Shadow of the Buriganga

The Last Phone Call, Chapter 1: The rain was hitting the tin roofs of old Dhaka like a thousand impatient fingers. In the monsoon rain, **Tahsin Rahman** walked through the crowd at the Sadarghat launch terminal with his shirt sticking to his skin. His phone rang once more. Stop looking for her. "Unknown number:" What you find will not satisfy you. Three days. The investigating officer looked up from his papers three days after her sister, "Nusrat," a bright-eyed anthropology student at Dhaka University, told him "I found something... something dangerous." The investigating officer said, barely looking up from his papers, "Another girl is running away with a boyfriend." But Tahsin knew better. Nusrat did not act carelessly. He had also panicked just before he vanished. Near the Lalbagh Fort, the murky water turned into a narrow lane, and his shoes slid through it. Wet bricks, fried samosas, and the "Buriganga River's" perpetual decay filled the air. A hunchbacked figure emerged from the shadows—“Dr. Farid Chowdhury,” a disgraced forensic pathologist who had been “sacked for unprofessional conduct.”

Farid mumbled, his breath smelling like cheap whiskey, "You're digging graves, Tahsin." “The Buriganga doesn’t give up its dead.”

“Do you know?” Tahsin demanded.

Farid handed him a water-stained file. Inside were autopsy photos—of “women,” all in their early twenties, taken from the river over the past year. None were identified. None were reported.

And each was found with a “black silk ribbon” tied around their wrists.

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Chapter 2: The Whispering Net:

Tahsin’s next expedition led him to “Shahida,” a prostitute who worked on the river.

“They call her ‘the collector,’” she said, her voice barely audible over the roar of a freighter. "Men, not ghosts. Or men. They take girls who won’t be missed.”

“Why?”

“Because the river swallows secrets.”

That night, Tahsin hacked Nusrat’s university email. The last message he sent was to a professor:

“I found the dredging permits—they’re dumping more than sand. Before I publish, I need proof.” Before he could react, his phone rang—another message:

“Unknown number:” “You should have listened.”

A brick smashed through his window. Tahsin barely escaped the shattered glass. Outside, a dark van was idling, its headlights off.

He ran.

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Chapter 3: Rats in the Maze:

Tahsin’s investigation led him to **ASP Jawad Karim**, a well-dressed police officer—and Nusrat’s ex-boyfriend.

“You’re chasing ghosts,” Jawad said over tea in his air-conditioned office. “The river takes people away every day. Drowns. Commits suicide. Why rely on it?”

However, Tahsin observed Jawad's trembling fingers as he mentioned the "black ribbon." Tahsin broke into the "evidence locker" belonging to the Dhaka River Police that evening. Inside a rusty filing cabinet, he found a “ledger”—dates, locations, and payments next to the missing women’s names.

At the bottom of the page, a single initial: **“J.K.” **

*Karim Jawid. *

A flashlight beam broke through the darkness before the picture could be taken. *“I warned you,”* Jawad’s voice echoed.

A gunshot was heard. ---

The River's Secret, Chapter 4: Tahsin's wrists were bound with a thick rope when he awoke in a "decaying warehouse" by the river. Jawad stood beside him, cleaning his pistol.

“Do you think you’re the first to ask the question?” Jawad sneered. “Buriganga has been hiding bodies since the British era. We... facilitated the procedure. He explained: A “syndicate” of police, politicians, and businessmen had used the river to dispose of “problems”—workers, troublesome witnesses, rebellious women. All evidence had been destroyed by dredging machines. “Your sister was going to expose us,” Jawad said, pressing a gun to Tahsin’s forehead.

“Gunshots” rang out.

Jawad collapsed, blood pouring down his chest. Behind him stood “Shahida,” her hand trembling around the stolen pistol.

“I owe her,” she whispered.

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Chapter 5: The Reckoning:

With Jawad’s death, the syndicate sprang into action. Tahsin and Shahida fled to a riverbank "fishing village," where an elderly boatman offered to take them to the "dredging site." “They dumped these in the middle of the night,” the boatman muttered. "At the height of the tide." Under cover of darkness, they saw a krill lowering a heavy sack.

Into the water. Tahsin's stomach turned.

Shahida stated, "We require evidence." They waited until the workers had left, then jumped "into the deep of the whirlpool," opening the sack with a knife. Inside—"Nusrat's scarf," tangled in a brick.

But before they could get up, the "shots" from the shore began. Shahida gasped as her shoulder was torn off.

"Go!" she shouted, thrusting the evidence into Tahsin's hands.

He swam, lungs burning, as the river swallowed him up behind him.

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Conclusion: Black Ribbon:

A month later,Tahsin’s “explosive report” was published in Prothom Alo, which included photos of the ledger, the dredging permit, and Jawad’s confession (recorded on Shahida’s deathbed phone).

“Arrested.” “Heads were turned.” But the real masterminds? Untouchables.

Tahsin threw a stone into the Buriganga after tying a "black ribbon" around it at Nusrat's "empty grave." The water barely rippled.

Somewhere deep down, the river was guarding its secrets.

But Tahsin would return.

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