Finding the Unseen

by Taj63622

  Chapter 18

  Her breakfast consisted of the most unusual dishes. Some she was familiar with, having seen Dhadhi cook it at home, while others she was eager to try. Quite shamelessly, she did not keep any modesty at the table. In fact, with a satisfied appetite and a complaining stomach, she worried how she will manage to travel all the way to the hotel so she could formally checkout.

  Opting for train travel was a wise decision, despite the journey not being to her particular comfort. She and Iqbal brother sat in an air-conditioned compartment of Parabat Express, the journey of which terminates at Dhaka. Not all travelled with a ticket. The few that could not afford a ticket or could not obtain one, took take their seat on the roof of the train. She only came to notice this when they got off at their stop. These daredevil commuters were mostly young men and children, perched dangerously on the roof of the train. The station officer, becoming aware of these unauthorised commuters, went around tapping the roof with a long bendy cane in the effort to scare them away. His efforts were to no avail. It only managed to deter the roof-commuters to another spot of the roof.

  Where she was in such awe, Iqbal glanced at the shocking scenes rather indifferently. It was a common scene. There are no restrictions to stop passengers from getting onto the roof. They do it at their own risk. In fact, an average of five-hundred deaths occurs every year because of commuters’ foolishness. ‘You should see the trains during Eid,’ Iqbal mentioned. ‘What else could they do? With such poor service, the trains are very unlikely to have sufficient seats to accommodate everyone’s travel.’

  Seeing such disadvantaged infrastructure of the country, she recalled the comments that commuters in UK passed. Granted, the service was not appraisingly reliable, but at least it did not reduce any to sit on the roof.

  To her surprising relief, they arrived safely at their stop, and better yet, there were no known injuries or fatalities of any whilst on board. She felt rather glad that she advised Dhadhi to stay in Sreemangal. The heat and hectic environment would have been beyond Dhadhi’s endurance. As they walked along the platform, the Sylhet railway station introduced her to more startling sights. Amidst the crowds, there were children beggars, who approached passengers, holding their hands out, and asking for alms. Each traveller passed them with such ignorance that she wondered if the begging children were only visible to her eyes. Noticing her gaze fixed on them, two little girls, approach her. They looked hopefully at her, laying out their hands in a similar gesture. She could not ascertain if these children are genuinely poor or simply taking advantage of an unfamiliar face. Their appearance was such that her belief inclined to the former. They wore ragged clothes, and evidently suffered malnutrition, with dry mouths and skin texture giving an unmistakable proof to the overexposure to sun and heat, or perhaps lack of shelter. She found the sight distressing, and so reached into her satchel to withdraw enough funds that could assist them to eat at least two meals. Iqbal promptly halted the transfer, commanding the children to go away. She did not expect this behaviour from him, and having sought the enquiries to his objections, he said that begging was the trade of these children. ‘They loot the money of passengers and spend the whole lot on gambling on the streets!’

  The eldest girl fearfully shook her head to contradict Iqbal’s claim. Mayah studied them carefully. To abate her own conscience, she gave the girls the money, prompting Iqbal to shake his head at her naivety. The eldest of the two girls said something, which Mayah presumed to be thanks. However, as they walk away, Iqbal translated their words. ‘They prayed all your wishes come true. But don‘t expect them to come true,’ he advised as an afterthought. ‘If their prayers were of that strength then they would have been something else today.’

  The list of inconveniences others were taking on her behalf was growing longer. She was both grateful and guilty. Hence, since she was in town, she decided to buy gifts for the whole family in a gesture of her appreciation. Iqbal objected, but becoming all too aware of her obstinacy, he agreed. Therefore, before going to the hotel to collect her luggage, they took a trip to Zindabazaar, which is Sylhest’s most famous shopping district. So far, she has accumulated a sari each for the Nehar Dhahdi, Afsana Chachi and Salma Bhabahi, and toys for Taheera. For Jameel Dhadha she bought an unusual gift of an umbrella. It was upon Iqbal’s advice, seeing as the monsoon was the next season on the calendar. Apparently, Jameel Dhadha has a rather notorious reputation associated with brollies. He always misplaces it. No single umbrella of his has gone from monsoon to the other.

  Sauntering along the bazaar crowds, browsing randomly the many stalls, her eyes unexpectedly catch the words “Internet café” in the close distance, written in English. They have internet in Bangladesh. In fact, she was in such great disbelief that she double-checked with Iqbal that she was reading correctly.

  ‘I suppose in the UK everyone has a computer in their house. Internet must be very staple availability in every household.’

  ‘Can households here not get any internet connection?’

  ‘The very wealthy can,’ he informs. ‘But people on my income are less able to do so.’

  They walk in, instantly greeted by other users on the terminals. Mostly were males. She was the only girl. Feeling rather conscious, she looks away awkwardly, showing an apparent interest in the café’s interior. There was nothing particular in the design. It was small, with a handful of terminals, which were of an outdated design. She hoped that the internet speed would outdo the impression she is tempted to gain from appearance. Iqbal directs her to a particular terminal, and takes charge of the bags from her hands.

  The connection speed was tolerable. She and Dhadhi have been in Bangladesh for four days today, and in this interval, she only managed to send three text messages to her mother to confirm their wellbeing. Hence, to offer a more detailed account on their progress, she makes most of this opportunity. There was no time to draft, therefore, she wrote as she thought, keeping their general experience in positive notes.

  ‘Done?’ Iqbal enquires looking from the cubicle next to her.

  Done.

  As they stood on the busy bazaar streets for an available rickshaw to take them to the hotel, another familiar sight attracted her attention. It was a sweetmeat shop. Through the glass panes, she could distinguish the colourful rows of mishtis.

  ‘Do you want to go in?’ Iqbal smilingly suggests, having followed her fixed gaze. She felt deeply ashamed for adding another detour to their intended route, yet could not decline the offer, nodding an apologetic yes.

  Highly humoured, Iqbal shook his head, and led the way into the sweetmeat shop. Being a tour guide by profession, he was accustomed to tourist’s inconsistent changes in their journey.

  Whether it was Eid or Christmas, these sweetmeats were a staple in her house. Her Granddad always bought these.

  ‘Indeed, I did,’ she hears her Granddad agree. ‘When your Dhadhi was expecting your father, she had the wildest craving for something called a “jalebi”. How the heavens was I to know what they were! She kept describing them as round and sticky. She refused to eat anything until I got these round and sticky things. I was not only in danger of becoming a widow, but having my expectations of becoming a father shattered. Thus, I frantically called all my contacts, and remember, in those days we did not have the convenience of the Internet. Finally, I located a store called Ambala in Brick Lane. I journeyed from the west to the East, brought her an entire box of jalebi, only to see her craving silenced by one measly piece!’

  She heard the story before.

  ‘The box of jalebis will be from me to your Dhadhi,’ he happily orders, and she shook her head hopelessly at him.

  Excitedly, she places her order. She had a particular weakness for these sweets, her favourite being pista barfi. She bought a box of those, a box of badam barfi and two boxes of rasagullah to tease Nehar Dhadhi, and two boxes of rasamallai. She asks Iqbal what was everyone’s favourite sweet at home. He understood the in
tention behind the question, therefore advised her not to take this unnecessary inconvenience. But the girl was insistent, saying she will be deeply offended if he did not tell her. ‘Balushahi,’ he suggests. ‘Everyone loves those at home’

  He then withdrew his wallet to settle the bill, which she quickly stopped. Iqbal regarded her disapprovingly, but his smile quickly returned when she pleaded to let this be her treat.

  She was determined to go straight to the hotel without any further detours. They have a train to catch in the afternoon. The quicker she checks out of the hotel, the quicker they can go home. The heat was growing intense too. Heavily occupied in these thoughts, she bumps into someone, instinctively apologising, before looking up to see a familiar face.

  The possibility of such occurrences can only be the result of someone’s deliberate doings.

  ‘Taxi?’ she exclaims at length.

  ‘Heavy-load?’ he returns in equal astonishment. Rather indiscreetly, he ran a bewildered gaze at her traditional attire, whereas hers fixes on a little girl beside him. The girl held onto his hand firmly, smiling at her as she regarded the girl confusingly. ‘Baba,’ another girl of about ten years old calls him. This girl stood by the counter, insisting on placing their order. The lividness vanished from her face instantly, and in its place came an unfamiliar strain of disbelief. The girl’s referral of Baba could only mean that Taxi was a father. He was married, and had two children.

  ‘Mayah?’ Iqbal calls, visibly startling her. He realised rather belatedly that he walked out of the shop without her. Retracing his steps, he found her staring disbelievingly at some man. ‘Are you okay?’ he asks her, before cautiously looking at the man, who was well dressed and in unsuspicious company to assume him to have misbehaved with Mayah.

  Shah experienced no different a reaction to Mayah’s. Where she mistook one belief, Shah took to another. He presumed her to be in a relationship with the man in her company. It was not apparent if they were married, but she clearly made an effort to fit into his environment. It must be the classic tale of all modern love stories. The man’s fluency in English indicates that he must have been a foreign exchange student studying in the UK. The girl most likely met him at University, where this man probably wooed her with the sole intention of gaining a permanent stay in the UK. The traditional suit she wore was perhaps a gift from her in-laws, whose approval she was most likely trying to win on her travel here. In spite of himself, he was very impressed with the girl‘s efforts, but also shook his head at her naivety on not knowing that she was merely a passport in this relationship.

  There was that smirk on his face again. It irritated her greatly. Yet she maintained her silence. This was not the place to make a scene. Lifting her chin proudly in the air, she makes her way out, while he strides casually to the counter. A sudden helplessness seized her, stopping her by the door. Then, much to her irritation, she takes a glance at him over her shoulder.

  Helplessness was on this side too. Despite his efforts, he took an apparently careless glance over his shoulder. Upon catching the sight of each other, they abruptly look away, commencing towards their respective tasks, apparently indifferent to the others presence.