Finding the Unseen

by Taj63622

  Chapter 15

  She shared everything, save for that episode which passed between her and that arrogant man, whom she deservedly called Taxi. After that horrendous traffic jam experience and that incident with Taxi, their journey remarkably followed a smooth path. Thankfully, there has been no repeat incident either regarding Dhadhi’s health.

  It is almost two hours later that they arrive at the intended address of Sreemangal, although possibly not at the exact address. There were no visible names to roads and streets, and the driver had to make several stops to get directions, leading them here. The entrance to the house did not enable vehicle access, thus he parked his taxi quite a distance on the road. As they get out, she and Dhadhi generously inhale the pure air, in which the aroma of tea was apparent. The place is famous for its tea gardens. It even had its own Tea Museum, owned by the Bangladesh Tea Board.

  The greenery of Sreemangal was most pleasing. It greatly deserves the name as the land of two leaves and a bud. The serenity seemed to have somehow eradicated her day’s stress. There were hills everywhere, carpeted with lush emerald leaves, whilst trees were in abundance, sprouting from mother earth in all their fine form, all uniting in forming a scene of beauty. Far up on the hills, she could see tea pickers doing their job, with their baskets hanging behind their back and wearing strange triangular hats. It felt good to be away from the main town Sylhet. The driver, Ali bhai, talked proudly about the popularity of Sreemangal amongst tourists. He said, far up on the hills, there were the famous Manipuri and Khasias tribal villages. The sub district also has a river running alongside it, which Ali bhai advised that, should they have time, then they must take a trip in a “nauka”, being a boat, at sunset. The river perfectly catches the reflection of a descending sun. He spoke so descriptively of the surrounding scenery that she forgot the purpose of this visit.

  In between his many descriptions, he was also very interested to know whom they came to meet at this address, for tourists usually go to one the Tea Estate or resorts. His tireless mouth benefited them greatly. It was a long journey, and he provided a most educational company.

  Houses were scattered sparsely amidst the greenery. It was not like a typical village. Some houses were like huts, which Ali bhai said were eco-cottages, whilst sturdier materials seemed to have built others. Yet, each one had their doors and windows open, as if the resident did not fear thieves. Most of the inhabitants work in the surrounding tea farms. Many people give them curious glances as they pass them. Children came close to them, smiling at them as if they were strange looking. She clutches her bag tighter, instinctively suspecting their intention. But they merely laughed and walked away.

  When the driver comes back, he leads them into the address. The cemented path led to a pink bungalow, L-shaped, complete with a veranda and a thatched roof, immersed within overlooking tree. Green grass was on either side of the pathway. She felt a beat of apprehension. She has heard so much of Jameel Dhadha, but never met him. In her head, she had formed a very clear description of his face. She wondered if he would match up to her expectations. He has a family of his own too. Dadhi has never met his wife or children. How will they receive them?

  As they climb the steps onto the veranda, she notices a loud yell coming from the corner, followed by a group of children, wildly running out, smiling and laughing. She and Dhadhi start in shock, feeling like intruders. As the yeller comes into their view, they realise it is a woman, her head loosely under the drape of her sari. ‘Bugger off!’ she yells at them in Sylheti. ‘If I catch you in my garden again, I’ll hand you to the police.’

  Still giggling, the children scatter, running in various directions, while the woman watches in anger.

  ‘What happened, Amma?’ a man asks, coming out of a room.

  ‘The same old,’ the woman replies. ‘The children are stealing fruits from the garden. I’m fed up with these buggers!’

  She and Dhadhi watch the entertainment with a grin, which she quickly erases on seeing the woman turn around in their direction. Confused at their entrance, she and her son approach them cautiously, enquiring after their business.

  ‘Who are you talking to, my Rasagullah?’ another man says, coming from the corner of the veranda, and wiping his hand on on the towel hanging on the veranda.

  He was elderly looking, wearing a traditional top and trousers, had a short greying beard, and around his neck hung his spectacles. At length, he looks up at them. Who are they?’ he asks his wife, peering at the three individuals at his doorstep.

  The elderly man replaces his spectacles back on his face, and proceeds in their direction. The faint curling of Dhadhi’s lips indicated a positive sign, walking closer towards the familiar face. They stood an arm’s length apart. It was difficult to understand Dhadhi’s reaction, for she had her back to her, but Mayah could easily deduce the reaction of the person stood opposite her. His confused expression unfolds gradually. His dark eyes widen with disbelief, while his face turns pale.

  When he mentions Dhadhi’s name, Mayah breathes a sigh of relief. Jameel Dhadha looks exactly as she imagined him to be.

  An aggressive pain stabs her, when she realises that she is here, but without her Englishman. She, Jameel, and the Englishman have always been in company together. This reunion felt incomplete without her Englishman.

  The woman, who told the children to bugger off, was Jameel Dhadha’s wife, Nehar. They were married since before they met Dhadhi. Nehar Dhadhi was a plump woman, and had scarcely any grey hair. She appeared the cuddly grandmother. They have two children, the eldest being a son, Shuhel, and the youngest being Shakila. Both are married. Since her marriage, Shakila has moved to another district of Moulvibazar.

  Shuhel is married to Afsana. They were in their early fifties. By relation, she is to call them aunt and uncle, or Chacha and Chachi. Between them, they have three children. The eldest is a son, Iqbal, who is twenty-five years old. The younger two are his sisters, Rasheeda, and Yumna, aged twenty-three and twenty-two respectively. All three siblings are married. The two sisters have since moved to their in-laws residence, which were in some other parts of district. Each of them had a child. The two girls were about her age, and they were married and had children. For this day and age, she found this news rather overwhelming.

  It is also very bizarre, that yesterday she scarcely had any relations, and today she has so many as to find it difficult remembering names. They have gathered about the dining table, where Nehar Dhadhi, Afsana Chachi, and Salma Bhabi, were serving everyone dinner.

  ‘That’s enough, my Rasagullah,’ Jameel advises his dear wife, seeing her scoop more rice onto Mayah’s plate, despite the girl’s kind objections. ‘How much are you going to feed the poor girl?’ he asks in Bengali, which she understood. ‘Look at her size!’

  ‘You be quiet,’ his wife returns with apparent anger. ‘The girl is slim,’ she says with a caring smile, ‘that is why she needs to eat more. Besides, the poor thing had a trying journey.’

  Normally, once her appetite was satisfied, she could not accept another morsel under any pretext. However, being in the merry company, her appetite became limitless. She has not had the privilege to be a member of an extended family, yet the experience was easy enough to adopt. She felt a tugging on her shirt, and when she looks around, she found it was Taheera. She was Iqbal and Salma’s a one year daughter and only child.

  Being an only child, she has never had the blessing to carry a baby in her arm. She found it quite daunting to be around the fragile creatures such as Taheera, and was not quite sure whether to let the child continue tugging her top or if the girl wanted her to carry her. Thankfully, she did not have to decide, as Salma bhabhi, who by relation is her sister-in-law, carries Taheera away, gently scolding the girl for disturbing her.

  Nehar Dhadhi moves away, scooping another serving onto Shuhel Chacha’s plate. His face turns into an expression, which she not long ago had. Watching the scene, Jameel Dhadha, draws his head closer
her, and says in a whisper, ‘I think she has plans to turn everyone into her size!’

  They all started giggling, which attracted Nehar Dhadhi’s disapprove. ‘What is so funny?’ Nehar Dhadhi asks in a severe tone.

  ‘Nothing, my Rasagullah,’ Jameel Dhadha quickly answers, exchanging meaningful glances with his confidante.

  ‘Why do you call Nehar Dhadhi, Rasagullah?’ she enquires interestedly. She heard the term several times this evening, but was unsure to its meaning. ‘What is a Rasagullah?’

  ‘Rasagullah,’ Shuhel explains, his English as good as his father’s, ‘is a famous dessert of Bangladesh.’

  . He looks meaningfully at his father, who in turn glances at his wife before daring on the due explanation. ‘They are desserts, round and plump, just like your Nehar Dhadhi.’

  Jameel Dhadha is exactly how Dhadhi described him to be. A man of good humour, as was apparent by the teasing he gave his wife, generous and most importantly welcoming. The quest for better employment had brought him to Sreemangal. Following a successful application for a tour guide, he and his family relocated to this part of Sylhet. He has been an inhabitant here for the last forty-six years. The tourism trade is more transparent here. Tea resort owners and tourists always required the use of one who could speak good English. His son and grandson have also joined the same trade, although, age has prompted his son to go part-time.

  Mixing the curry and rice, she takes a mouthful from her spoon, feeling slightly awkward, for everyone else ate expertly with their hands, including Dhadhi.

  He cannot describe his shock on seeing Nargis, but on receiving the girl in her company to be her grandchild, he was overjoyed. She had her grandfather’s grey eyes, Nargis’ hair. Her features were soft and gently developed. When quiet, the girl looked like the Nargis he first met when she returned Francis his camera, but when she spoke, there was the remarkable evidence that her grandfather was a political editor. She was the curious type, proved by her continuous enquiries of his family, about their current residence, and the surrounding tourist attractions. His wise eyes have witnessed and studied much to bring him to this age, and by that measure, he suspected her curiosity to lead to something rather interesting to unfold.

  They will not be staying at the hotel anymore. Jameel Dhadha was insistent that they take up accommodation at his house instead. They will be sleeping in what used to be Rasheeda and Yumna’s room. It has been unused since Yumna’s wedding. Salma Bhabi has cleaned the room and unstrung the mosquito nets of the double bed. She was very tired, and the bed looked very inviting. She also gave her some clean clothes to wear. It was a traditional salwar kameez suit, which she was not accustomed to wearing, yet felt comfortable in it.

  She and Dhadhi have inconvenienced them all very much, yet they did not once display their annoyance.

  He places a brotherly hand on Nargis’s shoulder. Her face has always been a clear reflection of her unspoken thoughts, and he has known her long enough to interpret them accurately. He wanted to reassure that she was not alone in feeling her Englishman’s absence. He did not weep any less when he heard the unfortunate news. He held great desires to see his friend one more time, but consoled his heart with the ageless proverb that what is ordained to happen must come to pass. Besides, perhaps not Francis, but amongst them they have his legacy, and a true reflection of his existence the Englishman has left behind. Mayah did not only have her Granddad’s eyes, but inherited his daringness too.

  He has learnt everything, and was very impressed with the way Mayah designed their secret travel to Bangladesh. He was aware of Samsul’s resentments, and to some extent, it was justified. No child would want to endanger his mother by placing her in the presence of adversaries. Of course, he worried of the consequence when Samsul will make the discovery. Strangely, Nargis was unaffected by the possibility of that occurrence, and it looked as if she wanted Samsul to make the discovery soon.

  As Dhadhi and Jameel Dhadha descend into a silence, she waves her hand furiously in the air to keep the mosquitoes away. These bloodsuckers were in ample supply here in this part of Sylhet.

  ‘We,’ Jameel Dhadha speaks into the silence, ‘will have to start from where we left off. Mukhtar’s whereabouts will have to be traced from Dhaka police station.’

  The search for her brother will be difficult. That day, after Nargis and Francis caught the train to Sylhet, he and Jonathan had to hand Mukhtar over to the police. He became uncontrollable. Jonathan was gone to England, but his safety was still at risk from Mukhtar. Before getting a job in Sreemangal, he moved his family to another location of Dhaka. He has not heard or seen Mukhtar hence after.

  ‘Did the village ever get reconstructed?’ Mayah asks with hope.

  ‘Those that could afford it,’ Jameel Dhadha answered. ‘Mukhtar would not have been one of them, but it will be worth a try.’

  ‘Then we must go to Dhaka,’ Mayah suggests.

  ‘No,’ Shuhel Chacha objects, ‘I will accompany Baba to Dhaka. With no fixed direction to follow, how many places will you and your Dhadhi visit?’

  ‘Jameel Dhadha is no less free from my brother’s anger,’ Mayah fearfully points out.

  Jameel Dhadha erupts into laughter, taking them by surprise. ‘In my youth, when life was precious to me, I fled a riot. I escaped a blaze, kept the wellbeing of two English foreigners, encouraged a girl to refuse marriage, helped girl in her elopement with an English foreigner, saved her from her brother’s capture, went against social approval by being witness to her marriage to a non-Muslim, and finally, survived the war of partition.’

  The recital of his adventures impressed them all.

  ‘If Man worships God, then he fears Death alone,’ he explains. ‘I took to danger willingly in my youth, when fear of death is at its greatest. Why should I fear it at this age, when I already have one foot in the grave?’

  Now, that was a point indeed.