Genteel. That was the one word in a nutshell that described him. In his late sixties, his was the face ones eyes went to, instinctively, when one entered the bank. Assistant manager said the job description plate on his desk. Easily the go to guy, for anyone with a problem. Always helpful. Unwaveringly courteous. No matter how agitated or belligerent the customer, his soothing yet authoritative voice, the sensitive handling of the matter, the look of perceptive understanding on his face always righted the situation.
Mr. Basu. He had worked his way up the ladder slowly. Over the years. From lowly cashier to PR, to head of PR. Many many years. A lifetime of hard work. His affable exterior disguised his ambition, as he rose up the echelon. Only one person stood before him and his promotion as the head. The manager of the bank. The nadir of his success. But he was a patient man. Hardworking and patient. Two qualities that had stood him in good stead.
At home, his life was tranquil. A devoted wife, with whom he had spent the golden years of life. They had raised two lovely children. Boys, both who now did him proud. One was a doctor, the other a journalist. At present, his wife having died the past few years, he was lonely, but content to play with his grandchildren. A nondescript man, you would say. Leading a nondescript life. Like so many on God' earth. Until that fateful day.
He had got up late. Monday. The first day of the week. By the time he reached the bank, he was late by a good thirty minutes. " Hey, babumoshai, " The not- so- young security guard stood up, his hand raised in an old worldly salute, "You are late today, " Basu frowned and peered at him. Was he daring to mock him ! Without replying, he proceeded towards his desk. As he prepared to sit down, he noticed that almost all of them were staring at him. His frown turned into a glare, as he turned to his secretary and snapped ( again, most unusual for him ) "Ki ? Shudu adh ghanta der hoyeche. Shorir kharap hoi na tor loker kokhon ? ( What ? I'm late by just a half hour. Don't you people ever fall sick ) His secretary shook her head mutely. Then nodded towards the cabin. The general manager's cabin. "They are waiting for you, sir." As he looked up, he saw a small group of three clustered in the office. The regional head accompanied by a young suited booted fellow and the manager. As the adrenalin started pumping within him, his mouth went dry.
He entered the office. The trio turned. "Ah, babumoshai. Kemon aacho ? " (How are you ?) Was there censure in his tone or had he imagined it ? His anxious eyes scanned the RM's face. "I'm fit sir, absolutely." he tried to make his voice sound more robust. Then curtly, turning away from him, the RM continued, " Meet your new manager. Mr. Sen." he indicated the suited fellow standing by his side. The next few minutes were a blur. He somehow managed to look stoic, resigned, when inside he was sick. As the two left, he emerged ashen faced and went to his desk. "Jol khaben ? " (Will you have some water? ) The sympathy in the secratary's voice was more than he could take. Struggling to regain some measure of control, he shook his head and moved towards the exit. A cluster of clerks turned rather guiltily away. His bete noir, the security guard drawled on seeing him, "What? Leaving already Saar ? You must be sick today."
When the police arrived, they found him standing stunned. The gun belonging to the guard lay on the ground, as did the guard. His voice had an unreal quality about it when he spoke. " I must have done it sir. I'm sorry." Then sinking to the ground, eyeing the petrified office staff huddled behind their desks, almost speaking to himself, he said softly, "So very very sorry." He lifted up the gun, and before anyone could stop him, he pulled the trigger. The bullet went cleanly thru his tortured brain.
Indeed he had been sick that day, was the feeling all around later, or else babumoshai ? And anger ?
Mr. Basu. He had worked his way up the ladder slowly. Over the years. From lowly cashier to PR, to head of PR. Many many years. A lifetime of hard work. His affable exterior disguised his ambition, as he rose up the echelon. Only one person stood before him and his promotion as the head. The manager of the bank. The nadir of his success. But he was a patient man. Hardworking and patient. Two qualities that had stood him in good stead.
At home, his life was tranquil. A devoted wife, with whom he had spent the golden years of life. They had raised two lovely children. Boys, both who now did him proud. One was a doctor, the other a journalist. At present, his wife having died the past few years, he was lonely, but content to play with his grandchildren. A nondescript man, you would say. Leading a nondescript life. Like so many on God' earth. Until that fateful day.
He had got up late. Monday. The first day of the week. By the time he reached the bank, he was late by a good thirty minutes. " Hey, babumoshai, " The not- so- young security guard stood up, his hand raised in an old worldly salute, "You are late today, " Basu frowned and peered at him. Was he daring to mock him ! Without replying, he proceeded towards his desk. As he prepared to sit down, he noticed that almost all of them were staring at him. His frown turned into a glare, as he turned to his secretary and snapped ( again, most unusual for him ) "Ki ? Shudu adh ghanta der hoyeche. Shorir kharap hoi na tor loker kokhon ? ( What ? I'm late by just a half hour. Don't you people ever fall sick ) His secretary shook her head mutely. Then nodded towards the cabin. The general manager's cabin. "They are waiting for you, sir." As he looked up, he saw a small group of three clustered in the office. The regional head accompanied by a young suited booted fellow and the manager. As the adrenalin started pumping within him, his mouth went dry.
He entered the office. The trio turned. "Ah, babumoshai. Kemon aacho ? " (How are you ?) Was there censure in his tone or had he imagined it ? His anxious eyes scanned the RM's face. "I'm fit sir, absolutely." he tried to make his voice sound more robust. Then curtly, turning away from him, the RM continued, " Meet your new manager. Mr. Sen." he indicated the suited fellow standing by his side. The next few minutes were a blur. He somehow managed to look stoic, resigned, when inside he was sick. As the two left, he emerged ashen faced and went to his desk. "Jol khaben ? " (Will you have some water? ) The sympathy in the secratary's voice was more than he could take. Struggling to regain some measure of control, he shook his head and moved towards the exit. A cluster of clerks turned rather guiltily away. His bete noir, the security guard drawled on seeing him, "What? Leaving already Saar ? You must be sick today."
When the police arrived, they found him standing stunned. The gun belonging to the guard lay on the ground, as did the guard. His voice had an unreal quality about it when he spoke. " I must have done it sir. I'm sorry." Then sinking to the ground, eyeing the petrified office staff huddled behind their desks, almost speaking to himself, he said softly, "So very very sorry." He lifted up the gun, and before anyone could stop him, he pulled the trigger. The bullet went cleanly thru his tortured brain.
Indeed he had been sick that day, was the feeling all around later, or else babumoshai ? And anger ?
poignant..tragic..your first!
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