⛔ Three-day wedding procession, returned alone ⛔

⛔ Three-day wedding procession, returned alone ⛔

An upazila in the middle of Bangladesh, its name is Trishal. Just by pronouncing the name, it seems like the rhythm of poetry rings out. It is not very far from Mymensingh city, but once you set foot there, it seems like time has stopped. A mysterious beauty can be found in the combination of rivers, beels, dirt roads and lonely trees.

Trishal's identity is not limited to its natural beauty—the shadow of history is spread here. National poet Kazi Nazrul Islam studied at Darirampur School here for some time in his childhood. Even today, that school stands as a monument of memory. Nazrul Academy and the mosque named after him are nearby. Locals say that sometimes in the dead of night, a strange wind starts blowing under the old banyan tree next to the mosque. Some say that the poet's soul comes to read his unfinished poems, some say that a soul sighs there—who has remained alone for a lifetime.

This is a village in Trishal—Sonakanda. A small canal behind, a vast paddy field in front, and old mango orchards scattered here and there. The village is quiet and innocent during the day. But after the sun sets, an invisible weight seems to float in the air.

An incident in this village that people have not been able to forget even today.

I did not see the incident, but the person who told it is my great uncle—Solayman Sahib. An honest, reliable man. Hearing this story from his mouth, it is difficult to sleep at night even today.

The center of the story is a young man—Sohel. Age twenty-three-twenty-four. A quiet, polite, simple-minded boy. His father was a teacher at Sonakanda Government Primary School. Sohel had just got a job in a private firm. The family had been looking for a bride for him for a long time.

Finally, the marriage is arranged with a girl from the neighboring village—Ruma, educated, lively, and sweet-looking. All in all, a joyful atmosphere. But seven days before the wedding, some strange things start happening.

Sohel's mother notices that he doesn't want to sleep properly at night. He repeatedly stands by the window, whispering, even though no one is home. One day, his younger brother sees Sohel standing in front of the mirror, repeatedly saying a name—"Nahila."

When asked, he says—"He was a character in a serial."

But no one has ever heard the name of that serial.

The wedding day. The atmosphere of celebration has been there since morning. The sound of drums, the sound of the Sanai, the recitation of the Quran, and the noise of the neighborhood—all in all, a festive atmosphere. Sohel comes out dressed as a bridegroom, Ruma by his side. But it can be noticed—Sohel is so quiet. He doesn't talk to anyone, doesn't smile, and is absent-minded even when he is around his wife.

The wedding party returned on the night after the wedding. But just then, an unusual incident occurred.

Around 12:30 at night, a woman's heartbreaking cry came from the house. Everyone rushed in. When they entered the house, they saw Ruma lying unconscious, and Sohel was sitting in a corner, quietly saying something.

When her father asked, Sohel said, "She has come. I was talking to her. Ruma has to go..."

Hearing this, everyone was shocked, and my mother lost consciousness.

That night, my uncle Solaiman Sahib and his four friends—Sanu, Raju, Firoz, and Kalam—were sitting in the courtyard behind the house. Suddenly, their eyes went to the roof—a woman was slowly walking on the roof. White sari, veil on her head. The clothes were blowing in the wind, but her face was not visible.

At first, they thought, "Ruma?"

But Ruma is unconscious in the house!

Mama said—

"When he turned his head, we saw clearly—he had no face! Just a black hole—as if someone had cut his face off."

Everyone ran into the house and closed the door.

The next morning, Sohel said—he would go to the city for office work. But before leaving, he told Ruma—

"You are none of my business. He has returned. I am going to him."

Then he left. The phone was switched off. There was no trace.

Three days later, Ruma suddenly said—

"He called. He said, he never married me. I am not his wife… I am a widow."

The house was silent then. No one made a sound.

Then the villagers called Maulana Tauhid Sahib. He came and looked at the house for a while with a cold face, then said—

"A widow committed suicide many years ago in the pond behind this house. Society did not accept her. She had a child in her womb. That soul remains here. This place is infected with the Ashik jinn."

"This jinn once made a deal—every man who loves will lose his lover. The jinn will take the lover and leave the bride alone."

Three days later, a call came from an unknown number. Sohel's voice on the other end—

"I am fine. Don't look for me. I am with him..."

After that, there was no further trace.

Ruma still lives in Sonakanda village. She is quiet all day. She doesn't smile or cry when anyone asks her anything. She only stands on the verandah at night. Sometimes she whispers—

"He still comes… he was my husband, wasn't he?"

No one performs weddings in that house anymore. The house is almost abandoned. After dusk, the windows somehow darken, as if someone is watching from inside.

The sounds stop. The wind stops.

Only occasionally does someone whisper—

"Why did you take someone else?"

Those five witnesses from Sonakanda village are still alive—the ones who saw the faceless woman walking on the roof.

And my great uncle still looks at the ground after prayers. As if he can hear the sound of someone's footsteps.

And I, Zubair Alam, turn the doorknob twice every night before going to bed.

Because one day someone might suddenly come and say—

"You made a deal with that..."