by Taj63622
Chapter 9
A wry smile spread upon her lips as she absorbed the startling sights. Forty-seven years ago, Sylhet’s Osmani International Airport was barely visible, let alone crowded.
Admittedly, Mayah was nervous. Now that they are finally here, she finally realises just quite how far away from England she really is. Standing here, in this hectic crowd of an unknown country, her confidence found good reason to falter. This was only the beginning of their journey. There is much to do. They need to contact Jameel Dhadha. Without him, there is no hope to locate Dhadhi’s estranged brother. The discouraging thoughts were not helping to rebuild her confidence, thus she quickly banishes them before they could cripple her legs. First things first, she reminds herself. They must reach their hotel. Some tea and rest will no doubt revive her confidence.
The hotel they will be staying is the closest one to the airport. It was also the first five-star hotel in Sylhet. Their suitcases collected from the conveyor and stacked neatly on the trolley, they walked briskly towards the exit, following the many helpful signposts, which had messages written in both English and Bengali. She could not read the latter.
As she wheeled their trolley against the white marbled floors, she studied the interior of the airport with some intrigue. Granted, it was not the equal of Heathrow, but for a country, which has been independent for only forty-years, the structure was very impressive. It was clean, white and cool, courtesy to the air conditioning. She did some research on the weather prior to their travel, so she can pack her suitcase accordingly. The average temperature for this season can reach up to thirty-nine degrees. Just before they landed, the airhostess had also confirmed that currently it is thirty-eight degrees in Sylhet. She was quite alarmed. Inside this air-conditioned hub, it was difficult to imagine the heat to be so cruel. However, she need not worry. She has the tropical gene. Therefore, she must be immune to the heat. Of course, it is only when she was outside that they experience the truth. Here, beneath the latched roof of the airport, they absorbed the scene.
Amidst the crowd and innumerable transport, the weather appeared more ruthless. It was not only hot, but humid too. Apprehensive, she looks at Dhadhi, who was no less nervous. They cannot stand here all day. With renewed courage, they walk out onto the baking ground, and begin to look for n available transport that could drop them to the hotel. She felt a twinge of dismay, when she saw family members come to collect their relations, excitingly embracing them. It appeared she was not alone in the feeling, as Dhadhi’s dismay was also visible. There was none here to collect them. Indeed, apart from her mother, no other person had even the faintest idea of her and Dhadhi’s arrival in Bangladesh. She has yet to inform her mother, who was no doubt waiting anxiously by the phone to hear the news of their safe arrival.
No family yet, but very soon she will be reunited with many. As she walks along, she notices one of the security officers raising a baton at some children, who were poorly dressed. She watched in distress, but Dhadhi explained that those children are most likely to be thieves and beggars. Apparently, their pitiful appearance plays a major part in their tactics to approach travellers and steal their valuable belongings. That said, she was immediately on alert, holding the trolley tightly, every minute counting the number of cases in it. One, two, three, four, she counts yet again to reassure herself.
At length, Dhadhi points at a “baby-taxi”, which is a three-wheeled vehicle. These vehicles littered the airport parking space, and none looked vacant, surrounded by passengers. The vigorous gestures of both the drivers and passengers indicated well that there was some disagreement. She wondered for a short while on the possible reasons when it all became clear having watched another passenger of another taxi. This particular passenger forcefully put his three suitcases in the taxi and another on the seat. The suspension sank beneath the weight of the suitcase. The driver quickly remonstrates, taking them out again, and gestures to another vehicle behind him, which looked like an eighties minivan. Instinctively, she looks doubtfully at her own luggage, and eliminates the possibility of hailing an auto-rickshaw. She will need a bigger car. Flustered, she wandered about the sandy grounds, through the cluster of drivers and passengers, eyes peeled for a suitable transport. She asks Dhadhi for some guidance, but her voice sounded distant. Alarmed, she found Dhadhi looking in great discomfort. The bright sunlight and heat was taking its effect on her. She looks around desperately for somewhere that Dhadhi can sit while she finds a taxi. At first, Dhadhi objected, but against her insistence, she sat her down on a bench at the entrance of the airport, and advised her to keep guard of their suitcases while she arranges for transportation.
This business was truly becoming ridiculous. Every time she approached an available taxi, or even one of those minivans, someone else would quickly arrive to claim their ride. She grew more flustered. The heat was unbearable and the sun seemed merciless. There was no doubt sweat patches on the shirt beneath her underarms. Her only consolation was that her linen shirt is white. She was glad she did not drag Dhadhi into this heat. Lost in her own frustration, she almost walked into a taxi had it not been for the loud beep of warning. Deflated, she looked carelessly about her surroundings. The blinding sunlight made everything look like blue and black images. Then, she notices a taxi pull in. With hurried steps, she approaches the driver, and without any delay gives the name of her destination.
‘Shapla Hotel -’
‘Zinda Bazaar.’
The driver steps out of the taxi, curiously regarding the two persons, who made the different request. He looked questioningly from her to the man next to her, and from him to her.
She and the man look at each other, both in obvious disapprove of the other. His brown aviator shades concealed his eyes, yet she suspected him to look familiar. Her gaze then descends onto a holdall in his hand, which he hooked behind his shoulder. She then scrutinises his appearance, hoping to understand whether he was a national or a tourist like her, and trying to determine if he will understand English when she should speak to him.
He looked slightly dishevelled. His hair was dark, of which the many short unruly strands fell to his forehead. Dark stubbles outlined his jaw and upper lip, and his warmly tanned. So far, his features indicated strongly that his roots are associated to this country, yet she could not make of his language. With a measured move, the man puts his index finger on the nose bridge of his shades, and lowers it carefully. His brown eyes begin to regard rather quizzically, before raising his brow questioningly at her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she apologises slowly, so her words are comprehensible to his understanding, ‘but I was here first.’
She fixes a conciliatory smile to her face, hoping that the asset may turn the situation into her favour. ‘Driver,’ she turns to the respective person, who watched in visible bewilderment, ‘shall we go -’
‘Excuse me?’ the man beside her says at length, dropping his case aggressively to the ground.
He does speak English, she realises in slight dismay. Somehow, she was hoping that he could not so she could trick her way out of this. He took off his shades completely and began to study her closely.
‘Go where?’ he says with the corresponding gesture. His accent strongly suggested he was from Britain. ‘O Memsahib,’ he says teasingly, ‘this is not the door to a restaurant, where I will let you go first. Why don’t you go in another taxi? I’m getting late,’ he says glancing at his watch.
How dare he, she wondered whilst regarding him in grave disapprove.
‘Driver, Shapla Hotel,’ she instructs firmly, ignoring the man.
‘Bysaab,’ the man says addresses the driver, ‘amar kotha huno. Ami afnaare aro beshi bara dhimu.’
She followed his words in confusion, for he spoke the different dialect of Bengali she could not understand. ‘Please,’ he gestures to the driver, who obediently heads for his seat. Then, to her great horror, the man opens the door to get into the taxi.
‘I don’t think
so!’ she remonstrates closing the door, realising a few faces turning in her direction.
‘Please don’t exhaust your brain by thinking,’ he says sweetly, his lips breaking into a smile.
‘This is my taxi,’ she informs him equally politely.
‘No, it’s mine,’ he corrects her.
‘Mine!’
‘Mine!’
‘Wait!’ the driver interrupts, breaking the arguing pair. He comes out of the taxi, studying his two prospective passengers in fresh amusement. ‘First tell me,’ he addresses her, ‘how many suitcases you have?’
Her cheeks underwent visible shades of red, which any observer could easily associate them with embarrassment.
‘How many do you have, memsahib?’ the arrogant man teasingly repeats, knowing very well that he has gained victory.
‘Only two,’ she says in a quietened whisper, unable to meet the arrogant man’s eyes.
‘No, no, no,’ the driver waves his hand in refusal. ‘He has one only. You,’ he looks at the man, ‘sit in car.’
The driver took his position in his seat again, while his passenger did not show any modesty to display his triumph. His smugness was provoking her irritation. Thus, defeated yet maintaining her dignity, she turns away, keeping indifferent to his triumph. She heard the door of the taxi close behind her with a meaningful thud. Her eyes should be searching for another taxi had she not been wishing quiet curses upon that man. She hoped the tyres puncture on his journey, leaving him stranded in the middle of road, and never reaches his destination.
‘Oh, and a parting tip,’ he suggests as soon as she made a start to walk away.
Reluctantly, she turns around at him, regarding him with a lividness that reddened her cheeks.
‘Next time,’ he says, ‘pack light.’
His remark had astounded her so greatly that she found herself incompetent to reply. He shakes his head hopelessly at her, a smirk apparent on his face. The taxi pulls away, turning a corner and disappearing completely from her sight. The strain of resentment she suffered was strong, transforming unexpectedly into deflation. This was not a good start. Indeed, she felt rather discouraged. Are all people here like that?
‘Mayah?’ a deep voice calls from behind. Startled, she turned around to find a short Bengali man addressing her. Not enquiring the obvious of how he knew her name, she unknowingly nods in affirmation instead. ‘Afnar Dhadhi garitey boshchen,’ he informs, gesturing to something in the distance. Thankfully, she understood him. ‘Amar shatey cholbo,’ he instructs and she obediently follows. She walked, but in the capture of guilt and shame. Dhadhi only agreed on this trip under her trust and support, yet she, a girl of apparent health and agility, could not perform a simple task of hailing a taxi. How will she manage to travel the remainder of this journey?
She walked along morosely, ignorant to the passengers, to the hubbub of crowd, and to the direction she was following. She felt ashamed to go before her Dhadhi. Unknowingly, she also neglected her poor Dhadhi. Her prolonged absence must have reduced Dhadhi to distress about her reckless granddaughter’s whereabouts.
Soon, they reach the said vehicle, which happened to be a minivan. All trace of guilt abruptly vanished under the relief of seeing her Dhadhi well and safe, already seated in the taxi, looking through the window at her in a hopeful gaze. The driver opened the door and ushered her inside. ‘Where were you?’ Dhadhi asks in concern as soon as she sits beside her. ‘I was getting worried.’
‘Sorry Dhadhi,’ she apologises, feeling the return of guilt. There was an unpleasant smell in the car too, and the seats were not much comfortable either. ‘I couldn’t find a taxi. But are you okay? How did you manage to stop this van?’
‘I didn’t,’ Dhadhi admits as the minivan takes off, reversing out of the small space and making quick progress into the car park’s exit.
Dhadhi gave no answer, prompting her to renew her enquiries.
‘Well,’ Dhadhi says reluctantly, ‘I was sitting on the bench you left me, without any trouble, when a well-dressed young boy came up to me, and asked if I want anything to eat or something to drink. He also advised me to wait outside the airport, because not many transports come inside the perimeter of the airport, as there is a parking fee. He was very talkative. He would not leave. Soon after, I learnt that his offer was merely a clever tactic to keep me occupied.’
Dhadhi carefully paused, her face overcoming with strong worry. Instinctively, Mayah reaches for Dhadhi’s hand, urging her to continue. ‘Well, dear,’ Dhadhi continues. ‘The young man kept me occupied so his young accomplices could steal our suitcases.’
The news astounded her, before she feels the fresh strains of guilt. While she was squabbling over her claims on a taxi, her helpless Dhadhi was almost subject to a dangerous trouble. She should not have left her alone.
‘Did they succeed? Do we still have our luggage?’ she asks in panic.
‘Well, yes,’ Dhadhi acknowledges, as if that was the obvious answer. ‘The thieves did succeed, but we still have all our suitcases.’
She did not understand.
‘Yes, the boy and his accomplices succeeded to steal one of our suitcases,’ Dhadhi explains, ‘but, thank Allah, there are still some decent men amongst us, in this day and age too. I would not have realised a missing suitcase had a kind stranger not caught the young thief and his two young accomplices. This kind man detained the three thieves, made them apologise to me, before handing them over to security. I have been so long away from my country that I forgot the depths people stoop for money. My own brother was one of them,’ Dhadhi says quietly, unable to meet eyes with her. ‘It seems futile to expect positive change here, despite the country attaining a new identity and independence.’
Mayah could not suffice a reply. It was shameful to admit, but Dhadhi spoke the truth.
‘Anyway,’ Dhadhi continues in brighter tones, ‘it was the kind man, who hailed this minivan for me. He gave no name and was in no want of reward. He left just as he arrived as a stranger. As soon as he left, I told the driver to find you. Thank heavens he did! Where were you held up?’
‘What can I say, Dhadhi,’ she begins, looking at the front window, where there was a display of lush greenery and bright sunlight. ‘A kind man helped you, whereas I met a rather rude and arrogant one, who forcefully put his claim on the taxi I stopped!’
‘We must keep vigilante, Mayah,’ Dhadhi suggests, hearing her granddaughter met with a similar trouble. ‘We must not forget that we know little here - even me who was born and raised here. Customs, rules, the law, these are all very different from Britain. Until we find your Jameel Dhadha, we must apply great caution to everything we do. Once we find Jameel bhai, then I can feel at ease.’
Mayah drifts into silence. She saw Dhadhi’s nervousness clearly. It was not only Jameel Dhadha that needed locating, but her own brother too. Forty-seven years have elapsed since Dhadhi saw them. Her nervousness was understandable. They have scarcely started their search that they almost lost their valuables. They must be careful.
The passing sights of Sylhet streets helped to divert her thoughts. The roads and streets were, to her great surprise, constructed from concrete, but overly littered. There seemed to be more rickshaw transports than motor vehicles, the drivers of which wore a strange skirt. She was very amazed that the cyclists should be able to ride their rickshaws wearing such bizarre costume. There were scarcely any pavements. It was no wonder the pedestrians walked dangerously alongside other vehicles. Buildings appeared to be mainly shops, covered with innumerable boards and banners, some had words in English, but most were in Bengali. They were not tall buildings, but tall enough to reach the heights of those palm trees. Innumerable poles were also embedded into the ground, which strung power cables, extending from one pole to the next. The poles were not tall. She wondered of the consequence, should there be short circuit in this rather populated spot.
They turn another corner, where the driver informs them that
they have reached their destination, nodding towards the window beside him. He parks the minivan beside a kerb, while Dhadhi and Mayah look awe-struck at Shapla hotel. It was the grandest building immersed in a deceiving location. In fact, on first observation, the place did not exude that there would be a modern building accosted within here. The strangest view was that open-eatery, opposite the hotel. It had a tin roof, fences for walls, and benches for tables, filled with sufficient customers. The chef wore nothing but a vest and one of those skirts that the rickshaw drivers wore. He cooked something on a stove lit by a live fire. The cooking steam and smoke eluding from the eatery accumulated the surrounding air. The smell of curry was rather inviting.
The driver carried two of their suitcases, while she carried the others. They proceeded inside the hotel, where a door attendant in navy uniform let them in. The interior did justice to the impressive exterior. It was clean, spacious, and, most importantly, cool. She added a five English pound to the driver’s fare, for which he praised her greatly. She and Dhadhi walk up to the reception desk, where a man in a professional black suit greets them. She was pleased to learn he spoke English fluently. It will give her much convenience later. Their details checked on the computer, the lovely receptionist calls the luggage boy, who came with a trolley. ‘Afternoon, Memsahib,’ the boy greets. He looked to be in his early teens, and she was rather startled to find the hotel would employ such young staff.
The easy part of their journey ends. The difficulty now begins.
