Troubled Waters: Unpopular Opinions Book Series, #3

TROUBLED

WATERS

Copyrights Page

TROUBLED WATERS

By Taseef Farook

The third part of the Unpopular Opinions Book Series

ISBN (paperback): 978-1-7638775-5-9

ISBN (Ebook): 978-1-7638775-4-2

Copyright © 2025 by Taseef Farook

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products are intended or should be inferred.

Published by Unfiltered Ink

Adelaide, South Australia, 5000, Australia

Email: taseef@live.co.uk

Cover Design © 2025 by Taseef Farook

Unfiltered Ink is an imprint of Dr Farook Ink.

Dedication

To my mother, who taught me that common sense isn’t all that common.

Preface

​I am an academic researcher and dentist with a unique cross-cultural perspective, having lived in Bangladesh, Malaysia, and Australia. My diverse background shapes the themes of this novel, as my experiences across these cultural landscapes influenced my writing of the ‘Unpopular Opinions Book Series’. While all the characters in this story are entirely fictional, their struggles reflect real, systemic flaws in our society—issues that are often difficult to discuss. I believe that humour and wit provide the best way to navigate such sensitive topics, making them more accessible without diminishing their importance.

This book is my attempt to bring these stories to life, inspired by the many people who once shared their experiences with me and the lessons I have learned along the way. It is not written to criticise, but rather to highlight how far we have come and what still needs to change. As with the previous books in this series, I am deeply grateful to my partner, Lameesa Ramees, and my good friend, Ragib Farhat Hasan, for helping me finish this story. I couldn’t have done it without you.

Contents

Chapter 1. Outcast

Chapter 2. Helping the sick

Chapter 3. Open meadows

Chapter 4. Disdain

Chapter 5. Duty of care

Chapter 6. Wealth we never had

Chapter 7. Not my debt

Chapter 8. Choices

Epilogue

Chapter 1. Outcast

T he way you’re here begging, it’s almost like I’ve never done anything for you said the village community leader, flipping through the documents on his desk.

The villagers called him Memba, a mispronunciation of Member, the title given to the local government council representative. The name had stuck over the years, and I had to admit—it was easier to say. His appearance only made the name feel even more fitting. He was a lean man of short stature, with a boxy face, a small moustache, and curly hair. He always wore half-sleeved shirts tucked into oversized pants, which he pulled up almost to his chest, and he never went anywhere without his leather sandals.

He studied me with a contemptuous gaze. People still talk about you. Despite me urging them not to, the entire Gaibandha district calls you a wh*re and your brother as your pimp. A shame, really. I thought he could do some good under proper guidance—that’s why I gave him his first job in Dhaka.

I stiffened but kept my voice calm. He had his flaws, but there’s no point in talking about the dead anymore.

Memba chuckled at the word flaws, dismissing the word as if it was an understatement. Then he asked, I know you mean well. But are you prepared to answer the question ‘why is a prostitute teaching her trade to our children?’

I had expected this, and I refused to let him bait me. Instead, I answered steadily, I have been a part of this community for years, I went back to school and finished my studies up to year 12 as you suggested. I think I’m perfectly capable of handling the Year One curriculum.

But he wasn’t done tearing me down. Finding you a job here is already difficult. People have been talking ever since you came back from Dhaka. They still call you the ‘Left-ten-ant’s’ personal service girl.

I knew exactly what they were talking about—and I knew I wasn’t the only one. Other families in the village had traded their daughters to Lieutenant Oman for money, too. They might not participate in the gossip anymore, but they never did anything to stop it either.

The only reason I was singled out was because of my brother. Everything he did, everything that put him on the run from dangerous people, dragged me down with him. And I still hadn’t recovered from it socially.

But none of that mattered anymore. It had been ten years. I left that life behind for good.

At least, I hoped I had.

I brought my thoughts back to Memba and focused only on what mattered. Rono is ten now. Even he can vouch for what a good mother I am. It took me a while to learn, but I got better.

Memba hesitated, sighing as he leaned back in his chair. Look, Riba, I don’t know what you want me to tell you. The village community simply won’t accept someone like you teaching their children. They don’t recognise you as one of them anymore, and teaching children is a sensitive matter. I can find other work for you—

I cut him off. Since I came back, I’ve spent years looking after the village community centre, cleaning outhouse latrines and working in the fields. We’ve had this conversation several times before Memba, and I went back to school just like you said that I had to, finished Year 12. The least you can do is give me a chance to work my way up and give Rono a chance at a better life.

Memba smiled, Your GPA for your HSC exams wasn’t even 5 out of 5. Almost everyone who is considered a good student and tutor get the full 5. Yours is 4.2.

I had been in the city long enough to understand what he meant. There was a time when GPA 5 was handed out to almost every student in the Bangla curriculum—a government initiative meant to boost literacy rates. But it had overstayed its welcome. Soon, students began to see it as five or nothing.

Back in Dhaka, I had a small TV where I watched the news regularly. I saw stories of students taking their own lives after scoring 4.8 while everyone else around them got 5. Then, just as I was about to sit for my exams, the government tightened the screening criteria. My result? A 4.2.

Try explaining that to anyone who has seen the trends over the last two decades.

But Memba was being unreasonable. The school desperately needed teachers. I pushed back.

Memba, the community school has only two teachers—sure, with perfect GPAs—but they’re handling a hundred students. And now you’re telling me you’d rather turn away someone who could actually help?

His response was final. I’m sorry, Riba. It was one thing to convince the villagers to let you and Rono stay when Ranjan went on the run. They did so bitterly, claiming that being associated with you would bring shame to the community. But letting you teach their children? That’s different. The elders have already made their decision.

I smiled bitterly. It’s been over ten years. Can’t you lot just forget and move on?

Memba’s face softened for a brief moment, but then he shook his head. Your past never bothered me, Riba. Sadly, some things stay with you for life, my dear. But... there is something that is a step up from what you are doing right now.

I leaned forward. What? Anything, Memba.

The new doctor has arrived at the local clinic, he said. They need an assistant to help with errands. The doctor is willing to pay, but the villagers refuse to take the job—you can imagine why. Working with the sick, dealing with blood... they see it as a bad omen.

I hesitated. What kind of work is it?

I don’t know, Memba admitted, but it has to be better than what you’re doing now.

The clinic is far, I pointed out. Going there and back on foot would take hours through the forest. And with the rainy season, it’ll be even worse—the rivers are already eroding the usual route.

That’s probably another reason no one wants to do it. The position will likely remain open until the rainy seasons end, after which point, you will be competing with almost every wife in the village, He shrugged. But if you’re not interested—

I am. I cut in quickly. I can work things out.

Memba continued, She wants anyone interested to call her first. You can pay Rohim Mia to use his phone when you’re ready.

Rohim Mia ran a small convenience store in the village centre. While many villagers owned mobile phones, he operated a prepaid call service as a side hustle for those who didn’t. Unlike most, Rohim didn’t concern himself with village gossip—business was business, and he never turned away a paying customer, no matter what the rumours said about them.

And just like that, I walked out of the council office after my fifth failed attempt in the last ten years to get a decent job. Every time, there was a new requirement to meet. Five years ago, Memba said I wasn’t educated enough. Now, even with my HSC qualifications, they made it clear—I would never be good enough in the villagers’ eyes.

But at least I had a lead. Working at the clinic couldn’t be worse than the latrines. I just hoped Rono would behave, keep up with his schoolwork, and not give me too much trouble if I took the job.

For now, that was all I could hope for.

As I stepped outside, I glanced up at the evening sky, watching as it darkened with clouds. Rain was coming, and I needed to head home before it started. I followed the muddy, well-trodden path through the clearings in the woods.

Memba’s council office sat on high ground, close to the highway—probably so he could drive to and from town with ease. He was the only person in the entire village who owned a car. Some of the wealthier villagers had motorcycles, but that was as far as it went.

I wished I knew how to ride a bicycle, but my balance had never been great when I tried on my own. And now, with the villagers keeping their distance from me, no one was about to offer to teach me. At least the other children didn’t treat Rono the same way.

I reached the riverbank, where the usual route home led across a small elevation where the locals had built a bamboo bridge. If I took the job at the clinic, this would be my daily route—crossing the river and walking through the forests beyond. The thought made me uneasy.

Continuing on my way, I passed the small timber-and-concrete dam that separated my village from the riverbanks, diverting the water to the other side. It was one of the bigger government projects Memba had secured a tender for, bringing much-needed employment to the idle villagers. Now, the open meadows in the valley beyond the dam stretched out before me. The