by Taj63622
Chapter 12
The elaborate decor and snobbery of certain guests at the hotel bothered Dhadhi so much that it was her wish to have dinner elsewhere. These guests appeared to be native to Bangladesh. Their English seemed to carry a faint American accent, yet they spoke to the waiters as if they were insignificant beings. These expatriates refused to speak Bengali, and when one of the waiters did not understand their English, they called the manager to complain about the quality of their staff. There was an unnecessary commotion, and frankly, destroyed the mood of all those present in the restaurant. Dhadhi was so angry that she could not bear the sight of those American-return-Bangladeshis. She wanted to be amongst her own people, and eat pure deshi food, on normal plates, without innumerable cutlery. Thus, Dhadhi suggested they visit the eatery opposite the hotel.
She should have suspected such a suggestion to come very soon. She should have understood the glint in Dhadhi’s eyes, when they first saw the eatery. Dhadhi was merely on the lookout for a reason. Yet, she could not blame Dhadhi. The smell of food from the eatery was very alluring to resist it.
The people here commonly refer to the eatery as “Arif bhai’s dhaba”. It had no other title or banner. The hour was closely reaching eight in the evening, but the dhaba was just as busy as they had seen it earlier in the day. It felt nice to absorb the livelihood of the place, having spent the last four hours unpacking, resting and taking a shower. Besides, this will probably be their only night of peace. Tomorrow, they make their first trip to Jameel Dhadha, but this evening she has promised Dhadhi to spend it stress free.
It was a comfortable setting. The weather had also cooled remarkably. It was no doubt a popular stop. She wondered of the hotelier’s reaction to this competition. She was not accustomed to the etiquettes of this environment. Observation could not teach her much either. The seating was either benches or stools. The table was no wider than two planks of wood. There was no dress code, no uniformed waiters, and neither were there any menu cards. There were no walls on one side of the building, but on one side, there were shutters. She and Dhadhi were the only adult females here. There were young children, but in the company of their fathers, or perhaps some male relative. There were no women apart from them.
When they arrived, a mature looking man wearing one of those peculiar loincloths, which Dhadhi corrected to be a lungi, escorted them to their seat. Her inability to understand the dialect had Dhadhi talking to the man instead. He seemed pleased to learn that they were British and that they left the hotel restaurant to dine in Arif Bhai’s eatery. Unaware to the etiquettes of these places, she requests to have a look at the menu card. ‘Menu card?’ the waiter repeats in broken English. ‘No menoo card,’ he said with the corresponding gestures. ‘I menoo card,’ he gestures to himself, to which Dhadhi nod her head authoritatively. Thus, he verbally listed all the dishes available for order. There was chicken biryani, lamb biryani, the usual curries, rice, roti, naan bread, and a selection of sweetmeats for dessert. Being all too aware of her taste, Dhadhi places the order on her behalf, speaking rather fluently in Sylheti.
As they wait for the order, her mind suddenly reverts to her parents. She had messaged her mother earlier of their safe arrival. There was no knowing how long this digital communication will be ongoing. Indeed, the net of mystery has captured them all, unknown to how each truth will unfold. She willed to make reconciliations here, but on the foundation of lying to her father. She found few moments’ solace in praying. She knew she did nothing wrong, but prayed the Almighty should give her father the same understanding.
She has been studying her granddaughter’s absent state intently. She appreciated Mayah’s uneasiness. The sin of lying was difficult to disregard. Thus, she takes hold of Mayah’s hand, and attempts to console her. A smiling nod was all that was required from Dhadhi to rest her tumultuous feelings.
A sudden roaring of voices distract their attention. The staff and some of the customers erupt into voices of cheers, upon seeing the entrance of a particular person. This entrant was a man, who was overly dressed for such an eatery. He wore a tuxedo suit, sported with a black bow tie, and a lapel. The blazer hung over his shoulder, hooked on his finger. Above his white shirt, he wore a black waistcoat, from which dangled a silver pocket watch. To complete his outfit, he wore a black fedora, and a pair of patented black and white laced shoes. He entered grandly, and lifting his fedora as if he was Cary Grant, returned the cheering.
‘Ah, salaam Shahiraj bhai!’ greets one of the staff says in visible delight. ‘Very late today,’ he remarks in the local dialect. ‘A bigger crowd than usual?’
‘No crowd is small in my presence,’ the Shahiraj proudly replies.
‘Shall I bring the usual?’
‘Have I ever ordered the unusual?’ the Shahiraj replies in apparent worry. ‘Though I see something rather unusual here today,’ he adds, noting two women sat at the far end. She did not understand one word he spoke, but his obvious glances in their direction proved she and Dhadhi were the subjects of his conversation. She quickly looks away before appearing to be prying.
The waiter shook his head in hopelessness at his friend’s usual ways of reply, scurrying off to fetch the Shahiraj bhai’s order.
He took his seat, which was rather close to them, and hung his blazer behind his chair, before taking off his hat and placing it on the table. She shares an unsettled glance with Dhadhi, who shrug at a loss. He sat somewhat restlessly at his table, tapping his fingers on the wooden surface, and whistling a tune outside her familiarity. Being in the close distance to him, she found opportunity to study his appearance. He had a stubbly mouth-hugging moustache, but the rest of his face seemed clean shaved. He had a distinguishable complexion, which seemed to have been marked by a tender sun. He looked to be in his mid to late twenties, tall and leanly built so to fit his suit comfortably. Perhaps he was an actor of some production company, possibly theatre.
At length, the waiter brings their order. It was a different waiter. It was a child. The boy scarcely looked twelve. He was clad poorly in a t-shirt and a pair of shorts, his frame thin and undeveloped. She looks at the time on her watch, and starts in shock. It was bad enough that the waiter was a child, but the child working at this late hour was most inappropriate. The owners of the eatery had no right to make a child work this late. How much does the child earn?
‘Do you not have school tomorrow?’ asked she with raised concern. Of course, Mayah realised all too belatedly that the boy perhaps does not understand English. ‘No school?’ she repeats, but with the support of gestures.
The boy perhaps would have answered had not the Shahiraj rose from his suddenly. His face seemed to carry a look of anger or perhaps anguish. She felt uneasy, lowering her gaze in order to avoid eye contact with him. Dhadhi also looked startled, though she had more courage to make eye contact with him, hoping his focus may divide from her granddaughter and upon her instead. But his focus upon Mayah not only remained intact, but he decided to approach her too. She struggled to keep brave, feeling increasingly intimidated by his dark eyes. The man stood beside their table, prompting Dhadhi to ask what matter brings him here, before advising him to return to his seat. She immediately attempted to calm Dhadhi, for she certainly did not want to create a scene. Many have already turned in their direction. For a short while, the man said nothing. He had a faint smile upon his face as his studying gaze went from Dhadhi to her.
Then, to their immense confusion, he broke into a smile. The rare sight of East and West sharing one table humoured him greatly. Sensing trouble, the child waiter makes haste to leave, but the Shahiraj quickly grasps the rascal.
‘I will go,’ the Shahiraj says in English, which threw her and Dhadhi into fresh surprise, ‘but not before I give this kind girl her answer.’ His gaze lowers at the boy, and asks him some questions of his own. ‘Name?’ he asks the wretched child in Sylheti, which thankfully she understood.
‘Live Wire,’ the boy answers some
what fearfully.
‘Tell me your full name,’ the Shahiraj pressed on. ‘Full name!’ he repeats in English.
‘Just Live Wire, Shahiraj bhai,’ the boy stammers his answer, looking fretful. ‘My name is only Rumon.’
‘Understanding, Memsahib,’ he addresses her, ‘no second name,’ he says with gestures. ‘Only first name - and that too, because I gave it.’
Orphans do not have family names, and this orphan’s case was even rarer of having no name. The unclaimed boy was one of many, who strayed into the helpless path of stealing to survive. Anyone and everyone became his target. The Shahiraj also fell to his target, noticing a handsome tucked in the rim of his fedora hat. It was equally fortunate that it was none other he targeted that day. The reputation of thieves was not beyond his knowledge. Scarcely did he remove his hat and set it aside, that the boy made his move to steal the money. The little wretch made his immediate attempt to escape, but he failed to appreciate the swiftness of the Shahiraj. He threatened to send him to the police, who will make no mistake to act on the demands of their highest bidder. The threats provoked fear in the child, the evidence of which he saw in the rascal’s ample tears. The time has not become such that man should remain unaffected to one’s tears. His grasp loosened, yet he made no mistake to let go of the wretched. Compassion impelled him to reconsider his harsh threats. “Your kinds are strange indeed,” he said. “You don‘t fear the crime, but fearing the deserved punishment makes you cry.” The boy said he has not eaten for two whole days.
He underwent a change of heart. He sat the boy down, handing him his handkerchief to wipe those tears. He asked his name. He had none. The boy said his mother died before he can remember, and never knew his father at all. The streets of Sylhet have been his mother and father since.
He was neither shocked nor startled. The story was similar to many here. Fate gives some too much and others not enough. Why can it not give all equally? The good only show up against the bad. Rectifying the wrongdoer is greater than reprimanding his actions. The police will hold the boy in custody for one night, give him a good beating, and then release him. Hunger will return the boy to stealing. Sometimes he will get away with it, and other times he may not, but not all those that catch him will be Shahiraj of Rajshahi. Thus, taking the money from the rim of his hat, he placed it into the boy’s small hands. He gave the boy two choices. First was his authorisation to feed the stomach, and the second was to return it to the rightful owner’s hands. Before the boy could make his decision, he reminded him that it is easy enough to feed the stomach, but hunger will always remain. How many times will he steal to kill the undying?
He took the boy under his care, giving him his name as the nickname of Live Wire. He has been working in this eatery for over a year.
There was a sudden quietness throughout the whole eatery, though not completely silence. The attention of the majority was unmistakably upon her and Dhadhi. Yet, she did not care for their glaring. Her attention was upon the boy, whom she studied in a changed perception. She felt incredibly ashamed of herself. Her thoughtless mention of his schooling clearly provoked the situation.
‘Sorry,’ she apologises to the boy, who shook his head awkwardly in acceptance.
‘Sorry!’ the Shahiraj of Rajshahi repeats, but with a reproachful laugh. ‘Your kind of people make mistakes in the belief that a one word apology will deserve you the forgiveness.’
His bitter words hit her hard.
‘Leave it Shahiraj bhai,’ one of the eatery staff suggests, glancing uneasily from his friend to the girl. ‘Your food is getting cold,’ he attempts to pull the Shahiraj away.
A few others helpfully come to his aid, trying in failed efforts to calm the Shahiraj.
‘It was not a deliberate mistake,’ Dhadhi explained, speaking in Sylheti to make the Shahiraj aware of her granddaughter’s non-English roots. ‘Besides, my granddaughter apologised.’
‘Well then,’ the Shahiraj said in calmer tones, ‘perhaps I should take this opportunity to school your naïve granddaughter so to prevent her committing the same mistake in the future.’
He added such emphasis to “school” that Mayah’s efforts to maintain her calm was defeated. Indeed, so enraged she was by his sarcasm that her mind overflowed with numerous retorts, causing her mouth indecision to choose on the execution of the first one. Her incompetence instructed a silence, which the Shahiraj of Rajshahi seized to speak again. ‘Good schools are not free here, Memsahib,’ he said with vigorous gestures. ‘The government does not fund parents to send their children to school!’
Then, to both Mayah and Dhadhi’s surprise, he laughed hysterically, leaving them unknown to the cause of his humour. ‘Government!’ he said in between his laughs, placing a hand on his waiter friend’s shoulder, as if the laugh required him further support.
‘What government! There is no government for the working person. If one has money, then they have government. Welcome to Bangladesh, Empress Victoria! Land of no education, only vegetation! Farmers and fishmongers! We are all vegetables of the same field.’
He abruptly pauses, as if struck by a sudden thought. The harshness of his expression gradually softened, erasing all traces of humour and sarcasm. ‘This is the country,’ he says at length, sounding desolate, ‘belonging to disloyal nationals, who on the hope of betterment elsewhere neglect the improvement of their own here.’
She noted the unmistakable anguish escaping with each word. ‘Perhaps this orphan could go to school if education here held the slightest value. Degree certificate is merely a piece of paper. You need employers to give the educated a job - but these employers reside elsewhere. They make home elsewhere, and the homes here have not been reconstructed since.’
Nargis took a brief inspection of the stillness, finding a few amused glances fixed in their direction. The Shahiraj’s gaze was of anger, perhaps regret too. His venomous words struck her, as if he became aware of her past and deliberately strived to pick at the subject so to belittle her. The words “disloyal” and “broken home” wounded her severely. She wanted to express her objections and justify her reasons, debase his beliefs, which he generalised to be true for all those, who seek betterment elsewhere. But her lips remained sealed. She felt powerless. Her defence held little strength. Unknowingly, she became one of those many culprits, whom the likes of Shahiraj of Rajshahi believe are disloyal. She did not seek prosperity or financial gain in her decision to divide from her country. The compulsion of the heart does not consider the integrity of their choices. She had no regrets, but neither can she disregard the compromises she made when she married her Englishman. She was not disloyal to her country or relations, but she cannot overlook the sacrifices she made either.
‘Some,’ she speaks into the silence, her gaze lost somewhere in the distance, ‘are compelled to seek a home elsewhere. We do not all leave by choice. But it is a shame, that when we do return,’ she looks steadfastly at him, ‘we are never made to feel at home.’
She spoke gently, her words covered with sorrow. He would have understood it had other sentiment not taken dominance. He did not intend to speak harshly to those unrelated to his personal concerns. He said too much, perhaps unfairly, to those who have no right to bear the harshness of his thoughts. He belatedly realises the overstepping of his boundaries. The girl unknowingly raised a topic about which he was particularly sensitive. Her suggestion of schooling incensed him so profoundly that his repressed sentiments found reason to surface. He became ignorant to where or whom they were being disposed. He knew it was not the girl’s intention to renew his anguish, yet the innocent mention of schools questioned his ability to provide the boy an education. ‘Alom,’ he calls his waiter friend without taking his gaze off the girl, ‘make mine takeaway.’
Within a few minutes, his order was ready for takeaway. The Shahiraj detached his gaze from hers. His grasp around the boy, who arguably is responsible for this commotion, loosened. The boy did not walk away. The Shahiraj o
f Rajshai recomposes himself, turning away abruptly from them, collecting his suit jacket from the back of his chair, hanging it once again over his shoulder. Carrying his prepared takeaway, he turns around for the exit, simultaneously replacing his hat on his head. There was a faint smirk on his face as he stopped to give her and Dhadhi another glance, his eyes instilled with a strange humour.
Where her puzzlement grew regarding his fluctuating moods, his demeanour smoothly returned to carefreeness, walking pass their table idly, whistling the same tune with which he entered the dhaba. His whistling became fainter, as he walked further away from them, his pace steady but unhurried. The light exuding from the eatery, assisted briefly to define his lean silhouette, before gently diffusing with the dominating night.
‘Please don’t take offence,’ the waiter friend, Alom, says in placating tones, speaking in Sylheti. ‘My friend speaks harshly, but is a generous person from the heart. It’s not always visible.’
She and Dhadhi kept their attention unmoved from that darkened direction, in which the Shahiraj of Rajshahi disappeared.
‘Your food has probably become cold,’ Alom says in concern. ‘Let me reheat it,’ but before he could, Mayah quickly places a firm hand on his arm to decline the kind gesture.
‘Make that takeaway,’ she says, her gaze still peering at the dark.
