Mad Dashu

Among all the students in our school, there was no one who didn’t know Mad Dashu. Even someone who knew no one else would immediately recognize him. Once, a new gatekeeper joined the school—a rustic man, completely unfamiliar with town life. The moment he heard the name "Mad Dashu," he instinctively figured out who it was. Because from Dashu’s face, speech, and mannerisms, one could clearly tell that he was, well… a little touched in the head.

His eyes were round as marbles, his ears unnecessarily large, and his head covered in a wild mess of hair, as if he carried a whole sack of it on his head. At a glance, one would think:

"A tiny frail body, a head too heavy for the frame,

Looks like some strange fish from Jessore came."

When he walked quickly or spoke excitedly, the way he flailed his hands and feet made one think of a shrimp wriggling about. Not that he was a fool—no, certainly not. When it came to math, especially long multiplications and divisions, his extraordinary mind would shine. And sometimes, just to amuse himself, he would pull such clever pranks on us that we’d be left gaping in disbelief.

When Dashu—short for Dasharathi—first joined our school, Jagabandhu was widely regarded as the best student in our class. Though good at studies, Jagabandhu was one of the most envious and petty boys we had ever known. One day, Dashu asked him the meaning of an English word. Jagabandhu snapped, “Do you think I have nothing better to do? First, I explain English to him, then tomorrow someone else will ask me to do their math, and the day after, another one with another request—how about I just become a servant for everyone!”

Dashu flared up and shouted, “You’re just a petty, low-class brat!” Jagabandhu ran crying to our teacher and complained, “That new boy is calling me names!” Our teacher scolded Dashu so sternly that he became completely subdued.

Our English teacher was Mr. Bishtu. Jagabandhu was his favorite. Whenever he needed a book during class, he would ask Jagabandhu. One day, he asked for a grammar book. Jagabandhu hurriedly pulled out his green-covered copy and handed it over. The teacher opened the book and, raising an eyebrow, asked, “Whose book is this?” Jagabandhu proudly said, “Mine, sir.” The teacher nodded, “Oh—new edition, is it? The content seems completely different.”

Then he began to read aloud: “Detective Yashobonto—A Terrifying Tale.” Jagabandhu stood dumbfounded. The teacher glared and said, “Learning this sort of rubbish now, are you?” Jagabandhu stammered, trying to explain, but the teacher cut him off with a thunderous, “Enough! I’ve seen enough of your innocent act.” Jagabandhu’s ears turned red with embarrassment, and we were all secretly overjoyed.

Later we learned that this was Dashu’s doing—he had carefully placed a pulp detective novel inside a matching green cover just to pull this prank.

We always teased Dashu about his looks and behavior, sometimes right to his face. But we never once saw him get upset. In fact, he would often embellish our jokes and spin strange tales about himself.

One day, he said, “Whenever anyone in our neighborhood makes mango leather, they call me.”

We asked, “Because you eat too much of it?”

He replied, “Not at all. When they lay out the mango paste to dry on the terrace, I just show my face around twice. That’s enough to scare away every crow in the area. No need for anyone to stand guard after that!”

Once, he came to school wearing trousers for the first time—loose like pajamas, with a coat as floppy as a pillowcase. He looked absolutely absurd but seemed to feel very grand about it. When we asked why, he beamed and said, “To learn better English, of course!”

Another time, he started coming to class with a shaved head wrapped in a bandage. We laughed and joked about it endlessly, and he seemed delighted. He couldn’t sing to save his life—no sense of rhythm or melody whatsoever. Yet when the inspector came to visit the school, Dashu broke into song with wild enthusiasm, just to amuse us. Had any of us done the same, we would’ve been punished—but Dashu got off scot-free, being “Mad Dashu.”

One day, after a break, Dashu came into class carrying a strange box under his arm. The teacher asked, “What’s in the box, Dashu?” He replied solemnly, “My personal belongings.”

This puzzled us—he already had all his books, pens, and tools. What more could he need?

When we asked him, he clutched the box tightly and said, “Don’t you dare touch it!” Then he opened it a crack with a key, peeked inside, murmured, “All good,” and began muttering calculations to himself. When I tried to peek, he quickly snapped it shut.

We speculated wildly. One said, “It’s his lunch box.” But we never saw him eat from it. Another said, “It’s his cashbox—he’s carrying money.” Someone else scoffed, “That big box for cash? Is he starting a pawn shop?”

Then one day during the lunch break, Dashu handed me the key and said, “Keep this safe. If I’m late, give the box to the gatekeeper.” He placed the box with the gatekeeper and disappeared. We were bursting with curiosity. As soon as the gatekeeper went off to wash dishes, we pounced on the box. I unlocked it.

Inside was a tightly wrapped bundle. We unwrapped it hastily—inside was a cardboard box, then a smaller bundle. From it emerged a card. One side said: “Eat green bananas.” The other said: “Too much curiosity is dangerous.”

We stared at each other in stunned silence. Finally, someone said, “Let’s wrap it up just like it was—he won’t even know we opened it. That way, he’ll get caught in his own trap.”

I said, “Perfect. Later, pretend to be very curious and ask him to open it and show us what’s inside.”

We quickly packed everything back as it was.

Just as I was locking the box, we heard wild laughter. Dashu was sitting on the wall, giggling uncontrollably. The rascal had been watching us the whole time. It turned out, the key, the box, the dramatic exit—it was all a setup. He’d been carrying that box around for days just to make fools of us.

And that, dear reader, is why we called him Mad Dashu.