Chapter 164: Everyone But Me

A sad smile spread across his face. Kazi kneeled down to her. Her cheeks were without wrinkles and her complexion was dark and healthy. “You look…so young.”

Maa didn’t answer, simply focusing her efforts on breathing. She wasn’t looking at him. Did she not see him? He was right here.

Kazi caressed his mother’s cheek, only to feel nothing. “So this is a memory…” he muttered. “I knew it. But it couldn’t be when—”

“Kazi…”

He froze. There was no way. His presence was invisible to her. Maa didn’t know her adult son was here. No, her love was for the baby growing inside her. She was pregnant…with him. She looked so tired and everything was so miserable yet she managed to look happy anyway. Her hair was a mess and sweat dripped down her face. It was a post-term pregnancy and her body was doing everything it could to protect…him.

“Just die already…” he muttered, fingers curling into a fist. “You should have just died here, Kazi.”

The doors blew right off its hinges, causing his mother to scream as it skidded across the ground. The wind blew in and she covered her ears, the sound of lightning and harsh winds terrifying her. Running in like a hero was a scarred young man full of smiles, dirt, trousers stained up to the knees, and hope.

“Baba…”

The muscles and the youth in his expression was something he recalled from his youth. To see it again in the flesh oozed his heart. To see him smiling was a memory he would hold onto dearly.

He heaved the door up and put it back where it was. The winds were strong and he nearly fell over trying to carry it. However, Baba did not give up. The door hit his face as the wind persisted yet he did everything he could to glue it together.

Cracccck! KA-DUUUM!

Thunder rumbled ominously, shaking the fragile structure of the hut. There was a burnt hole above—lightning had already struck them once. Glancing up, lightning streaked across the sky, briefly illuminating the world.

The leaky roof struggled to shield the inhabitants from the relentless downpour, and with each lightning surrounding strike, more water seeped through the worn-out thatch.

Maa let out a groan and a scream, while Baba grunted and kept trying to fix the door. Without tools or a steady drip, he was attempting the impossible.

Kazi leaned down to her level, unable to talk to her, much less touch her. “He’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Crack! KA-DUUUM!

A fierce bolt of lightning struck the roof, causing a cascade of water to pour in through the already leaky thatch. The woman clutched her belly, fear and agony etched across her face. The water was icy cold and she shrieked as it touched her foot.

A strong contraction crushed her face. Immediately, Kazi knew.

’Did her water break? Shit, how is Baba supposed to help!?’

Doctors didn’t exist here. There were midwives, sure, but none that would be helping his mother during a crazy storm like this. It was already so cold and the water was seeping to her feet. There was no furniture to climb on either.

’Is…is she really going to give birth like this? By herself?’

He had asked his parents several times how he had been born and every time they responded that he was a miracle.

The world turned into a blur. The water levels suddenly became higher yet Kazi felt nothing. He was like a ghost unable to affect reality.

Twenty-four hours went by. A whole day and night of painful contractions, no support, flooding, a great windy storm, and a husband that was preoccupied with keeping the roof above them intact. A long, bloody, and arduous labour that stretched the realm of feasibility.

All things came to an end eventually. The storm, the screams, the pain, and even the birth. Daylight came upon them, the holes of the roof coming together to make a perfect shine.

Several neighbours entered the tiny abode and each of them went wide eyed. The dirty flood water was steeped in blips of red. The young man of the house was holding up a candle light, unveiling the tiny form of a newborn cradled in the mother’s arms.

“How is he…alive?”

Questions were arising. Thirty people died in the past two days, many who had been crushed by their own homes or drowned in the excess water. Adults and children alike fell to mother nature—to Allah’s wrath.

But not them. Not this feeble family of three. They survived and gave birth to new life.

“I don’t know,” Maa muttered. “I think it’s a miracle.”

A miracle. Yes, maybe. The newborn refused to die that day and clawed his way out.

“A miracle of Allah,” someone said without thinking.

“What’s his name?”

Baba looked between him and the neighbours. “His name is—”

On February 1, 1992, upon sunrise, Kazi Hossain was born.

Hope was rekindled.

***

“That child never cries…”

Four years had passed. Kazi Hossain grew from an infant to a little boy.

“He can talk in perfect sentences too.”

“Don’t you think it’s creepy?”

“It’s a blessing, I’m telling you.”

Everywhere he went, there were mutters. It was expected for boys to help their fathers with work, but not this young and especially not with the skill he showed. Last season, a flood had destroyed several homes. The handy man that helped with structural integrity and directed man power died in the flood. Kazi’s father wasn’t supposed to be next-in-line. The issue was, no one else wanted to take up the position. Being the village handymen meant being responsible for more than yourself. It meant helping others even at the expense of your own family. Going on boat rides day and night to be able find another home and desperately fix it.

Baba accepted the offer because his crops had been utterly wiped and he had nothing else to bargain with. Their family would go starving otherwise.

The adult Kazi watched his childhood play out. The days when his father took him out to teach him about renovations. He walked alongside them on the water, listening to their conversation.

“Remember, if they ask about you, just say you’re an assistant.”

“Okay.”

Little Kazi neither smiled or displayed emotion. He simply continued rowing without looking away. The scent of the dirty, mucky brown water plugged his nostrils. Baba chuckled and ruffled his hair anyway.

Still, there was no emotion to be seen in the boy’s hazel eyes.

The water thinned out and the boat was left behind.

Why would he be jealous? The farmer’s crops were garbage. If he tried selling them at the market, it would take him months to empty his entire inventory.

The man, a weathered farmer with a scowl etched on his face, stood arms crossed, glaring at Baba and Kazi. The boy, even at the tender age of four, sensed the brewing conflict.

After exchanging curt salams, the farmer wasted no time in launching into a bitter tirade about how the last repairs were insufficient. Accusations flew like gusts of wind, and soon, the dispute escalated into a heated argument. The farmer claimed that Baba was intentionally neglecting his work, fueled by jealousy over the farmer’s prosperous crops.

Baba maintained a stoic composure and tried his best to diffuse the situation with words. On the other hand, the farmer was convinced that the handyman’s neglect was intentional. He then called called him, “Bokachoda!”

Not good. The confrontation escalated from there. The adult Kazi observed his younger self. Young Kazi had been silently observing and suddenly was crossed with emotion. With an innocence that belied his age, he tugged at the hem of his father’s shirt and garnered his attention.

Young Kazi smiled. The type of smile that if he looked too close you’d realize something was wrong. “Baba, is the goat ruining our work again?”

“Well…” Baba paused and blinked. “Ah, that’s right. Don’t you remember the rumours?”

“Rumours?” The farmer scrunched up his face in confusion.

“There has been a loose goat going around trembling crops and knocking into homes. That kind of sensitive pounding can lead to some breakage.” Baba sighed.

“The goat?” the farmer repeated. “Hear about him? No, I know him! He hit my wife, that madarchod!”

“Half-price,” Baba said. “I can take care of the goat and fix it for a total of half-price. Is that fair?”

The farmer sighed, looking between Baba, Kazi, and his home. “Fine, fine. This time, just remember to patch up the roof. I don’t want water falling onto my wife’s face again.”

The job was accepted.

Kazi worked alongside his father on the red roof. He nailed down loose shingles and reinforced the structure with wood. Inevitably, his father told him to go down to double-check the walls. While climbing from a corner, he noticed a screw that was so deep inside that it brought issues of structural integrity.

It wasn’t a goat that had rammed into the house, it was Baba’s lack of skill. As for the rampaging goat, Young Kazi had already trapped it in a hole a little ways away.

Young Kazi Hossain understood something that day.

Everyone was an idiot.

Everyone was a bokachoda.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep