And Then There Were So Many by Salek Uddin

                                                                    
And Then There Were So Many
Flash fiction by Salek Uddin

Night never fully settles over the emergency department of the Dhaka National Cardiac Hospital.
A restless light remains awake — the metallic clatter of oxygen cylinders, stretcher wheels, hurried footsteps, broken prayers, and cries that arrive without warning and vanish just as quickly.
Amid that crowded uncertainty sat Mahbub Anam on a narrow bench in the veranda.
He wore an old gray sweater, a muffler around his neck, thick-framed glasses. Nearly sixty-five. A small cloth bag rested on his lap, holding documents, a diary, and two books.
After glancing at the ECG report, the young doctor said without looking up,
— “Troponin-I. Third floor.”
Mahbub Anam stood slowly.
The elevator was not working.
The staircase was packed — bodies moving upward with patients, medicines, and fatigue. In a public hospital, illness never arrives alone.
By the second floor, his chest tightened. He paused, breathing carefully, then continued.
After the blood test, a nurse pressed cotton into his hand.
— “Hold it. Report in three hours.”
He returned to the emergency veranda.
A woman suddenly screamed — her husband had been taken to CCU. A boy slept on the floor. An old man argued silently with a ward boy over a bed that did not exist.
The hospital felt like the last holding place of an exhausted country.
At night, the report arrived.
The doctor frowned.
— “Troponin 1.5 You’re having a heart attack. Admission needed.”
Mahbub asked quietly,
— “Where should I go?”
— “Ward 203.”
He hesitated a moment.
— “Could someone help me walk?”
The doctor did not look up.
— “No staff. Go slowly.”
He went.
Each step pressed back into his chest.
At Ward 203, there were no beds.
A nurse gave him tablets, injected him quickly, and said,
— “Stay in the corridor. Professor will see you tomorrow.”
— “A blanket?”
She looked at him briefly, already turning away.
— “Arrange it yourself.”
Arrange it yourself.
A sentence that required no authority to be enforced.
He lay down in the corridor, using his bag as a pillow. Cold air moved through the hospital like something that belonged there more than people did.
Somewhere, someone was crying again.
Another death had already been absorbed into routine.
At night, Mahbub opened his diary and wrote:
“I called Rajib—my nephew, whom I raised like a son.
I told him I had a heart attack and was admitted here.
He said, ‘I’m not well either, uncle. The doctor told me to rest.’”
He closed the diary and stared at the ceiling for a long time.
No one came.
At noon the next day, he ate a few spoonfuls of watery khichuri. People nearby watched him without speaking, as if trying to confirm the reality of abandonment.
By the second night, breathing became heavier.
Before dawn, the patient beside him asked,
— “Water?”
No reply.
A nurse touched his wrist.
Then his silence was recorded.
— “He’s gone.”
No pause. No surprise. Only procedure.
In a government hospital, death does not interrupt the system. It completes it.
Before sunrise fully formed, the corridor changed.
Cameras arrived. Microphones arrived. Cars gathered outside.
The same bed that held absence now held attention.
A reporter read into the camera:
— “Renowned writer Mahbub Anam, recently nominated for a national literary award, passed away this morning at the Dhaka National Cardiac Hospital…”
Grief arrived immediately, fully assembled.
Writers arrived. Professors arrived. Rajib arrived. Relatives arrived. Flowers arrived.
Words followed:
“A national conscience.”
“An irreplaceable voice.”
“An immense loss.”
A schoolteacher in the next bed remained silent.
For two days, no one had offered the man a glass of water.
Now there were too many people to count.
                                               



Author Biography:
In the landscape of contemporary Bengali literature, Salek Uddin (b. 1960) stands as a vital conscience. A Life Member of the Bangla Academy, his diverse repertoire of poetry, drama, and fiction masterfully bridges the gap between individual solitude and social reality.

What distinguishes Salek Uddin is his "dual-threat" intellect; he is both a lyrical poet and a sharp socio-political columnist. His essays in national newspapers serve as a masterclass in ethical statecraft, distilling complex politics into moral narratives that challenge the status quo. By blending classical Bengali thought with the urgent demands of modern governance, Uddin creates a rare synthesis: capturing the world as it is, while never losing sight of what it ought to be.