻžāϰ āĻĒāϰ āϏ⧇ āĻšāĻžāρāϏ⧇āϰ āĻ–ā§‹ā§ŸāĻžā§œ āϖ⧁āϞ⧇ āĻĻā§‡ā§ŸāĨ¤ āĻšāĻžāρāϏ⧇āϰ āĻĻāϞ āĻ¸ā§āϰ⧋āϤ⧇āϰ āĻŽāϤ⧋ āĻŦ⧇āϰāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āφāϏ⧇, āĻĄāĻžāύāĻž āĻāĻžāĻĒāϟāĻžā§Ÿ āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āϏāĻ•āĻžāϞ⧇āϰ āĻ–āĻžāĻŦāĻžāϰ⧇āϰ āϜāĻ¨ā§āϝ āϤāĻžāϰ āϚāĻžāϰāĻĒāĻžāĻļ⧇ āĻĒā§āϝāĻžāĻ•āĻĒā§āϝāĻžāĻ• āĻļāĻŦā§āĻĻ āĻ•āϰ⧇āĨ¤ āϏ⧇ āφāϜ āĻ¸ā§āĻŦāĻžāĻ­āĻžāĻŦāĻŋāϕ⧇āϰ āĻšā§‡ā§Ÿā§‡ āĻŦ⧇āĻļāĻŋ āϏāĻŽā§Ÿ āĻ¨ā§‡ā§ŸāĨ¤ āϏ⧇ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āĻŽāĻžāϟāĻŋāϰ āĻ—āĻžāĻŽāϞāĻžā§Ÿ āϚāĻžāϞ⧇āϰ āϕ⧁āĻā§œā§‹āϰ āϏāĻžāĻĨ⧇ āĻĒāĻžāύāĻŋ āĻŽāĻŋāĻļāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āϖ⧇āϤ⧇ āĻĻā§‡ā§ŸāĨ¤ āϤāĻžāϰāĻž āĻĒāĻžāρāϚ āĻŽāĻŋāύāĻŋāĻŸā§‡āχ āϏāĻŦ āĻ—āĻŋāϞ⧇ āĻĢ⧇āϞ⧇ āĻĒ⧁āϕ⧁āϰ⧇āϰ āĻĻāĻŋāϕ⧇ āϰāĻ“āύāĻž āĻšā§ŸāĨ¤

Ameen has let out the chickens by then. He lifts his 12-week-old cockerel, Moti, and sits on the veranda. During his breakfast he doesn't strike up any conversation. Having noticed Sonabhan's puffy eyes, he knows not to mention last night's subject. He casts his glance to the side, down at the cockerel eating rice in silence.

āφāĻŽāĻŋāύ āϤāϤāĻ•ā§āώāϪ⧇ āĻŽā§āϰāĻ—āĻŋāϗ⧁āϞ⧋ āĻ›ā§‡ā§œā§‡ āĻĻāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡āϛ⧇āĨ¤ āϏ⧇ āϤāĻžāϰ ⧧⧍ āϏāĻĒā§āϤāĻžāĻšā§‡āϰ āĻŽā§‹āϰāĻ—, āĻŽāϤāĻŋāϕ⧇ āϤ⧁āϞ⧇ āύāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āĻŦāĻžāϰāĻžāĻ¨ā§āĻĻāĻžā§Ÿ āĻŦāϏ⧇āĨ¤ āύāĻžāĻ¸ā§āϤāĻž āĻ•āϰāĻžāϰ āϏāĻŽā§Ÿ āϏ⧇ āϕ⧋āύ⧋ āĻ•āĻĨāĻžāĻŦāĻžāĻ°ā§āϤāĻž āĻļ⧁āϰ⧁ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āύāĻžāĨ¤ āϏ⧋āύāĻ­āĻžāύ⧇āϰ āĻĢā§‹āϞāĻž āĻšā§‹āĻ– āĻĻ⧇āϖ⧇ āϏ⧇ āĻŦ⧁āĻāϤ⧇ āĻĒāĻžāϰ⧇ āĻ—āϤāϰāĻžāϤ⧇āϰ āĻŦāĻŋāώ⧟āϟāĻŋ āύāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āĻ•āĻĨāĻž āύāĻž āĻŦāϞāĻžāχ āĻ­āĻžāϞ⧋āĨ¤ āϏ⧇ āĻ†ā§œāĻšā§‹āϖ⧇ āĻĒāĻžāĻļ⧇ āϤāĻžāĻ•āĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āĻĨāĻžāϕ⧇, āύāĻŋāĻšā§‡ āĻŽā§‹āϰāĻ—āϟāĻŋ āύ⧀āϰāĻŦ⧇ āϚāĻžāϞ āĻ–āĻžāĻšā§āϛ⧇āĨ¤

Today is haat bar, market day. Sonabhan has arranged the things Ameen will take to the bazaar to sell. Two dozen eggs, a sheaf of areca nuts, a bottle gourd. The bazaar is about a mile away.

āφāϜ āĻšāĻžāϟāĻŦāĻžāϰāĨ¤ āφāĻŽāĻŋāύ āĻŦāĻžāϜāĻžāϰ⧇ āĻŦāĻŋāĻ•ā§āϰāĻŋāϰ āϜāĻ¨ā§āϝ āϝ⧇ āϜāĻŋāύāĻŋāϏāϗ⧁āϞ⧋ āύ⧇āĻŦ⧇, āϏ⧋āύāĻ­āĻžāύ āϏ⧇āϗ⧁āϞ⧋ āϗ⧁āĻ›āĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āϰ⧇āϖ⧇āϛ⧇āĨ¤ āĻĻ⧁āχ āĻĄāϜāύ āĻĄāĻŋāĻŽ, āĻāĻ• āĻ›ā§œāĻž āϏ⧁āĻĒāĻžāϰāĻŋ, āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āĻ•āĻĻ⧁āĨ¤ āĻŦāĻžāϜāĻžāϰāϟāĻŋ āĻĒā§āϰāĻžā§Ÿ āĻāĻ• āĻŽāĻžāχāϞ āĻĻā§‚āϰ⧇āĨ¤

Ameen wears his short-sleeved floral shirt over his lungi. He whistles as he looks into the cloudy mirror to comb his hair. Placing the rattan basket on his head before setting off, he hollers: "I'm off, Ma.”

āφāĻŽāĻŋāύ āϤāĻžāϰ āϞ⧁āĻ™ā§āĻ—āĻŋāϰ āĻ“āĻĒāϰ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āϛ⧋āϟ āĻšāĻžāϤāĻžāϰ āĻĢ⧁āϞāϤ⧋āϞāĻž āĻļāĻžāĻ°ā§āϟ āĻĒāϰ⧇āĨ¤ āĻāĻžāĻĒāϏāĻž āĻ†ā§ŸāύāĻžā§Ÿ āϤāĻžāĻ•āĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āϚ⧁āϞ āφāρāϚ⧜āĻžāϤ⧇ āφāρāϚ⧜āĻžāϤ⧇ āϏ⧇ āĻļāĻŋāϏ āĻĻā§‡ā§ŸāĨ¤ āϰāĻ“āύāĻž āĻšāĻ“ā§ŸāĻžāϰ āφāϗ⧇ āĻŽāĻžāĻĨāĻžā§Ÿ āĻŦ⧇āϤ⧇āϰ āĻā§ā§œāĻŋ āϤ⧁āϞ⧇ āύāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āϏ⧇ āĻšāĻžāρāĻ• āĻĻā§‡ā§Ÿ: "āĻŽāĻž, āφāĻŽāĻŋ āϗ⧇āϞāĻžāĻŽāĨ¤"

Sonabhan watches him go along the bank of the little river. For the first time it occurs to her that Ameen has grown up. He has reached the height of his dead father, has his long neck and straight shoulders.

āϏ⧋āύāĻ­āĻžāύ āϤāĻžāϕ⧇ āϛ⧋āϟ āύāĻĻā§€āϰ āĻĒāĻžā§œ āĻĻāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āϝ⧇āϤ⧇ āĻĻ⧇āϖ⧇āĨ¤ āĻāχ āĻĒā§āϰāĻĨāĻŽ āϤāĻžāϰ āĻŽāύ⧇ āĻšāϞ⧋ āϝ⧇ āφāĻŽāĻŋāύ āĻŦ⧜ āĻšā§Ÿā§‡ āϗ⧇āϛ⧇āĨ¤ āϏ⧇ āϤāĻžāϰ āĻŽā§ƒāϤ āĻŦāĻžāĻŦāĻžāϰ āϏāĻŽāĻžāύ āϞāĻŽā§āĻŦāĻž āĻšā§Ÿā§‡āϛ⧇, āϤāĻžāϰ āĻŽāϤ⧋ āϞāĻŽā§āĻŦāĻž āϘāĻžā§œ āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āϏ⧋āϜāĻž āĻ•āĻžāρāϧ āĻĒā§‡ā§Ÿā§‡āϛ⧇āĨ¤

In that moment, Sonabhan realizes it's not the war, it's the fighting that Ameen is fascinated with. Like his dead father, he is crazy about bullfighting, cockfighting and boat racing. The same stubbornness flows in his blood. Once he decides on something, nothing can stop him.

āϏ⧇āχ āĻŽā§āĻšā§‚āĻ°ā§āϤ⧇ āϏ⧋āύāĻ­āĻžāύ āĻŦ⧁āĻāϤ⧇ āĻĒāĻžāϰ⧇ āϝ⧇ āĻāϟāĻž āϝ⧁āĻĻā§āϧ āύ⧟, āĻŦāϰāĻ‚ āϞ⧜āĻžāĻ‡ā§Ÿā§‡āϰ āĻŦāĻŋāώ⧟āϟāĻŋāχ āφāĻŽāĻŋāύāϕ⧇ āĻŽā§āĻ—ā§āϧ āĻ•āϰ⧇āϛ⧇āĨ¤ āϤāĻžāϰ āĻŽā§ƒāϤ āĻŦāĻžāĻŦāĻžāϰ āĻŽāϤ⧋ āϏ⧇āĻ“ āώāĻžāĻā§œā§‡āϰ āϞ⧜āĻžāχ, āĻŽā§‹āϰāĻ— āϞ⧜āĻžāχ āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āύ⧌āĻ•āĻž āĻŦāĻžāχāĻšā§‡āϰ āĻĒā§āϰāϤāĻŋ āĻĒāĻžāĻ—āϞāĨ¤ āĻāĻ•āχ āĻœā§‡āĻĻ āϤāĻžāϰ āϰāĻ•ā§āϤ⧇ āĻŦāχāϛ⧇āĨ¤ āĻāĻ•āĻŦāĻžāϰ āϏ⧇ āϕ⧋āύ⧋ āĻ•āĻŋāϛ⧁āϰ āϏāĻŋāĻĻā§āϧāĻžāĻ¨ā§āϤ āύāĻŋāϞ⧇ āϤāĻžāϕ⧇ āϕ⧇āω āĻĨāĻžāĻŽāĻžāϤ⧇ āĻĒāĻžāϰ⧇ āύāĻžāĨ¤

Her little son! Now a man. Even up to his fifteenth birthday barely a day passed without neighbours appearing with a slew of complaints. Sometimes one or two turned up from other villages. They peeked into the house and asked, "Does Ameen live here?"

āϤāĻžāϰ āϛ⧋āϟ āϛ⧇āϞ⧇! āĻāĻ–āύ āϏ⧇ āĻāĻ•āϜāύ āĻŽāĻžāύ⧁āώāĨ¤ āĻāĻŽāύāĻ•āĻŋ āϤāĻžāϰ āĻĒāύ⧇āϰ⧋āϤāĻŽ āϜāĻ¨ā§āĻŽāĻĻāĻŋāύ āĻĒāĻ°ā§āϝāĻ¨ā§āϤ āĻāĻŽāύ āϕ⧋āύ⧋ āĻĻāĻŋāύ āĻ•āĻžāĻŸā§‡āύāĻŋ āϝ⧇āĻĻāĻŋāύ āĻĒā§āϰāϤāĻŋāĻŦ⧇āĻļā§€āϰāĻž āĻāĻ•āĻ—āĻžāĻĻāĻž āĻ…āĻ­āĻŋāϝ⧋āĻ— āύāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āφāϏ⧇āύāĻŋāĨ¤ āĻ•āĻ–āύāĻ“ āĻ•āĻ–āύāĻ“ āĻ…āĻ¨ā§āϝ āĻ—ā§āϰāĻžāĻŽ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇āĻ“ āĻĻ⧁-āĻāĻ•āϜāύ āφāϏāϤāĨ¤ āϤāĻžāϰāĻž āĻŦāĻžā§œāĻŋāϰ āϭ⧇āϤāϰ āωāρāĻ•āĻŋ āĻĻāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āϜāĻŋāĻœā§āĻžāĻžāϏāĻž āĻ•āϰāϤ, "āφāĻŽāĻŋāύ āĻ•āĻŋ āĻāĻ–āĻžāύ⧇ āĻĨāĻžāϕ⧇?"

Sonabhan would sigh, What did he do?"

āϏ⧋āύāĻ­āĻžāύ āĻĻā§€āĻ°ā§āϘāĻļā§āĻŦāĻžāϏ āĻĢ⧇āϞ⧇ āĻŦāϞāϤ⧇āύ, "āĻ“ āφāĻŦāĻžāϰ āϕ⧀ āĻ•āϰāϞ?"

"Your son stole my date juice! Emptied the juice pots hanging on the date trees!" Sonabhan would sigh again. Then ask the visitor to pardon him. She hated saying that she'd raised her son alone. If she could spare them, she would bring half a dozen eggs and hand them to the visitor: “Please take these for your children".

"āφāĻĒāύāĻžāϰ āϛ⧇āϞ⧇ āφāĻŽāĻžāϰ āϖ⧇āϜ⧁āϰ⧇āϰ āϰāϏ āϚ⧁āϰāĻŋ āĻ•āϰ⧇āϛ⧇! āĻ—āĻžāϛ⧇ āĻā§āϞāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āϰāĻžāĻ–āĻž āϰāϏ⧇āϰ āĻšāĻžāρ⧜āĻŋ āϏāĻŦ āĻ–āĻžāϞāĻŋ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āĻĻāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡āϛ⧇!" āϏ⧋āύāĻ­āĻžāύ āφāĻŦāĻžāϰ āĻĻā§€āĻ°ā§āϘāĻļā§āĻŦāĻžāϏ āĻĢ⧇āϞāϤ⧇āύāĨ¤ āϤāĻžāϰāĻĒāϰ āφāĻ—āĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁āϕ⧇āϰ āĻ•āĻžāϛ⧇ āĻŽāĻžāĻĢ āϚāĻžāχāϤ⧇āύāĨ¤ āϤāĻŋāύāĻŋ āĻāϟāĻž āĻŦāϞāϤ⧇ āϘ⧃āĻŖāĻž āĻ•āϰāϤ⧇āύ āϝ⧇ āϤāĻŋāύāĻŋ āĻāĻ•āĻž āϤāĻžāϰ āϛ⧇āϞ⧇āϕ⧇ āĻŦ⧜ āĻ•āϰ⧇āϛ⧇āύāĨ¤ āϝāĻĻāĻŋ āϏāĻŽā§āĻ­āĻŦ āĻšāϤ⧋, āϤāĻŋāύāĻŋ āφāϧ āĻĄāϜāύ āĻĄāĻŋāĻŽ āĻāύ⧇ āφāĻ—āĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁āϕ⧇āϰ āĻšāĻžāϤ⧇ āĻĻāĻŋāϤ⧇āύ: "āĻĻ⧟āĻž āĻ•āϰ⧇ āφāĻĒāύāĻžāϰ āĻŦāĻžāĻšā§āϚāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āϜāĻ¨ā§āϝ āĻāϗ⧁āϞ⧋ āύāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āϝāĻžāύāĨ¤"

At night, Sonabhan climbs out of her bed, clutches the hurricane lamp and tiptoes into Ameen's room. She stands by his bed, looks at her sleeping son. He snores like his father. He has her light skin and button nose. She touches his cheek. His broad forehead. She suppresses a desire to lie beside him. Like the old days, when she slept cuddling her baby.

āϰāĻžāϤ⧇ āϏ⧋āύāĻ­āĻžāύ āĻŦāĻŋāĻ›āĻžāύāĻž āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āωāϠ⧇ āĻšāĻžāϰāĻŋāϕ⧇āύ āĻšāĻžāϤ⧇ āύāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āϟāĻŋāĻĒ āϟāĻŋāĻĒ āĻĒāĻžā§Ÿā§‡ āφāĻŽāĻŋāύ⧇āϰ āϘāϰ⧇ āĻĸā§‹āϕ⧇āύāĨ¤ āϤāĻŋāύāĻŋ āϤāĻžāϰ āĻŦāĻŋāĻ›āĻžāύāĻžāϰ āĻĒāĻžāĻļ⧇ āĻĻāĻžāρ⧜āĻžāύ, āϤāĻžāϰ āϘ⧁āĻŽāĻ¨ā§āϤ āϛ⧇āϞ⧇āϰ āĻĻāĻŋāϕ⧇ āϤāĻžāĻ•āĻžāύāĨ¤ āϏ⧇ āϤāĻžāϰ āĻŦāĻžāĻŦāĻžāϰ āĻŽāϤ⧋ āύāĻžāĻ• āĻĄāĻžāϕ⧇āĨ¤ āϤāĻžāϰ āĻ—āĻžā§Ÿā§‡āϰ āϰāĻ‚ āĻĢāĻ°ā§āϏāĻž āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āύāĻžāĻ•āϟāĻž āĻŦā§‹āϤāĻžāĻŽā§‡āϰ āĻŽāϤ⧋āĨ¤ āϤāĻŋāύāĻŋ āϤāĻžāϰ āĻ—āĻžāϞ⧇ āĻšāĻžāϤ āĻĻ⧇āύāĨ¤ āϤāĻžāϰ āϚāĻ“ā§œāĻž āĻ•āĻĒāĻžāϞ āĻ¸ā§āĻĒāĻ°ā§āĻļ āĻ•āϰ⧇āύāĨ¤ āϤāĻžāϰ āĻĒāĻžāĻļ⧇ āĻļā§ā§Ÿā§‡ āĻĒ⧜āĻžāϰ āχāĻšā§āĻ›āĻžāϟāĻž āϤāĻŋāύāĻŋ āĻĻāĻŽāύ āĻ•āϰ⧇āύāĨ¤ āĻĒ⧁āϰāύ⧋ āĻĻāĻŋāύ⧇āϰ āĻŽāϤ⧋, āϝāĻ–āύ āϤāĻŋāύāĻŋ āϤāĻžāϰ āĻļāĻŋāĻļ⧁āϕ⧇ āϜ⧜āĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āϧāϰ⧇ āϘ⧁āĻŽāĻžāϤ⧇āύāĨ¤


*****

A warning comes from old Chowkidar's young wife. "Watch your rooster," she threatens. "I don't want him in my house again.”

āĻŦā§ā§œā§‹ āϚ⧌āĻ•āĻŋāĻĻāĻžāϰ⧇āϰ āϝ⧁āĻŦāϤ⧀ āĻ¸ā§āĻ¤ā§āϰ⧀āϰ āĻ•āĻžāĻ› āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āϏāϤāĻ°ā§āĻ•āϤāĻž āφāϏ⧇āĨ¤ āϏ⧇ āĻšā§āĻŽāĻ•āĻŋ āĻĻā§‡ā§Ÿ, "āφāĻĒāύāĻžāϰ āĻŽā§‹āϰāĻ— āϏāĻžāĻŽāϞāĻžāύāĨ¤ āφāĻŽāĻŋ āĻ“āϕ⧇ āφāϰ āφāĻŽāĻžāϰ āϘāϰ⧇ āĻĻ⧇āĻ–āϤ⧇ āϚāĻžāχ āύāĻžāĨ¤"

If someone touches my boy, Sonabhan responds, "They'll see the consequences." She grounds Moti for an entire day. It makes him sad. His forlorn captivity crucifies her. She sets him loose the following morning.

"āϕ⧇āω āϝāĻĻāĻŋ āφāĻŽāĻžāϰ āϛ⧇āϞ⧇āϕ⧇ āĻ¸ā§āĻĒāĻ°ā§āĻļ āĻ•āϰ⧇," āϏ⧋āύāĻ­āĻžāύ āωāĻ¤ā§āϤāϰ āĻĻā§‡ā§Ÿ, "āϤāĻŦ⧇ āϤāĻžāϰāĻž āĻāϰ āĻĒāϰāĻŋāĻŖāĻžāĻŽ āĻĻ⧇āĻ–āĻŦ⧇āĨ¤" āϤāĻŋāύāĻŋ āĻŽāϤāĻŋāϕ⧇ āϏāĻžāϰāĻž āĻĻāĻŋāύ āφāϟāϕ⧇ āϰāĻžāϖ⧇āύāĨ¤ āĻāϤ⧇ āĻŽāϤāĻŋāϰ āĻŽāύ āĻ–āĻžāϰāĻžāĻĒ āĻšā§ŸāĨ¤ āĻŽāϤāĻŋāϰ āĻāχ āύāĻŋāσāϏāĻ™ā§āĻ— āĻŦāĻ¨ā§āĻĻāĻŋāĻĻāĻļāĻž āϤāĻžāϕ⧇ āĻĻāĻžāϰ⧁āĻŖ āĻ•āĻˇā§āϟ āĻĻā§‡ā§ŸāĨ¤ āĻĒāϰāĻĻāĻŋāύ āϏāĻ•āĻžāϞ⧇ āϤāĻŋāύāĻŋ āϤāĻžāϕ⧇ āĻ›ā§‡ā§œā§‡ āĻĻ⧇āύāĨ¤

Some boys come and ask Sonabhan to lend them Moti for cockfighting at a fair. They are happy to pay.

āĻ•āĻŋāϛ⧁ āϛ⧇āϞ⧇ āĻāϏ⧇ āϏ⧋āύāĻ­āĻžāύāϕ⧇ āĻŽā§‡āϞāĻžā§Ÿ āĻŽā§‹āϰāĻ— āϞ⧜āĻžāĻ‡ā§Ÿā§‡āϰ āϜāĻ¨ā§āϝ āĻŽāϤāĻŋāϕ⧇ āϧāĻžāϰ āĻĻāĻŋāϤ⧇ āĻŦāϞ⧇āĨ¤ āϤāĻžāϰāĻž āĻāϰ āϜāĻ¨ā§āϝ āϟāĻžāĻ•āĻž āĻĻāĻŋāϤ⧇āĻ“ āϰāĻžāϜāĻŋāĨ¤

"Never," she tells them. "He is my son."

"āĻ•āĻ–āύāĻ“ āύāĻž," āϤāĻŋāύāĻŋ āϤāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻŦāϞ⧇āύāĨ¤ "āĻ“ āφāĻŽāĻžāϰ āϛ⧇āϞ⧇āĨ¤"

Monday dawns without Moti's crowing. His cold body is resting on its right side. Lying against the basket. Eyes closed. His kingly head down.

āĻŽāϤāĻŋāϰ āĻĄāĻžāĻ• āĻ›āĻžā§œāĻžāχ āϏ⧋āĻŽāĻŦāĻžāϰ⧇āϰ āĻ­ā§‹āϰ āĻšāϞ⧋āĨ¤ āϤāĻžāϰ āĻ āĻžāĻ¨ā§āĻĄāĻž āĻļāϰ⧀āϰ āĻĄāĻžāύ āĻĻāĻŋāϕ⧇ āĻ•āĻžāϤ āĻšā§Ÿā§‡ āĻĒā§œā§‡ āφāϛ⧇āĨ¤ āĻā§ā§œāĻŋāϰ āϏāĻžāĻĨ⧇ āϞ⧇āϗ⧇ āĻļā§ā§Ÿā§‡ āφāϛ⧇āĨ¤ āĻšā§‹āĻ– āĻŦāĻ¨ā§āϧāĨ¤ āϤāĻžāϰ āϰāĻžāϜāϕ⧀āϝāĻŧ āĻŽāĻžāĻĨāĻžāϟāĻž āύāĻŋāϚ⧁ āĻšā§Ÿā§‡ āφāϛ⧇āĨ¤

With Moti's basket in her lap, Sonabhan is motionless.

āϕ⧋āϞ⧇ āĻŽāϤāĻŋāϰ āĻā§ā§œāĻŋ āύāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āϏ⧋āύāĻ­āĻžāύ āύāĻŋāĻĨāϰ āĻšā§Ÿā§‡ āĻŦāϏ⧇ āφāϛ⧇āύāĨ¤

She puts Moti to rest beside her husband's grave. She sighs, plods across the empty yard, steps onto an empty veranda, crawls into an empty home and sits on the edge of an empty bed.

āϤāĻŋāύāĻŋ āĻŽāϤāĻŋāϕ⧇ āϤāĻžāϰ āĻ¸ā§āĻŦāĻžāĻŽā§€āϰ āĻ•āĻŦāϰ⧇āϰ āĻĒāĻžāĻļ⧇ āĻĻāĻžāĻĢāύ āĻ•āϰ⧇āύāĨ¤ āϤāĻŋāύāĻŋ āĻĻā§€āĻ°ā§āϘāĻļā§āĻŦāĻžāϏ āĻĢ⧇āϞ⧇āύ, āĻļā§‚āĻ¨ā§āϝ āωāĻ ā§‹āύ āĻĒāĻžāϰ āĻšāύ, āĻļā§‚āĻ¨ā§āϝ āĻŦāĻžāϰāĻžāĻ¨ā§āĻĻāĻžā§Ÿ āĻĒāĻž āϰāĻžāϖ⧇āύ, āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āĻļā§‚āĻ¨ā§āϝ āϘāϰ⧇ āĻĸā§‹āϕ⧇āύ āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āĻļā§‚āĻ¨ā§āϝ āĻŦāĻŋāĻ›āĻžāύāĻžāϰ āϕ⧋āĻŖāĻžāϝāĻŧ āĻŦāϏ⧇āύāĨ¤

Another morning breaks.... Noon and afternoon come and go.... The birds in the coops quack and crow....No one lets them out. For the first time, Sonabhan's doors do not open.

āφāĻŦāĻžāϰ āϏāĻ•āĻžāϞ āĻšā§Ÿ... āĻĻ⧁āĻĒ⧁āϰ āĻ“ āĻŦāĻŋāϕ⧇āϞ āφāϏ⧇ āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āϝāĻžā§Ÿ... āĻ–ā§‹ā§ŸāĻžā§œā§‡āϰ āĻĒāĻžāĻ–āĻŋāϰāĻž āĻĒā§āϝāĻžāĻ•āĻĒā§āϝāĻžāĻ• āĻ•āϰ⧇ āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āĻĄāĻžāϕ⧇... āĻ•āĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁ āϕ⧇āω āϤāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻŦ⧇āϰ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āĻĻā§‡ā§Ÿ āύāĻžāĨ¤ āĻāχ āĻĒā§āϰāĻĨāĻŽ āϏ⧋āύāĻ­āĻžāύ⧇āϰ āĻĻāϰāϜāĻž āĻ–ā§‹āϞ⧇ āύāĻžāĨ¤

Note: The excerpts of "Mr. Moti are selected from the complete story included in When the Mango Tree Blossomed: Fifty Short Stories from Bangladesh edited by Niaz Zaman.

A. Answer the following questions:

  1. Why is the rooster called Mr. Moti? (āĻŽā§‹āϰāĻ—āϟāĻŋāϕ⧇ āϕ⧇āύ āĻŽāĻŋāĻ¸ā§āϟāĻžāϰ āĻŽāϤāĻŋ āĻŦāϞāĻž āĻšāϝāĻŧ⧇āϛ⧇?)

  2. Is the writer trying to compare the son with the rooster? What are the reasons for doing so? (āϞ⧇āĻ–āĻ• āĻ•āĻŋ āϛ⧇āϞ⧇āϰ āϏāĻžāĻĨ⧇ āĻŽā§‹āϰāϗ⧇āϰ āϤ⧁āϞāύāĻž āĻ•āϰāĻžāϰ āĻšā§‡āĻˇā§āϟāĻž āĻ•āϰāϛ⧇āύ? āĻāϰ āĻ•āĻžāϰāĻŖāϗ⧁āϞ⧋ āϕ⧀ āϕ⧀?)

  3. Why is the story a Bangladeshi story? Which war is referred to in the story? (āĻ—āĻ˛ā§āĻĒāϟāĻŋ āϕ⧇āύ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āĻŦāĻžāĻ‚āϞāĻžāĻĻ⧇āĻļāĻŋ āĻ—āĻ˛ā§āĻĒ? āĻ—āĻ˛ā§āĻĒāϟāĻŋāϤ⧇ āϕ⧋āύ āϝ⧁āĻĻā§āϧ⧇āϰ āĻ•āĻĨāĻž āωāĻ˛ā§āϞ⧇āĻ– āĻ•āϰāĻž āĻšāϝāĻŧ⧇āϛ⧇?)

  4. Do you know what cockfighting is? (āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āĻ•āĻŋ āϜāĻžāύ⧋ āĻŽā§‹āϰāĻ— āϞ⧜āĻžāχ āϕ⧀?)

  5. What do you think about the mother-son relationship? (āĻŽāĻž-āϛ⧇āϞ⧇āϰ āϏāĻŽā§āĻĒāĻ°ā§āĻ• āϏāĻŽā§āĻĒāĻ°ā§āϕ⧇ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻ­āĻžāĻŦāύāĻž āϕ⧀?)

B. Make a list of words from the story that have cultural connotations. Make use of them in a conversation between two friends in your class.

C. In our culture, sons are believed to follow their father's ways and daughters are found similar with their mothers. Do you see that kind of belief in the story? Discuss it with your friends and bring examples from your own life if you are compared with your father or mother.

D. Arrange a debate on the motion: "Man is known by his work, not by his looks."

Unit-1: Sense of Self