Finding the Unseen

by Taj63622

  Chapter 16

  The way of life here was very different than she had originally anticipated. Although she had no complaints, it will take time adjusting to their ways. Not all adjustments depended on her ability to cope, but on the mercy of others. The mosquitoes have been feasting on her blood endlessly the whole night, despite the protection of the mosquito nets. Dhadhi said one or two might have got in somehow. There were three swollen itchy spots on her arm. The fear of contracting malaria did cross her mind frequently, but Dhadhi would laugh it off, saying she was unnecessarily overreacting. In the end, Dhadhi reassured her that she is keeping close observation of her health. She will call for the physician at the slightest cause for concern. Salma also offered her words of comfort by saying she would drop the nets earlier in the evening.

  Thankfully, not all adjustments depend on the vote of the third party. These ones depended solely on her ability to cope. The unavailability of a shower is one such example. There was a small bathroom, unattached to the house. She had to use a bucket and jug to take a shower! To get hot water, she had to switch on a geyser, which Dhadhi reminded her to switch it off when she is done, else it will add greatly to the electricity expense. It was a strange experience indeed. But, amongst the cautiousness of water usage, there was the surprising comfort of having a normal lavatory, not being of the squatting kind.

  When she changes into fresh clothes, she rather vainly admires her dress in mirror. Salma gave her a new suit to wear. It was both comfortable and the most beautiful traditional suit she has worn. The trousers were not the usual shelwar, but were more fitting like a pair of leggings. As she leaves the bathroom, she walks into the sunny courtyard again. It was understandable why the children intruded into those grounds. There was a mini farm here.

  She walks up to the washing line, where Salma was hanging clothes. Upon seeing her, Salma greets her with a warm smile, taking the wet towel off her hands and hanging it on the washing line.

  ‘This weather is excellent for drying clothes,’ she says in Bengali, for Salma understood little English. There was a gentle breeze in the air, which felt cooler when it brushed against her damp hair. ‘In England, we mostly have to make do with a tumble dryer.’

  The expression on Salma’s face portrayed she never heard of a tumble dryer before.

  ‘It’s a machine for drying clothes,’ she explains.

  ‘You must get machines for everything in London,’ Salma says with amazement, expertly hanging a sari on the line.

  ‘We depend on it,’ she reasons. ‘When you're at work, it’s difficult to take advantage of a good weather to dry clothes.’

  On the mention of clothes, she heartily thanks Salma for giving her this suit to wear.

  ‘It looks good on you,’ Salma approves. ‘It almost looks as if I had intended to make it for you.’

  This surprised her greatly. ‘You made this?’

  ‘Yes,’ Salma bashfully affirms. ‘Whenever I have some free time, I sew.’

  She peers wonderingly at her dress. She would never have suspected Salma to be the tailor.

  ‘I have more suits,’ Salma informs her. ‘After breakfast, choose the ones you want. They can be my gift to you.’

  ‘Do you sew for a hobby?’

  ‘At first, I suppose,’ Salma answers with a shrug, hanging the last item on the washing line.

  Unwilling to end this conversation at the completion of the laundry, Mayah suggests they take a walk about the small farm. They stand below the shade of a tree, where Salma expands on her small hobby.

  ‘I always liked to sew,’ she admits with some hesitation. ‘It all started on a particular occasion. In my maternal home, we used to have a family tailor. She would make the dresses and blouse of all the women at my household. She worked from her home. As a child, my mother would often send me to her house to collect the clothes. I was very interested in her sewing machine. I was fascinated at how she turned a shapeless yard of material into something so elaborate. One day, she sat me by her sewing machine and told me to have a go at stitching. After school, I would not go home. Instead, I would go tailor Sasi’s house. Slowly, I learnt the trade. But it was only on my elder’s sister’s mehndi that I realised my true stitching and designing potential. In finding the tailor Sasi unwell one day, I took to the task of completing the mehndi suits for the bridal party. After that, the tailor Sasi would give me any spare material she had leftover for me to design and sew as I pleased. I wish I could have become a professional.’

  ‘Why did you not?’ she insists to understand. The clothes she was wearing was no less professionally finished. ‘You should have pursued it as a career.’

  ‘The custom of the country is such that a girl’s dreams must shrink into mere imagination.’

  ‘But the tailor was a woman,’ she argues. ‘If she could pursue the career, why can’t you?’

  ‘The tailor was a poor woman, and the wife of an even poorer husband. Men scarcely have opportunity to earn a decent living, what expectation is there for a woman? Besides, it is not the custom of the country to send daughters and wives to work. Daughters and wives of respectable families do not earn a living. If they do, then she risks exposing her family to taunts and scandal.’

  ‘How so?’ she seeks clarification.

  ‘Society will assume that her family is struggling to such extent that they are reduced to use their wives and daughters to earn an income.’

  ‘That is absurd!’

  ‘That is Bangladesh,’ she shrugs helplessly.

  ‘Does the girl have no right to pursue a career?’ she asks almost violently. ‘Does she have no right to make a name for herself, and prove her talent?’

  ‘No,’ Salma confirms, her disappointment evident. ‘Her every desire and hope is limited to her misfortunes of being a female. Then, her marriage extinguishes any remaining hope entirely. Her focus is upon her husband and in-laws. Cooking and cleaning takes up most of my day. I am also a mother. I have ample duties. Sewing in my free time is as far as I can come to accomplishing my dreams. Baba and Amma gave me the sewing machine as a gift. I know Baba would have wanted me to take my talent further, had social expectation not discouraged him.’

  ‘The current prime minister is a female,’ Mayah remarks. ‘If, as a woman, she can govern the country, why can you not start a career as a designer?’

  ‘The merit of political leaders is questionable in the country,’ Salma says, a bitterness setting about her face. ‘Besides, it is not only girls who sacrifice their ambitions. Ask a poor parent, what he wishes for his son, and he would answer, to send him to London or America, where he can earn a handsome living and feed his family here. Ask a poor parent, what he wishes for his daughter, and he would answer, to marry her to a Londoner so she may leave the struggles here. I have seen and heard many occurrences, where parents have taken drastic measures to send their child to another country. You cannot compare the likes of us to the prime minister, who is born of political lineage. Change is possible, but corruption is too raw to go unnoticed. They say the country is a republican, yet people’s voices so often go unheard. The politicians share the bounty amongst themselves, and the people here either compromise with their fate or seek the drastic route of seeking betterment elsewhere. I have compromised with my fate. Jameel Dhadha has compromised with his. I count my blessing every day that I have not had the misfortune of bearing a separation from a family member.’

  ‘But at this rate,’ Mayah reasons, ‘how can the country improve? The government is here to better the inhabitant’s life, not surrender them to another country. Does the government not see the struggles of a poor man? Does it not fear losing its people?’

  ‘They are not blind,’ Salma states vehemently, her detest for the country’s politicians at once becoming apparent. ‘The more they lose, the more of the country they have to themselves. If they were properly educated, then perhaps they would have understood the measures for improvement. But each one is selected on family
credit or financial merit. Money is power. The rest of us made to do with providence of our fate.’

  This was a disturbing revelation. The credibility of politicians was always a debatable subject, yet it startled her greatly that the case could be so severe that the poor man should be tempted to leave the country to better his prospects. It nourishes the growth of immigration. Those who blame the immigrant must observe the reality. How little they acknowledge the truth! It is not the immigrant’s choice to leave his family and friends. It is his compelling circumstances.

  ‘Has no one been brave enough to challenge government?’ she asks with curiosity. ‘Have there been no protests to highlight the disgrace of corruption?’

  ‘There has been a lot of anger,’ Salma acknowledges, ‘expressed through rallies, protests, and strikes. Nothing ever came out of it. It always ends up as two days of yell to no avail.’

  ‘What do you think should be done to remove corruption?’ she asks in concern.

  Salma thought a long while about her reply. A small knowing smile appeared to her lips prior to her answer.

  ‘We need someone who does not fear death.’

  Her words were too cryptic, but she had no opportunity to seek an elaboration, for their attention drew towards someone, who called them from the distance. A woman, whom she never met, stood on the steps leading to the kitchen, informing them that breakfast is ready.

  As they walked towards the kitchen, an inviting smell diffused the air, which won her stomach’s approval. Soon, she was in a better view to give description to the woman’s appearance. She was of a small frame, possibly in her late thirties and dark complexioned. She wore a poor looking sari, of which she placed the drape lightly over her head, allowing Mayah to notice the few strands of greying hair. Seeing her, the woman smiled broadly, revealing a set of orange stained teeth. The woman did not hide her excitement to see her. Salma greeted the woman pleasantly in the local dialect of Sylheti, enquiring after her health and family. ‘This is Sultana,’ Salma introduces the woman. ‘She is our housemaid.’

  Mayah was very impressed to learn Jameel Dhadha’s household can afford such a living.

  ‘She left early yesterday,’ continued Salma. ‘Her son was unwell.’

  Not knowing whether Sultana will understand her dialect of Bengali, she immediately enquires after her son’s health, and if he would be okay without his mother’s supervision. Salma translated, and the woman confirmed he was better. 'Work must go on,' Sultana adds with a small smile. 'The stomach growls even when the eyes weep.'

  She did not know what to make of that response. The party disperses, with her and Salma heading towards the kitchen, and Sultana towards the hand pump, where there was a stack of dirty dishes, pots and pans. The maid, Sultana, comfortably sits on a low stool within the perimeters of the hand pump, and single-handedly takes to the task of washing the dishes.

  It was bewildering indeed, that a woman’s desire to hold employment as a tailor will receive society’s disapproval, but holding a position as a poor maid was acceptable.