The Phantom of Dhaka Club

The Phantom of Dhaka Club
Adjacent to the Dhaka Club there is an elegant guest house that was built in the eighties.
The guest house is available to visiting guests of Club members, and members of other
affiliated clubs. Those familiar with the Dhaka Club will recall this remarkable institution
that goes back over a hundred years, where the elites of the city have wined and dined,
and played sports of all sorts over decades. The guest house afforded the visitors also the
privilege to use the club facilities during their stay.
By courtesy of a friend I stayed at the commodious guest house in one of visits to Dhaka
(in late eighties). Since my visits to Dhaka were infrequent (visits from the US are
costly), I took full advantage of this hospitality to connect with many old friends—
members of the club, on a daily basis. It is not that I did not connect with friends in other
visits to Dhaka, but living inside the club was a bonus. Most evenings there would be a
gathering of friends either in the club premises or in the guest house and we would while
away the hours imbibing fine beverages and some of the finest foods that even money
cannot buy outside of the club.
But all good times come to an end. After two weeks of fun filled days, and
companionship with dear ones and friends, I was taking leave of my friends and relatives
to come back to the harsh realities of work life back in the US. I checked out of the guest
house in the evening, but left my luggage with the guest house receptionist as the flight
was later in the night. I had some last minute errands to run including buying a few
typical Dhaka food items.
It was nearly nine in the evening when I returned to the club. The place was full of cars
and people were still coming in, ladies in fashionable clothes spreading their fragrance as
they descended from their cars. I got off the cab at the gate instead of driving up to the
club porch to avoid traffic. There is a shrub and a cluster of trees adjoining the club. It
was relatively dark under the trees, but I saw two persons apparently smoking under the
tree. My face lit up with joy as I came nearer—of the two persons one was Majed Bhai, a
dear old friend of ours, several years senior in age.
One of the oldest members of the club, Majed Bhai epitomized the spirit of Dhaka club.
The place was literally his home. He loved to tell stories, and they were endless and
fascinating mostly derived from many years of travel abroad. He was good at billiards,
smoked like a chimney, and survived mostly on liquid nourishment (at least so it
seemed). He was of medium height and carried almost the same wiry frame that I
remembered from my youth. His wife left him after a brief marriage as she found out
quickly where his real interests lay.
I had not seen him this time in the club, but I had assumed that he was out of town as his
business took him overseas several times a year. I broke into a loud hello when I saw
Majed Bhai. He also responded, but in his typical low voice. I wanted to shake his hands
but he had a cigarette in one, and a lighter in another. The other person I also recognized
to be a friend of his. He also was smoking away.
Majed Bhai enquired when I had arrived, and when I was going away. When I told him
that I was leaving that night, he smiled and said he would have to wait till my next visit. I
asked him if he was away abroad. He only smiled in reply. I was getting late, and I had
to have dinner at the club, and then get my luggage from the Guest House. Majed Bhai
asked why I had to go to the Guest House; this could be brought to the Club Receptionist,
and I could have a leisurely dinner. But this would require that I call a waiter at the Guest
House. Majed Bhai asked me not to worry, and that this would be taken care of. He bade
me good bye saying that he would not be able to join me at dinner, but he would make
sure that my luggage was brought to the club.
The club was buzzing with people as that was the weekly Tambola night. I extricated
myself to the club restaurant where few of my friends were waiting for me. I narrated to
them my accidental brief meeting with Majed Bhai under the trees. All three of my
friends looked at me incredulously. “What, you met Majed Bhai? Are you sure?” They
all asked me almost in one voice. This was my turn to be surprised. “Why? You think I
do not know who Majed Bhai is?” I replied. One of the friends looked at the table in
front and said in a whisper, “this cannot be”. The second friend looked at me as though I
was crazy. The third looked me in the eye and said quietly, “This is very strange. We do
not know who you saw under the trees, but Majed Bhai died in a car accident last year
along with his friend that you claim you also saw.”
I was speechless for a few moments. I did not know who to believe. I had just spoken to
Majed Bhai and his friend, and yet three of my friends were telling me that they had been
dead for nearly a year!!
As I controlled my emotions, my friends told me that Majed Bhai and his friend had
actually died from a fire in the car they were in caused by cigarettes. Apparently the car
caught fire from the lighter that his friend had held for Majed Bhai while he was driving
in Dhaka Aricha road. The flame from the gas lighter suddenly went out of control and
engulfed their clothes. Before they knew the whole car was aflame, and it burst. It was a
ghastly death for both.
Sad and morose I took leave of my friends as I had still to collect my luggage from the
guest house. On way out I was stopped by the club receptionist. There was no need to go
back to the guest house, he informed me. My luggage had already been brought there by
a bell boy. “Who asked the bell boy to bring my luggage to the club?” I asked the
receptionist. “We thought you did”, the receptionist replied. I had not, but I kept quiet. I
did not want the receptionist to know who actually had asked for the luggage. As I
walked away from the club and boarded my flight back to Washington that night I knew
it was Majed Bhai who called for my luggage. How he did it, I would never know. All I
knew that it was his spirit that I had met under the trees that night.
(This is a fiction. There is no similarity between any person dead or alive and the
characters in the story, including the story narrator.)
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