'An Afternoon Tea with Billie Jean'

The afternoon sun hung low over the quiet, tree-lined lane of Dhanmondi, Road 5, casting dappled shadows across the red-brick houses. It's 1986 in Dhaka, a city that breathes humbly, measured by the rhythmic clinking of rickshaw bells and the distant call of a street vendor selling roasted peanuts. 

On the balcony of a two-story bungalow house-'Chhayabithi,' Aftab Ahmed sat reclining on his cane armchair. His gaze meanders beyond the intricate railings toward the lush, wild splendor of the garden where a sunbird darting between the hibiscus blooms. The untrimmed mango trees and tangled jasmine vines casting long, dancing shadows across the grass. It was the only spot in the city where he felt entirely himself. The subtle aroma of old spice and carbolic soap lingering around him. His hair, carefully parted to the left and held in place by a dollop of Brylcream, was silvering at the temples. He wore a crisp, blue striped cotton lungi and a half sleeve undershirt. On the small wooden side table next to him sat a half-empty cup of cha, a pack of Wills Gold Leaf cigarettes, and today’s copy of The Daily Ittefaq. To the middle class men of his generation, that little box wasn't just tobacco; it was a quiet declaration of making it. It was the cigarette of bank managers, government executives, and men who had finally stepped out of the shadow of cheap birees. 

Aftab's fingers slide the cellophane open. The paper feels crisp between his tired fingers. He pulls out a cigarette, the familiar aromatic blend of toasted Virginia tobacco hitting his nose even before he struck the match. He picks up a matchbox with the iconic red horse logo, strikes a match against the side, and shields the tiny flame with his cupped hand. The tip glows a bright, warm orange. He takes a long, slow draw. As the grey smoke drifts toward the open space, he lets out a quiet breath. For three minutes, the endless files, the rising cost of living, and the anxiety of tomorrow cease to exist as he watches the smoke vanish into the sultry air. 


"Rehnuma!" he called out, his voice imbued with the natural command of an individual who flawlessly oversaw fifty government functionaries daily, in addition to the incessant vexations of the administrative system.

"Did the fishmonger bring the rui from the Padma, or was it farmed ? I told you, pond fish has earthy, muddy flavour."

His wife, Rehnuma, appeared from the kitchen, her gold bangles generating gentle, melodic chimes as she dabbed her forehead with the achaal. She wears a serene and inviting smile that mirrors her warm heritage. 

"It is from the river, come look at the scales. Now please stop shouting. Jamil is trying to study."

Aftab grunted, flipping a newspaper page. Jamil, his elder son, is preparing for his matriculation exam. However, Aftab wasn't naive. Through the open window of Jamil's bedroom, he could hear the faint, metallic scratch of a cassette tape being rewound with a pencil. A few moments later, the muffled, synthesizer-heavy beat of a Western pop song drifted out. It wasn't Beatles, Eagles or Stevie Wonder or Azam Khan; it was something alien. Something way too loud.

Aftab stood up, adjusting his lungi at the waist, and walked towards the bedroom. He knocked once, hard, with a single knuckle, and pushed the door open. Jamil was sitting at his desk, but his textbooks were stacked neatly to the side. Upon his desk rested a new, two-in-one Sony radio cassette recorder, a cherished item his uncle had gifted from Japan.

"What is this noise, Jamil ?" Aftab inquired, his tone steady yet grave.

"It’s Michael Jackson, Abba," Jamil said, quickly pressing the stop button.

The sudden silence in the room was deafening. "It’s... it’s a very popular album-Thriller. I was listening to Billie Jean." 

"Thriller, Billie Jean! " Aftab repeated, pronouncing the words with deliberate, sharp clarity. 

"Will Michael Jackson complete your matriculation exam on your behalf? Will he help you secure a top result?" 

"No, Abba. I was just taking a five-minute break." 

Aftab walked over to the desk. He didn't confiscate the cassette player, nor did he yell. He simply placed a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. His hand smelled faintly of the gold leaf cigarettes which he just smoked. 

"In our days...," Aftab said, his voice dropping into the familiar cadence of a lecture Jamil had heard a hundred times.

 "...We studied under kerosene lamps during the liberation war. We didn't need Japanese machines to entertain us. Your entertainment should be your books. If you don't achieve a good result, what will people say? Aftab Ahmed's son is wandering the streets of Dhanmondi like a hippie?" 

Jamil looked down at his desk, nodding.
"I understand, Abba." 

"Good." Now put the machine away. Your amma is making some shingara. Come to the veranda when you finish the chapter on the thermodynamics."

Aftab walked back to the veranda, feeling a sense of duty accomplished. As he looked out over the boundary wall, he saw a couple of youngsters were walking past, wearing flared trousers and colorful synthetic shirts, their hair grown long over their ears. Aftab shook his head in disappointment. Then he murmured under his breath.. "this world is moving too fast, becoming too loud, too flashy! " 

But as the evening call to prayer began to echo from the nearby mosque, softening the Dhaka sky into shades of vermilion and orange, Aftab felt a quiet peace. 

Some time later, Jamil came out to the veranda, looking properly chastened. He sat on the chair beside his father. Rehnuma brought out a plate of steaming, freshly fried shingaras, a few pieces of shonpapri and a pot of freshly brewed tea. She poured hot milk tea from a porcelain pot covered in a knitted cozy she had made herself. 

Aftab looked at his son. The sternness in his eyes melted away, replaced by a deep, unspoken warmth that he only allowed himself to show when the day's discipline was done. He picked up the largest, crispest shingara from the plate and placed it on a small saucer, sliding it toward his son.

"Eat," Aftab said gently.

 "Now tell me about this...Michael Jackson. Is he the one who dances backwards?" 

Jamil looked up, a radiant smile breaking across his face. 

"Yes, Abba ! It’s called the moonwalk. Let me tell you how he pulls it off."

As the twilight deepened over Dhanmondi, the stern government officer faded away, leaving only a father listening intently to his son, bridging the gap between two different worlds over a plate of warm evening snacks.

Later in the wee hour of the night, when Jamil was revising, he heard his father Aftab Ahmed humming....

"She was more like a beauty queen
 from a movie scene.... 
She told me her name was Billie Jean
as she caused a scene..."