Even in hell, chanachur

Because my wife gets motion sickness,
we booked two seats in a non-AC compartment
of the Sagardari Express to Jashore—
one of many such compartments,
each filled with the same dust and stories.
When the train whistled,  
a dust haze rose inside,  
filling the cabin,  
turning everything white—  
not the white a man desires
in a woman's skin
when choosing a partner for life.  
This was a choking white,  
a thick, post-apocalyptic veil  
that clung to the air,  
making it hard to see,  
harder to breathe.  
Then, cutting through the haze,  
a voice: "Chaaanaachurrrrr!"  
A seller, undeterred by the dust,  
his call sharp, almost absurd.  
I thought, Who would eat here,  
where the air is a battlefield,  
where eyes sting and lungs rebel? 
But I was wrong.  
Ten, fifteen packs—  
20 taka each—  
vanished into hands.
And I realised:  
even in the line to hell,  
waiting for punishment,  
we'd still reach for chanachur.  
We'd still find comfort  
in the crunch of survival.

Md Mehedi Hasan teaches English at North Western University, Khulna. He occasionally contributes to Star Books and Literature.