Short Story: Face to Face

Faruk Kader shares a tender tale that makes you re-look at life and everyone you have ever crossed paths with.

Editor’s Pick of the Week

(As the Editor’s Pick, this piece will be available for free reading this week)

It was the day of our annual picnic. We have chosen Parramatta Park as the venue. Someone wisely suggested, “Bring umbrellas, it might rain today.” Taking an umbrella to the park wasn’t the problem—I thought -wandering around the park with one over our heads felt inconvenient. “How much rain could there really be? A little drizzle won’t hurt. As long as the food stays dry, we’ll be fine,” another friend said. Someone else chimed in, “There will surely be picnic shelters in the park. We’re bringing swimsuits anyway—we’ve planned to swim in the river. I’ve heard that the Parramatta River abounds in Brim fish in this season, and they travel upstream when it is raining.” The line cut off, but I understood—he was bringing a fishing rod.

The city itself is named after the river, Parramatta. The river runs through its heart. Before the city grew, what must the riverbanks have looked like? Perhaps Aboriginal huts stood there, hunters with spears and boomerangs rummaging through the thickets, just as in old paintings from 150–200 years ago. In one of those images, the river entered one corner of the frame, meandered sharply twice before making an exit from another.

Today, the river banks have been manicured into parks. We gathered under one of the large shelters in Parramatta Park, right beside the river. A concrete dam a few kilometres downstream held back the water. The river remained deceptively calm, without any visible current, though who could say what stirred beneath the surface? Notices by the riverside warned against swimming.

The drive through downtown Parramatta to reach the park felt dull. Yet this city had played a role in my migrant life. In my early days in Australia, I worked small jobs here, both in busy streets and quiet corners. Sometimes, I would bring lunch from home and eat on a park bench, watching the river from afar. So Parramatta and its river were not strangers to me— the city and the river had become part of my layered life, each memory stacked upon another.

Arriving at the park, we split into men’s and women’s groups, like a pine tree in the park that grew upward and then divided into two trunks before reaching for the sky. Nature’s oddities never cease to amaze.

Then came a sudden shower, heavy but brief. Our side of the sky cleared quickly, but across the river, dark clouds gathered in the west. Storm cells on the Australian east coast often behave unpredictably, dumping torrents of rain into catchments; forecasts often failed to capture their intensity. We stayed dry under the shelter, the stray droplets on our clothes hardly worth complaint. Perhaps soon the river’s gentle current would show itself. Yet I knew this river had destructive power—if a mega downpour struck upstream, it could swell, sweeping away parks, houses, even the dam.

I wandered down a slope to a brick pump house by the river. Its roof and floor were littered with torn clothes, empty bottles, food wraps, and even discarded beddings dumped on supermarket shopping trolleys. The entrance to the pump house gaped open. Was someone inside? Better not to know. What if a pair of fiery eyes met mine? And burned me down?

Meanwhile, the picnic rolled on—chatter, food, raffle draws, prizes. Outside the shelter, garbage and recycling bins filled steadily, like rising floodwaters writing history on the riverbanks.

No one else noticed that, just nearby, a silent one-man play might have unfolded on the pump house stage. Perhaps only I was its witness. A homeless wanderer had left his life’s footprints there. Maybe he watched the picnic proceedings from afar and waited for the picnic party to vacate the park. The bins would hold plenty of leftover food—enough to draw him back. No shelter, yet the whole world is his home, kitchen, and dining room.

From my car dashboard came a weather alert: upstream, explosive clouds had dumped torrential rain in just an hour. A catastrophic flood was rushing down. Such floods had struck the river catchment even a thousand years ago, their devastation remembered in Aboriginal oral traditions.

Warnings spread—residents near the dam must prepare to evacuate.

And I thought of the man. When he returned to his makeshift shelter, pump house by the river, what would he find? Would the flood have erased the fragile footprints of his life?

Author’s Bio

Faruk Kader writes short stories with passion, both in Bangla and English. His stories in English have been published in major literary journals of Bangladesh, including The Daily Star Literature and Six Seasons Review, Bengal Foundation. He offers an intimate look into human relationships, cultural conflict, and personal transformation. He successfully portrayed the immigrant experience in Australia with honesty and care. From navigating job insecurity to the general clash of values, his stories shed light on issues rarely explored in mainstream fiction giving voice to marginalized perspectives.

A collection of short stories in Bangla by Kader titled Amar Sundori Yuga Trainer was published by Machranga Prokashoni in 2020. Faruk Kader was awarded the Best Young Short Story Writer in Dhaka prize while he was a graduate student. He is a retired BUET civil engineer settled in Australia.