Wednesday, February 4, 2026

Mr. Moti

 Paragraph 1:

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

Bengali:
āϝুāĻĻ্āϧ āĻļুāϰু āĻšāϞে āφāĻŽিāύ āϏāϤেāϰো āĻŦāĻ›āϰ āĻŦ⧟āϏী। āĻāĻ• āϏোāĻŽāĻŦাāϰ, āϰাāϤেāϰ āĻ–াāĻŦাāϰেāϰ āĻĒāϰে, āϏে āϘোāώāĻŖা āĻ•āϰে āϝে āϏে āϝুāĻĻ্āϧেāϰ āϜāύ্āϝ āϝাāĻŦে। āϏোāύাāĻ­াāύ āĻ…āĻŦাāĻ• āĻšā§Ÿে āϚিā§ŽāĻ•াāϰ āĻ•āϰে: “āϤুāĻŽি āĻ•ি āφāĻŽাāĻ•ে āĻāĻ•া āĻ›েāĻĄ়ে āĻĻিāϤে āϚাāĻ“?”
“āĻŦেāĻļি āϏāĻŽāϝ় āϞাāĻ—āĻŦে āύা, āĻŽা,” āϏে āϤাāĻ•ে āφāĻļ্āĻŦāϏ্āϤ āĻ•āϰে। “āĻĒ্āϰāĻļিāĻ•্āώāĻŖেāϰ āĻĒāϰে āφāĻŽি āĻļীāϘ্āϰāχ āĻĢিāϰে āφāϏāĻŦ।” āϏেāχ āϰাāϤ āϏোāύাāĻ­াāύ āϘুāĻŽাāϤে āĻĒাāϰে āύা।


Paragraph 2:
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.

Bengali:
āϏূāϰ্āϝ āωāĻ াāϰ āĻĒāϰ, āϏে āĻšাঁāϏেāϰ āĻ–াঁāϚা āĻ–ুāϞে āĻĻেāϝ়। āĻšাঁāϏেāϰ āĻĻāϞ āĻŦেāϰ āĻšāϝ়, āϏ্āϟ্āϰেāϚ āĻ•āϰে āĻāĻŦং āϏāĻ•াāϞāĻŦেāϞাāϰ āĻ–াāĻŦাāϰেāϰ āϜāύ্āϝ āϤাāϰ āϚাāϰāĻĒাāĻļে āĻ•াঁāĻ•āĻĄ়া āĻļāĻŦ্āĻĻ āĻ•āϰে। āϏে āϏাāϧাāϰāĻŖেāϰ āϚেāϝ়ে āĻŦেāĻļি āϏāĻŽāϝ় āύেāϝ়। āϏে āĻŽাāϟিāϰ āĻāĻ•āϟি āĻŦাāϟিāϤে āĻĒাāύি āĻĻিāϝ়ে āĻ­াāϤেāϰ āĻ–োāϏা āĻŽিāĻļিāϝ়ে āĻĻেāϝ়। āϤাāϰা āĻĒাঁāϚ āĻŽিāύিāϟেāϰ āĻŽāϧ্āϝে āϤা āĻ–েāϝ়ে āύেāϝ় āĻāĻŦং āĻĒুāĻ•ুāϰেāϰ āĻĻিāĻ•ে āϚāϞে āϝাāϝ়।


Paragraph 3:
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.

Bengali:
āϏেāχ āϏāĻŽāϝ়ে āφāĻŽিāύ āĻŽুāϰāĻ—িāĻ—ুāϞো āĻŦেāϰ āĻ•āϰে āĻĻিāϝ়েāĻ›ে। āϏে āϤাāϰ ⧧⧍ āϏāĻĒ্āϤাāĻšেāϰ āĻ•োāĻ•াāϰেāϞ, āĻŽোāϟি, āϤুāϞে āύিāϝ়ে āĻŦাāϰাāύ্āĻĻাāϝ় āĻŦāϏে। āύাāϏ্āϤাāϰ āϏāĻŽāϝ় āϏে āĻ•োāύো āĻ•āĻĨোāĻĒāĻ•āĻĨāύ āĻļুāϰু āĻ•āϰে āύা। āϏোāύাāĻ­াāύেāϰ āĻĢোāϞা āϚোāĻ– āĻĻেāĻ–ে, āϏে āϜাāύে āϝে āĻ—āϤ āϰাāϤেāϰ āĻŦিāώāϝ়āϟি āωāϞ্āϞেāĻ– āĻ•āϰা āĻ িāĻ• āĻšāĻŦে āύা। āϏে āĻĒাāĻļে āϤাāĻ•াāϝ়, āϚুāĻĒāϚাāĻĒ āĻ­াāϤ āĻ–াāϚ্āĻ›ে āĻāĻŽāύ āĻ•োāĻ•াāϰেāϞেāϰ āĻĻিāĻ•ে।


Paragraph 4:
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. 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. 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.

Bengali:
āφāϜ āĻšাāϟāĻŦাāϰ, āĻŦাāϜাāϰেāϰ āĻĻিāύ। āϏোāύাāĻ­াāύ āϏāĻŦ āϜিāύিāϏ āϏাāϜিāϝ়ে āϰেāĻ–েāĻ›ে āϝা āφāĻŽিāύ āĻŦাāϜাāϰে āĻŦিāĻ•্āϰি āĻ•āϰāϤে āύেāĻŦে। āĻĻুāχ āĻĄāϜāύ āĻĄিāĻŽ, āĻāĻ• āĻŽুāĻ ো āϏুāĻĒাāϰি, āĻāĻ• āϞাāω। āĻŦাāϜাāϰ āĻĒ্āϰাāϝ় āĻāĻ• āĻŽাāχāϞ āĻĻূāϰে। āφāĻŽিāύ āϤাāϰ āϞুāĻ™্āĻ—িāϰ āĻ“āĻĒāϰ āĻ›োāϟ-āĻšাāϤাāϰ āĻĢুāϞāĻĻাāϰ āĻļাāϰ্āϟ āĻĒāϰেāĻ›ে। āĻ•ুāϝ়াāĻļাāϚ্āĻ›āύ্āύ āφāϝ়āύাāϝ় āϚুāϞ āĻ•াāϚāϤে āĻ•াāϚāϤে āϏে āϏুঁāχ āϧ্āĻŦāύি āĻ•āϰে। āϰāϟাāϰি āĻুāĻĄ়িāϟি āĻŽাāĻĨাāϝ় āϤুāϞে āĻĻিāϝ়ে āĻŦেāϰ āĻšāĻ“āϝ়াāϰ āφāĻ—ে āϚিā§ŽāĻ•াāϰ āĻ•āϰে: “āφāĻŽি āϚāϞāϞাāĻŽ, āĻŽা।” āϏোāύাāĻ­াāύ āϤাāĻ•ে āĻ›োāϟ āύāĻĻীāϰ āϧাāϰে āϝেāϤে āĻĻেāĻ–ে। āĻĒ্āϰāĻĨāĻŽāĻŦাāϰ āϤাāϰ āĻŽāύে āĻšāϝ় āϝে āφāĻŽিāύ āĻŦāĻĄ় āĻšāϝ়ে āĻ—েāĻ›ে। āϏে āϤাāϰ āĻŽৃāϤ āĻĒিāϤাāϰ āωāϚ্āϚāϤা āĻĒেāϝ়েāĻ›ে, āĻĻীāϰ্āϘ āϘাāĻĄ় āĻāĻŦং āϏāϰāϞ āĻ•াঁāϧāĻ“ āϰāϝ়েāĻ›ে।


Paragraph 5:
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.

Bengali:
āϏেāχ āĻŽুāĻšূāϰ্āϤে āϏোāύাāĻ­াāύ āĻŦুāĻāϤে āĻĒাāϰে āϝে āφāĻŽিāύ āϝুāĻĻ্āϧেāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤি āφāĻ—্āϰāĻšী āύāϝ়, āĻŦāϰং āϞāĻĄ়াāχ-āĻ–েāϞাāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤি āϤাāϰ āĻŽোāĻš। āϤাāϰ āĻŽৃāϤ āĻĒিāϤাāϰ āĻŽāϤো, āϏে āώাঁāĻĄ়েāϰ āϞāĻĄ়াāχ, āĻŽোāϰāĻ—েāϰ āϞāĻĄ়াāχ āĻāĻŦং āύৌāĻ•াāĻŦাāχāϚেāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤি āωāύ্āĻŽাāĻĻ। āĻāĻ•āχ āϜেāĻĻ āϤাāϰ āϰāĻ•্āϤে āĻĒ্āϰāĻŦাāĻšিāϤ āĻšāϚ্āĻ›ে। āĻāĻ•āĻŦাāϰ āϏে āĻ•োāύো āϏিāĻĻ্āϧাāύ্āϤ āύিāϞে, āĻ•িāĻ›ুāχ āϤাāĻ•ে āĻĨাāĻŽাāϤে āĻĒাāϰে āύা।


Paragraph 6:
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?
Sonabhan would sigh. What did he do?
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.

Bengali:
āϤাāϰ āĻ›োāϟ āĻ›েāϞে! āĻāĻ–āύ āĻāĻ•āϜāύ āĻŽাāύুāώ। āĻāĻŽāύāĻ•ি āĻĒāύেāϰোāϤāĻŽ āϜāύ্āĻŽāĻĻিāύ āĻĒāϰ্āϝāύ্āϤāĻ“ āĻāĻ•āϟি āĻĻিāύ āĻĒেāϰোāϤে āĻšāϤো āύা, āϝāĻ–āύ āĻĒ্āϰāϤিāĻŦেāĻļীāϰা āĻ…āĻ­িāϝোāĻ—েāϰ āϏāĻ™্āĻ—ে āĻšাāϜিāϰ āĻšāϤেāύ। āĻ•āĻ–āύāĻ“ āĻ•āĻ–āύāĻ“ āĻāĻ•āϜāύ āĻŦা āĻĻুāϜāύ āĻ…āύ্āϝ āĻ—্āϰাāĻŽ āĻĨেāĻ•েāĻ“ āφāϏāϤেāύ। āϤাāϰা āϘāϰে āϚোāĻ– āĻŦুāϞিāϝ়ে āϜিāϜ্āĻžেāϏ āĻ•āϰāϤেāύ, “āφāĻŽিāύ āĻ•ি āĻāĻ–াāύে āĻĨাāĻ•ে?”
āϏোāύাāĻ­াāύ āύিāĻļ্āĻŦাāϏ āĻĢেāϞে āĻŦāϞāϤেāύ, “āϏে āĻ•ি āĻ•āϰেāĻ›ে?”
“āφāĻĒāύাāϰ āĻ›েāϞে āφāĻŽাāϰ āĻ–েāϜুāϰেāϰ āϰāϏ āϚুāϰি āĻ•āϰেāĻ›ে! āĻ–েāϜুāϰ āĻ—াāĻ›ে āĻুāϞাāύো āϰāϏেāϰ āĻĒাāϤ্āϰ āĻ–াāϞি āĻ•āϰে āĻĻিāϝ়েāĻ›ে!”
āϏোāύাāĻ­াāύ āφāĻŦাāϰ āύিāĻļ্āĻŦাāϏ āĻĢেāϞে āĻŦāϞāϤেāύ। āϤাāϰāĻĒāϰ āĻ…āϤিāĻĨিāĻ•ে āĻ•্āώāĻŽা āϚেāϝ়ে āύিāϤেāύ। āϤিāύি āϘৃāĻŖা āĻ•āϰāϤেāύ āĻŦāϞāϤে āϝে, āϤিāύি āĻāĻ•াāχ āϤাāϰ āϏāύ্āϤাāύāĻ•ে āĻŦāĻĄ় āĻ•āϰেāĻ›েāύ। āϝāĻĻি āϏুāϝোāĻ— āĻĒেāϤেāύ, āϤিāύি āĻ…āϰ্āϧ āĻĄāϜāύ āĻĄিāĻŽ āύিāϝ়ে āĻ…āϤিāĻĨিāĻ•ে āĻĻিāϤেāύ: “āĻĻāϝ়া āĻ•āϰে āĻāĻ—ুāϞো āφāĻĒāύাāϰ āϏāύ্āϤাāύেāϰ āϜāύ্āϝ āύিāύ।”


Paragraph 7:
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.

Bengali:
āϰাāϤে, āϏোāύাāĻ­াāύ āĻŦিāĻ›াāύা āĻĨেāĻ•ে āωāĻ ে āĻšাāϰিāĻ•েāύ āϞ্āϝাāĻŽ্āĻĒāϟি āϧāϰে, āφāĻ™ুāϞেāϰ Ų†ŲˆāĻ• āĻĻিāϝ়ে āφāĻŽিāύেāϰ āϘāϰে āϝাāϝ়। āϏে āϤাāϰ āĻŦিāĻ›াāύাāϰ āĻĒাāĻļে āĻĻাঁāĻĄ়াāϝ়, āϤাāϰ āϘুāĻŽāύ্āϤ āĻ›েāϞেāĻ•ে āĻĻেāĻ–ে। āϏে āϤাāϰ āĻŦাāĻŦাāϰ āĻŽāϤো āϘুāĻŽāύ্āϤ āĻļāĻŦ্āĻĻ āĻ•āϰে। āϤাāϰ āϤ্āĻŦāĻ• āĻĢāϰ্āϏা āĻāĻŦং āύাāĻ• āĻ›োāϟ। āϏে āϤাāϰ āĻ—াāϞ āĻ›ুঁāϝ়েāĻ›ে। āϤাāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāĻļāϏ্āϤ āĻ•āĻĒাāϞ। āϏে āĻĒাāĻļে āĻļুāϝ়ে āĻĨাāĻ•াāϰ āχāϚ্āĻ›া āĻĻāĻŽāύ āĻ•āϰে। āĻĒুāϰāύো āĻĻিāύেāϰ āĻŽāϤো, āϝāĻ–āύ āϏে āϤাāϰ āĻļিāĻļুāĻ•ে āĻ•োāϞে āύিāϝ়ে āϘুāĻŽাāϤ।


Paragraph 8:
A warning comes from old Chowkidar’s young wife. Watch your rooster, she threatens. I don’t want him in my house again. 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.

Bengali:
āĻĒুāϰāύো āϚৌāĻ•িāĻĻাāϰেāϰ āϤāϰুāĻŖ āϏ্āϤ্āϰী āĻĨেāĻ•ে āĻāĻ•āϟি āϏāϤāϰ্āĻ•āĻŦাāϰ্āϤা āφāϏে। “āφāĻĒāύাāϰ āĻŽোāϰāĻ—āϟি āĻĻেāĻ–ুāύ,” āϏে āĻšুāĻŽāĻ•ি āĻĻেāϝ়। “āφāĻŽি āϚাāχ āύা āĻāϟি āφāĻŦাāϰ āφāĻŽাāϰ āϘāϰে āφāϏুāĻ•।”
“āϝāĻĻি āĻ•েāω āφāĻŽাāϰ āĻ›েāϞেāĻ•ে āϏ্āĻĒāϰ্āĻļ āĻ•āϰে,” āϏোāύাāĻ­াāύ āϜāĻŦাāĻŦ āĻĻেāϝ়, “āϤাāϰা āĻĒāϰিāĻŖāϤি āĻĻেāĻ–āĻŦে।”
āϏে āĻŽোāϟিāĻ•ে āĻĒুāϰো āĻāĻ•āĻĻিāύ āϘāϰে āĻŦāύ্āĻĻী āϰাāĻ–ে। āĻāϟি āϤাāĻ•ে āĻĻুঃāĻ– āĻĻেāϝ়। āϤাāϰ āĻāĻ•াāĻ•ী āĻŦāύ্āĻĻিāϤ্āĻŦ āϏোāύাāĻ­াāύāĻ•ে āĻ•াঁāĻĻাāϝ়। āĻĒāϰেāϰ āϏāĻ•াāϞে āϏে āϤাāĻ•ে āĻŽুāĻ•্āϤি āĻĻেāϝ়।


Paragraph 9:
Some boys come and ask Sonabhan to lend them Moti for cockfighting at a fair. They are happy to pay. Never, she tells them. He is my son.

Bengali:
āĻ•িāĻ›ু āĻ›েāϞে āφāϏে āĻāĻŦং āϏোāύাāĻ­াāύেāϰ āĻ•াāĻ›ে āĻŽোāϟিāĻ•ে āĻŽেāϞাāϰ āĻŽোāϰāĻ—েāϰ āϞāĻĄ়াāχāϝ়েāϰ āϜāύ্āϝ āϧাāϰ āϚাāχ। āϤাāϰা āĻ–ুāĻļি āĻšāϝ়ে āĻ…āϰ্āĻĨ āĻĻিāϤে āϚাāϝ়। “āĻ•āĻ–āύো āύা,” āϏে āϤাāĻĻেāϰ āĻŦāϞে। “āϏে āφāĻŽাāϰ āĻ›েāϞে।”


Paragraph 10:
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.
With Moti’s basket in her lap, Sonabhan is motionless. 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. Coops quack and another morning breaks…. Noon and afternoon come and go…. The birds in the coop crow…. No one lets them out. For the first time, Sonabhan’s doors do not open.

Bengali:
āϏোāĻŽāĻŦাāϰ āϏāĻ•াāϞ āĻšāϝ় āĻŽোāϟিāϰ āĻ•ুāĻ•ুāϰেāϰ āĻĄাāĻ• āĻ›াāĻĄ়াāχ। āϤাāϰ āĻ াāύ্āĻĄা āĻĻেāĻš āĻĄাāύ āĻĒাāĻļে āĻŦিāĻļ্āϰাāĻŽে āϰāϝ়েāĻ›ে। āĻুāĻĄ়িāϰ āĻĒাāĻļে āĻļুāϝ়ে। āϚোāĻ– āĻŦāύ্āϧ। āϤাāϰ āϰাāϜāĻ•ীāϝ় āĻŽাāĻĨা āύিāϚু।
āĻŽোāϟিāϰ āĻুāĻĄ়ি āϤাāϰ āĻ•োāϞে āύিāϝ়ে, āϏোāύাāĻ­াāύ āĻ…āϚāϞ। āϏে āĻŽোāϟিāĻ•ে āϤাāϰ āϏ্āĻŦাāĻŽীāϰ āĻ•āĻŦāϰেāϰ āĻĒাāĻļে āϰাāĻ–ে। āϏে āύিāĻļ্āĻŦাāϏ āĻĢেāϞে, āĻ–াāϞি āωāĻ াāύে āĻšাঁāϟে, āĻ–াāϞি āĻŦাāϰাāύ্āĻĻাāϝ় āĻĒা āϰাāĻ–ে, āĻ–াāϞি āĻŦাāĻĄ়িāϤে āĻĸোāĻ•ে āĻāĻŦং āĻ–াāϞি āĻŦিāĻ›াāύাāϰ āĻĒ্āϰাāύ্āϤে āĻŦāϏে। āĻ–াঁāϚাāϰ āĻĒাāĻ–িāĻ—ুāϞো āĻ•াঁāĻ•āĻĄ়া āĻļāĻŦ্āĻĻ āĻ•āϰে āĻāĻŦং āφāϰেāĻ•āϟি āϏāĻ•াāϞ āφāϏে। āĻĻুāĻĒুāϰ āĻāĻŦং āĻŦিāĻ•েāϞ āϝাāϝ়। āĻ–াঁāϚাāϰ āĻĒাāĻ–িāĻ—ুāϞো āĻĄাāĻ• āĻĻেāϝ়। āĻ•েāω āϤাāĻĻেāϰ āĻŦেāϰ āĻ•āϰāϤে āĻĻেāϝ় āύা। āĻĒ্āϰāĻĨāĻŽāĻŦাāϰেāϰ āĻŽāϤো, āϏোāύাāĻ­াāύেāϰ āĻĻāϰāϜা āĻ–োāϞে āύা।

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Mr. Moti

  Paragraph 1: Ameen is seventeen when the war breaks out. One Monday, after supper, he announces he will go to war. Sonabhan shrieks in sur...