Murder, He Wrote

Shafik is the editor of The Daily Desher Bani, a national Bangla newspaper. As on any other day, today too, hundreds of news reports have poured in from various regions of the country. The sub-editors of the mofussil desk discard half of them just by glancing at the headlines. Even reports of serious crimes like murders, rapes and enforced disappearances are left out. This is a ten-page daily newspaper. The front and back pages, along with their flipsides, are reserved for important national news. Two inner pages are dedicated to sports, and one more has been added for World Cup cricket coverage. Another page is for international news, half of which is taken up by Monochrome advertisements. Cheap advertisements clutter the pages — birthday greetings, matrimonial ads, job postings, announcements of the missing and the mourned, flats for sale—all the usual fare. One page is dedicated to the economy and other news. Entertainment gets a special Friday feature, while another page is reserved for the literary magazine. The entertainment section, notably, is in color. People have an insatiable appetite for gossip. That entire page overflows with tidbits from the global entertainment industry.

At the entertainment desk sits Aditya. If no juicy news comes his way, he fabricates stories, especially about Bollywood actresses like Sunny Leone and Poonam Pandey, filling the page with sensational headlines and half-naked pictures, releasing it to the public with much fanfare.

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The next day, Aditya came to show Shafik how several daily newspapers and online portals had copied his fabricated news. There was a particular reason he showed it to Shafik. Shafik had always wanted the entertainment section to shrink so that more space could be given to mofussil news. But the editor hadn’t paid attention to his suggestion. As a result, many news items had to be crammed into the limited space available. The editor believed that no one read these stories. According to him, no one bought a newspaper just to read dry news about murder, enforced disappearances, rape, and lawsuits. However, since it was a newspaper, such daily news from around the country couldn’t be ignored. Occasionally, though, a few sensational murders or rapes from different corners of the country would make the headlines and go viral. These stories would then be featured on either the front or the back page—as was the case with the brutal public killing in Barguna, which made it to the front page. Though the news of the Feni madrasa student Nusrat Jahan Rafi being burned alive initially made its way to the inner pages, a storm on social media soon turned it into the lead story on the front page. Earlier, the same had happened with the cases of Tonu and Rupa. Meanwhile, reports of other murders that happened in the shadows remain buried in the inner and local pages. Shafik was disheartened, thinking his page never received the importance it deserved. Each murder, every act of violence or rape, brought equal pain to the families involved. Whether it happened openly or in secret, every killing was brutal and merciless. In each case, the victim’s desperate plea for life remained the same. However, only the news that went viral—or has the potential to—received special attention. The others remained in the shadows. But Shafik’s melancholy didn’t stem from that injustice. What bothered him was the missed opportunity to capitalise on these sensational stories of murder and rape.

As usual, today news of several murders and rapes poured in. None of them were hit-worthy or viral material—just the same old, everyday reports. Shafik’s mood sours at the monotony of it all. Even killers in this country, much like filmmakers, copy-pasted their murder stories. The Bangalis lacked creativity in everything. Once in a blue moon, a killer like Ershad Shikder came along—what you’d call a psycho-killer. In Hollywood films, you saw all sorts of psycho-killers, often based on real events. Shafik believed that local murderers didn’t watch those films. If he had the power, he’d gather them all and make them watch. Maybe then his news column would gain more recognition, and the editor would increase his space.

#

Shumon, the sub-editor of the mofussil desk, just like any other day, selects stories about heat and murder today and stores them in the server. Rafique would send news about rape and violence against women and children; and Kabir would handle the rest of the reports. Shafik opens the file Shumon has sent. The news items are listed one after another—housewife strangled to death; ten dead, including four from the same family, in a collision between a bus and a Nosimon, a three-wheeler; son kills mother by slitting her throat for drug money; body found in the river with hands and feet tied; missing child’s body found stuffed in a sack; newborn’s body discovered in a hospital drain; young man found hanging; unidentified youth’s body found, family claims murder; another unidentified youth found dead in a jute field; two student-league activists killed in a college brawl; bodies of a missing brother and sister recovered from the Buriganga river; couple found with throats slashed near a pond; journalist dies while visiting his mother; man kills mother at his wife’s instigation—not a single hit-worthy story. Just a few days ago, there was a report about a father killing his two daughters because they asked for lychees. Even a moderately intriguing murder like that is missing now. Shafik feels a sense of disappointment. The problem is that after the incident in Barguna, people’s expectations of murderers have heightened. Many now roamed with their mobile cameras on, ready to capture a killing scene to upload it to Facebook. Just like in Sylhet, when the boy, Rajon, was tied up and beaten to death in public—one person beat him, while others took pictures and videos. The faster one could upload, the more shares one would get. Unless there’s a different kind of murder to report, the public remains unmoved. Without a thrill, they miss out on the joy of reading the news. And if the news doesn’t captivate, why would people buy newspapers? Even if they don’t buy them, at least if it goes viral on social media, there’s still some benefit—online hits on the newspaper’s version increase.

Every now and then, certain news comes in that doesn’t seem like it will make much of a splash. Yet, for some reason, the public eagerly seizes it. On the other hand, there are some murder stories that feel like they’ll go viral, but they eventually don’t. Perhaps it’s because the killing happened on the day of a big cricket match of Bangladesh, and on that day, it was a complete flop. On such days, Shafik’s frustration knows no bounds.

Shafik condenses several murder reports into a single news item. He titles it, “7 Murders in Southern Bengal” and “19 Killed in Road Accidents Across the Country,” or something along those lines. This frees up some space. Other reports must be accommodated as well, especially those favoured by the mofussil editors. If these aren’t published, their income would dry up. Not all of them receive a salary from the publishing house; those who do, barely make more than Tk 5,000. A quota must be reserved for them. It’s the company policy—Shafik has no choice in the matter.

As soon as Shafik finishes releasing the news, Shumon arrives. Today, he appears much thinner than usual. Hunched over, he takes a seat in the chair across from Shafik. It’s a busy time, with deadlines looming. The news has to be sent for page layout. If more ads come in, he’ll have to cut some news the content again to fit in the page. Even though Shafik doesn’t want to show much interest, he turns around, noticing Shumon’s appearance.

“Feeling unwell? Want to leave early today?” Shafik asks.

“No, boss,” Shumon replies in a wry voice.

“Drink some water. But don’t drink too much. The less of the capital’s water you drink, the better. When you visit home, drink plenty, like I do. If you could, reserve some oxygen to bring back too,” Shafik jokes, handing Shumon a water bottle.

“Boss, did you see the news?” Shumon asks.

“Which news?” Shafik is already focused on his computer screen.

“About the murder?”

“There are so many murders. Which one are you talking about? I haven’t had the chance to read them all—it’s been a hectic day for news,” Shafik says.

“The news about Shafik being killed—did you see that one?” Shumon says quietly.

“Maybe… I think I did. Can’t recall. Why?”

“Shafik was from Meherpur, boss,” Shumon hints.

“So?”

“You’re from Meherpur too, aren’t you?”

“Is there really a Shafik in Meherpur, my friend? It’s such a common name. Stand on the street and call out ‘Shafik,’ and four people will answer. Besides, if someone with that name dies, you can be pretty sure it wasn’t a family member. I mean, have you ever seen two people in the same family with the exact same name?” Shafik says.

“The Shafik who was killed was from Ujulpur, boss,” Shumon responds.

“So?”

“Remember last year we went to Ujulpur? You had taken me to your younger brother’s wedding?”

“Oh, so he’s a boy from my village? I haven’t paid much attention to the news. I can’t seem to recall anyone else by the name Shafik from the village. Must be someone new. I haven’t lived there for years. Who knows what names the new generation is growing up with!” Shafik remarks.

“Boss, you may not fully understand yet! The person who was murdered—his father’s name is Abdullah Naser, a retired primary school teacher. Isn’t that your father’s name as well?” Suddenly, Shumon’s words make sense.

“Alright, it must be someone else,” Shafik dismisses, but Shumon’s statement keeps pricking his mind: who could be the person be who wrote the murder like that?

“Sure, there could be other people named Abdullah Naser. But is there any other retired school teacher by that name besides your father? If there were, you’d probably know him,” Shumon  presses on.

“No, there isn’t. Look, either the reporter got my father’s name wrong or confused it with the name of the village. Something’s mistaken somewhere. Call him over the phone. If there’s too much confusion, there’s no need to publish this. It’s not really newsworthy anyway,” Shafik replies.

“Boss, didn’t you just go home three days ago to see your mother?”

“Yes, I did. Returned last night. Thought I’d skip the office today, but felt fine, so I came in.”

“It’s in the news… Shafik, a journalist, was killed over a land dispute while visiting his mother. You mentioned you had some trouble with land issues and that you’d settle it if you had time,” Shumon stammered, his voice trembling, his throat going dry.

Shafik stands up, then sits back down, showing no signs of alarm.

“You can see me, can’t you? Ever seen a dead man walking around, coming to the office?” he asks Shumon, sounding slightly annoyed.

“Boss, haven’t you read the news?” a surprised Shumon asks. Now he seems afraid.

“No, I haven’t. Some murder over some land dispute—who even bothers with such routine killings? Ever seen such news going viral? If no one even acknowledges it as a murder, then why should I? This won’t get printed; forget it. Bring me some murder news with a video. If you can’t find one, go stand outside the building, kill someone yourself—no one’s going to stop you. Try to pickpocket someone, and the crowd will intervene; but if they see a murder, they’ll look the other way. They won’t touch a murderer standing before them, but on mere rumour they’ll beat an innocent person to death, mistaking him for a killer.” Shafik says, his voice rising in anger, his demeanour unnatural, eyes almost blazing.

Shafik isn’t known to get angry. At least, in the last ten years working together, that had been Shumon’s impression. But today, he can’t bear to look Shafik in the eyes. For a second, he feels like bolting from the room or even screaming “ghost!” But his legs go numb. He can’t find his voice, can’t get up from his chair, can’t scream for help, no matter how hard he tries.

“Go ahead, man. If you’re ever murdered someday, make sure it’s in a new style—something bold and noticeable. Otherwise, you won’t make it to the headlines. Imagine that—you’ve spent your whole life printing stories of murders and killings, but when you die, not a single line about you gets published. Where will you bury that regret? Just think: if those who’ve been murdered could ask, ‘How many inches, how many columns did you get? Inside pages or the front?’—what would you say then? What would be left of your dignity?” Shafik says with a wry laugh, his voice sounding strangely distant to Shumon, as if the words are floating in from afar.

Shumon tries to stand up from his chair one more time.

But just then, the editor calls Shafik.

“Anything good today? Any juicy murder for the front page?” the editor asks.

“Looking into it, boss,” Shafik replies, setting down the phone. He glances over at Shumon with an eerily unfamiliar smile.

“Want a spot on the front page? Opportunities like this don’t come often,” Shafik asks.

Through the transparent glass pane of his cubicle, Shumon tries to catch someone’s eye, while Shafik’s gaze shifts toward the security cameras.