Jackie Jamshed in Honey Country
by Ishtiaque Hossain
28th March, 2011
A sleazy brothel in the outskirts of Dhaka, Bangladesh
10:30:32 pm
A torrent of abuse followed a crackling gunshot. I turned around to investigate, and immediately wanted to wash my eyes out with acid. I found myself gazing upon the most gut churning-sight known to man: Jackie Jamshed, running in his birthday suit. His paunch was recoiling from the vehemence of his pace, and his hands were trying to pull up the pants knotted around his ankles. How he managed to run in that position, Allah only knows.
Montu Mia was not far behind. Montu Mia our tour guide; was a man of many talents. He was a freelance reporter, full-time pimp, and a seasonal singer at village weddings. He was also an embarrassment to all three professions.
Right now however, he looked rather terrifying wielding double-bore shotgun. Women from nearby huts were all rallying around him, bubbling with curiosity that was quickly turning to aggression.
Start the car, Ishtiaque! Jackie bellowed at the top of his voice, cutting my train of thought. He was running for his life, with Montu Mia and a half-naked Zohura hot on his heels. If you have trouble believing that a 140kg man-mountain can run like a freight train, do his belt, and bellow instructions simultaneously in an effortless manner; you should have seen Jackie Jamshed in action that day.
Sensing danger, I ran towards the car we had rented for our fateful trip. Our traveling companion, boyscout extraordinaire, Ultimate Sheikh was in the depths of a delicious codeine induced slumber. Ultimate Sheikh! Ultimate Sheikh!! WAKE THE F*CK UP!!! I screeched frantically. In response, Ultimate Sheikhs lolling head remained impassive, and a glob of drool rolled down the corner of his mouth.
1 Day Ago
Indigo Bar, Uttara
11:32 pm
Its a dogs life, Ishtiaque bellowed Jackie Jamshed. His eyes were bloodshot, his brow was shiny with sweat. His lower jaw quivered with intensity of a man who is about to embark on a holy crusade.
- Were creative people are we not, Ishtiaque? asked Jackie in a dangerously quiet voice.
- Yes, I suppose we are.... I replied meekly.
- WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU SUPPOSE WE ARE? DID WE OR DID WE NOT COME UP WITH THE MOST VIRAL CAMPAIGN OF THE YEAR? How many people can claim ownership to a campaign like MAAL GOROM? growled Jackie Jamshed. His barrel chest heaving with the effort.
- Sir, please keep it down, pleaded the waiter. Must have been his first day on the job. Anyone within ten miles of Indigo bar knew not to cross Jackie Jamshed when he was drunk. I saw the waiter had a babyface and decided he deserves a second chance at life. I gave him a bitter look, then yelled at the top of my voice; Absolutely right, Jackie. What do you propose we do about it?
Do what about what? Jackie asked, a little fuddled. He was balling up his fists to punch the waiter into oblivion. I quickly placed a glass of scotch in his hands. The gesture seemed to placate him.
- About our lives? How its a dogs life and how you have a plan to change it?
- Oh yeah. Youll get a mental erection when you hear what I have in store, my horny little friend. Heres what I have in mind....
Six pegs of scotch, nine tequila shots and a whirlwind of hugs later, I found myself in front of a rundown bus-stand in old Dhaka with Jackie Jamshed and Ultimate Sheikh. Now that I think back, I dont remember Ultimate Sheikh being with us up until that moment. I wasnt surprised, because Jackie had a habit of picking up random strangers when he went on his crazy adventures. He was a glowing beam of chaos that drew misfits like insects to bright lights. I was the only constant member in his band of variable brothers. Quite often, I find myself asking if that is a good thing.
Ultimate Sheikh was a veteran journalist who was unfazed by the world. A tank could pass him by on his way to work, but Ultimate wouldnt spare a second glance. Not only was a he supremely incurious about the universe, he was also uninterested in all forms of carnal pleasures known to man. You could drown Ultimate Sheikh in a pool of alcohol, and hed leave the party wearing the same lugubrious expression he came in with. Only one thing in the world brought a smile on his grim face, and that was Phensidyl. The smile of contentment cracked by Mister Ultimate after four bottles of Phensidyl, would make angels weep. Ultimate was a journalist by profession, and a writer by passion. Although he was very straight-laced in matters of sex and women, a wily songstress had recently captured his imagination. He had been giving her rave reviews in the entertainment page of a national daily. Which raised eyebrows around his office. It was not usual practice for hardened crime reporters interviewing pop sensations. But in a strange way, he really was reporting crime. DJ Monicas latest album Bhari Ijjoti Maiya was a criminal offense which deserved capital punishment, or at least a lifelong exile. However, this sultry seductress had somehow managed to enchant Ultimate Sheikh with her massive mammaries and throaty voice. And Ultimate Sheikh being the passionate sensitive soul he is, was heartbroken when she decided to go on a Eurotrip with the owner of her recording label. Sheikh held no grudges, but he couldnt help but despair, in his trademark nonchalant manner. He had taken to getting wasted every other day in sleazy bars around Uttara. We bumped into him on one of his worse days. He was two takas short of a peg and was nagging the bartender for one last round. I cant believe you are going to betray me like this, brother! 2 Takas! Dui Tekar Leigga!! You wont give me my peg because I am two takas short? Are we not brothers? He slurred and spat. Unlike us, the bartender was not amused. Jackie Jamshed generously decided to pay for Mister Ultimates drink (not the whole drink, just two takas), thus sealing a lifelong friendship. Four days later, he was in a minivan with me and Jackie; journeying towards what he thought would be a great adventure.
Jackies plan was simple, yet diabolical. We were to find a sub-rural area, take some pictures with kids in a fake cardboard-set school. Our friend Ultimate would take care of the PR blitz. After that, we would have the story circulating through the social media networks. Two successful advertising guys leave life of luxury to help under-privileged children. Its a bit long and wordy. But then again, if we were good at our jobs; we wouldnt be in on this crazy get-rich-quick scheme Jackie had hatched in a drunken haze. Once we had the story circulating, we would have deployed a fund raising campaign on one of those kick-starter websites. Then live the rest of our lives like kings, in between receiving humanitarian awards and giving interviews on Oprah and Ellen.
We parked our van inside the ferry and tipped one of the boat crew to look after it while we went for a stroll on the upper deck. On the other side of the river lay the most infamous brothel of Masrangapur. Is this your first trip to a whore-house, Ultimate? I asked our melancholy friend. I hoped the cool gentle river breeze would uplift his mood. Sheikh looked as depressed as ever. But it was a stoic kind of depression. There was no despair, no helplessness in it. He had the air of a man who had resigned himself to the worst possibilities fate had to offer.
I decided not to bug him. Jackie managed to find a pot dealer on our boat, and scored a few cigarettes stuffed with ganja. As we puffed on those marijuana cigarettes, gazing upon the scarlet colours of the setting sun; all our troubles melted away. The wet breeze soothed our sun-scorched skin.
As our boat docked, Jackie waved at a peculiar looking man. This was our first encounter with Montu Mia. I must admit, I had never met anyone as flamboyantly proud of his profession as Montu Mia was of being a freelance journalist. He was wearing a vest with unlimited pockets. The word Press was splashed across both his chest and back, in thick golden stitching. But just to make sure people still didnt have trouble making out who he was, he also wore a prop-camera around his neck. The camera was a worn-out old model that was way past its prime.
I later deduced the reason behind all the extravagant self-promotion of his role in the community as a freelance journalist. Being connected with real journalists gave him certain leeway with the local police. An influence which proved invaluable in his other profession, the head-pimp of Maasrangapur.
He had his own makeshift little media-hut. It was roofed with pieces of straw tied together with jute ropes. The walls were made of red clay and pinned with scraps of news. The effect was quaint. We went inside and sat down on two backless stools. Montu Mia made a show of opening an excel sheet on his tablet computer, which he kept locked inside his work desk. A little plastic sign on the desk said, Montu Mia Freelense Reportar. He pulled out a few phone numbers on his android tablet and called the local police station. Me, Ultimate and Jackie all shared looks of mock deference.
Its good to inform them that we are going in the brothel area to make a report. Otherwise people might see me go in there and suspect I am up to no good. You know Im a married man. A respected family man and famous reporter around these parts, said Montu Mia. We followed him through a narrow path. With vast plains of paddy fields on either side. Id almost forgotten how enchanting the countryside could be. A little distance into the village, we spotted a man walking with a peculiar hop. His body was wiry, and he deliberately twisted his frame before every hop. He gave the impression of a human-spring. Stoned as we were, we were hypnotized by the quirky hop-walk. He stopped before a hotel, asking for a bowl. The hotel staff obliged without question. Then the hop-walking man fished out a bag of what appeared to be sugary syrup. He poured about a quart of syrup in a bowl, and gulped it down with gusto. Thats Khushu pagla, whispered Montu. Intrigued by the name, Ultimate asked if Khushu pagla was high on Fantu. Jackie and I already knew the answer to the question. There would be no other reason for a grown man to drink a quart of thick sugary syrup in one gulp; unless he was soaking in Phensidyl. Montu Mia asked one of his mates to lead us to a dealers spot. As a respected reporter and moral compass of the brothel-village, he could not be seen purchasing Phensidyl; he explained earnestly. We were lead into a blacksmiths workshop. Which was clearly a front for drug-peddling. The head smith held a sledgehammer in an awkward grip. The workers and apprentices were banging little pieces of metal with tiny hammers; putting up a show of metalwork. Everyone in the village knew what this shop was for. The pretense was pointless.
After haggling back and forth for a while, Ultimate scored 3 bottles of dail. For the first time since Ive known him, Sheikh cracked a smile as he cradled the bottles like his children. He slid into a narrow alley, and motioned us to follow him. Then handed me and Jackie one bottle each. We swiftly emptied the bottles of thick sticky syrup and dumped them in a bush. The syrup made you thirsty as hell.
I searched for a tubewell. Jackie found a small hutment surrounded by a thin fence built out of straws and short pieces of bamboo. A woman in her early twenties was evening out the spread of paddy on her concrete yard. Her dainty little feet broke down the little hills of paddy in sensuous swirls. I couldnt help but admire her silver anklets. I noticed her measuring Jackie Jamshed with an appreciative look. And Jackie reciprocated by licking his upper lip. A smarter man would have sensed the onset of a catastrophe right there and then. But I was too high and too happy to care. The carefree contentedness of codeine was settling in. The weather was a heady concoction of cool country breeze and mild golden sunlight. Honestly, I was feeling way too satisfied and pleased with myself to care what Jackie might be up to. I was an unattached observer, mulling the world over through different coloured glasses. Blue. Green. Pink. Mild golden yellow. The world was a swirl of colours and happy thoughts. I detached myself from the group and roamed around the countryside for hours that rushed by like minutes. Funny how fast time flies when youre having a good time.
A series of beastly grunts woke me up the following morning. UNGH! UNGGH!! UNGGG!! I heard an anguished cry, and walked towards the source. I was still high from last night. The scene which awaited me made me wish I hadnt come by to investigate. Jackie Jamshed was on top of the coquettish village girl we bumped into yesterday. Their bodies were a mass of sweaty quivering flesh. I had mistaken Jamsheds moans of pleasure as anguished sobs of a dying animal.
Jackie quickly jumped up and reached for his clothes. The girl took cover behind Jackie, and starting wrapping her saree around herself.
Such horny girls, Ishtiaque. They see a city boy and they cant help themselves. What is a man to do when they pounce on you without a warning? Jackie explained earnestly.
- Hey hero! Who you said did the pouncing? Hissed the girl as she emerged from behind Jackies monumental bulk.
- Can we get the hell out of here before someone hacks us to pieces? And can you put some god damn clothes on? I spat at Jackie. He had the guilty look of a fat child caught with his mouth smeared with chocolate. There was a sheepish smugness in him as he looped his belt around his gigantic waist.
(To be continued)
