The Black Coat

by Neamat Imam

  He sat on the stool, had a silent moment, and then asked if we were not going to change our minds later. A man with Sheikh Mujib’s hairstyle, but without his substance, would look awkward, if not funny, he warned.

  Awkward or serious, he could leave that to us to consider. ‘Keep your mind locked within your mind, if you have one. We are not here for idle curiosity alone. We have a purpose. You can go ahead.’

  The barber observed Sheikh Mujib’s portrait more closely and then sharpened his scissors on leather strips before beginning his job. Nur Hussain sat on the stool, closing his eyes, and bent his head from side to side when the barber directed. I sat on another stool in the corner, from where I could monitor the progress of the scissors.

  Perhaps the barber thought he was doing an audacious job by creating Sheikh Mujib’s style on someone who was not Sheikh Mujib. Perhaps he thought nobody should try to be like Sheikh Mujib because that would undermine Sheikh Mujib as a person, as a leader, and as the head of the state. His face remained dark as he worked. He stopped several times, looked out of the window, filled his lungs with fresh air, and consulted the portrait before getting back to his task. ‘I don’t know,’ he muttered, ‘I don’t know. This is outrageous. This cannot be happening. A very unusual day for a barber.’ But he seemed to be comfortable, if not satisfied, with his work as he removed the black cape from Nur Hussain. He moved backwards, to the rear of the room, to look at him from a distance. Then he came back, lifted a mirror behind him to show him the back of his head.

  Instead of looking at the mirror, Nur Hussain looked at me.

  ‘That’s the best I can do,’ said the barber. ‘Now if you don’t like it, you may find some other hairdresser next time. There are many on the main street.’

  ‘You yourself should move to the main street,’ I told him, after observing Nur Hussain’s head from a 360-degree angle. ‘Or better go to Gulshan or Dhanmondi residential area where people buy style with heavy cash. You’ve done such a fantastic job.’

  He turned the mirror towards himself and watched his smiling face.

  Nur Hussain’s face became bright.

  ‘Now give him a quick shave, will you?’ I said. ‘We don’t have the whole day.’

  He took out a Balaka blade from the drawer.

  ‘Look at me,’ I said. ‘Look at me. Do we look like two cheap village rascals arriving at the city port for the first time? Throw away that rubbish. Use your sharpest double-edge classic razor.’ I also directed him as he opened the creamy lather tube, poured water in a cup from a jar. I said, ‘No, no, that is not going to work. Cold water? That would make his skin hard and beard stiff. Splash some warm water on his face, will you?’ He did not have a hot water system at the shop, so I advised him to collect some from the next-door tea stall. He had already considered us the worst of his customers, but I did not give him any chance to speak a word. A man like him needed to be kept under constant pressure. ‘Very good,’ I said, when he returned. ‘Now skim the brush back and forth across his cheek. Change to circular motion. Good, good. Create a rich lather. Don’t rush. Don’t you irritate his skin. We don’t want any shave bumps. That’s it. Rinse your razor after every stroke. What are you doing? Are you crazy? Remove the clogged hair. Hygiene is the most important part of a man’s grooming rituals. Didn’t anyone say that to you before? Be very careful at the neck. Don’t play with those pimples on the jaw. They are not ready to be popped. Now look at that portrait; observe, wait, think, remember. Time to trim his moustache. Comb it down; slowly. Don’t be a butcher. Trim it there with gentle downward strokes. Be extremely precise, will you? Haven’t you eaten anything this week? Why is your hand trembling? Left side will be shorter, more, more, so that it is as high as the right side. Bravo. Now apply some aftershave balm.’

  10

  The Coat

  Now the next requirement: the coat, the Mujib coat; Sheikh Mujib’s signature style.

  It was a sleeveless black coat to be worn over a white punjabi. Every Awami League supporter, worker and leader had one. They wore it during party conventions, public meetings and election campaigns, or just any time they went out, at the tea stall with neighbours, at a marriage ceremony. It was a demonstration of a person’s loyalty to the Awami League as a political party, and to Sheikh Mujib as its leader. During the war we considered it a symbol of patriotism. Only those opposed to independence would speak ill of it. Most recently, people had started to wear that coat when they went to pray in the mosque. They wore it during Eid festivals and even bought it for their children who did not know why they must wear a black coat on a shining, beautiful, festive day. Some mosque assistants who called for prayers had also been seen to wear it; some said it made their voice deeper and sincere, like Sheikh Mujib’s—something much admired within the spiritual community.

  The coat gave Sheikh Mujib a graceful look. It made him look wise and solemn. Wearing that coat, he could easily stand beside Gandhi, Castro, Mao Tse Tung, or any other world leader of that stature. Nations of the world first saw it when he spoke at the UN General Assembly. Some called it an opportunity to spread his rebellious image abroad, to internationalize his call for independence for all suppressed people of the world. A few weeks after the assembly, a front-page picture in a Bengali newspaper showed a farmer in rural Bolivia cultivating his land wearing a Mujib coat. The country looked like our country: the water, the fields, and the trees, the winding village paths, the sky, everything; only the man’s skin was different. He looked whitish. That difference was lost under the charm of the Mujib coat. The coat had the power to make all men look the same—strong and unafraid in the quest for freedom.

  Another newspaper in Dhaka published a feature article on the coat on its fashion page. Women’s salwar kameez and cloaks were pushed down to the bottom of the page to make room for it. The paper printed a picture of Sheikh Mujib sitting on a sofa in the comfort of his living room. The coat was buttoned to the neck. There were two other pictures under it. One of them showed him sitting with noted Awami League leaders, all of them wearing that coat. That was to suggest the coat’s social acceptance—it was as professional as any coat worn in the West. It was dressing with a message: unity among colleagues. Another picture showed a folded coat with a Montegrappa Privilege Gioiello Peacock silver fountain pen and a pair of specs luxuriously placed upon it. That picture depicted the coat as a component of a sophisticated lifestyle. The writer of the article, entitled ‘Men’s Wardrobe’, also placed the coat in a historical perspective. Whereas all other coats were designed to be worn with ties, the Mujib coat was never to be worn with a tie, and it was the only coat that was sleeveless. ‘From Bangladesh to the world—a style to admire.’

  I took Nur Hussain to a young tailor in the fashionable area. As far as I could tell from the outfits he had on display, he specialized in tailoring for ladies. There were salwar kameez and lehengas swinging from wooden hangers; there were ghagras and cholis. But when I asked him if he could make us a coat, he agreed graciously. He said he had had the good luck to examine the tailoring techniques of a Mujib coat not long ago, when he was an assistant at another tailoring house. It would not be difficult to make one by himself. I agreed. He measured Nur Hussain’s chest, his neck, and the distance between his neck and the waistline, and gave us a rough idea about how much the cloth and the tailoring might cost us. It was not a fortune, I found; quite within my capacity. I knew if I wanted to present Nur Hussain before a crowd in a professional manner, I would have to be prepared to invest a little money. It was a must. But I pressed the tailor to lower the price mentioning his inexperience. ‘The Mujib coat is not a dress of the past,’ I argued. ‘It is the dress of the future. There may come a time when you will make only this type of coat, nothing else. You will forget what a kameez is. You will say only non-smart tailors make ladieswears; a tailor like you goes for something extraordinary. I am offering you a chance to do exactly that. I am giving you a chance to see your future. It is up to you to accept
it or not.’ I told him I could spend only seventy per cent of what he was asking for. He pushed a little and we settled for seventy-five per cent. The coat would be ready in a week, he said. He had a bridal dress to deliver. I bargained again. ‘A week? You cannot be serious. Why do you need a week? Just fold the piece of cloth, cut it with scissors, and then quickly put a couple of buttons down the front; anyone can do that before afternoon tea. We have liberated fifty-six thousand square miles of homeland in nine months; now he wants as long as seven days to make a two and a half foot coat! How ridiculous!’

  He understood my impatience and halved the delivery time.

  I could not wait that long either. I went to him in the evening of the second day to ask if he was working on it, if he needed to take some more measurements of Nur Hussain, and on the third evening to see if he had finished, if he needed a hand to fix the buttons. He was displeased to see me and said I was slowing him down by visiting him without notice.

  On the fourth morning I woke up and the first thing I did was remind Nur Hussain it was our delivery day; we must be at the tailor’s as soon as possible. We would eat breakfast upon our return. The breakfast would taste more delicious if we had the coat with us. He got ready instantly.

  It was not the most perfect coat I had ever seen. It did not fit him at the waist. Besides, there were just too many buttons, and the distance between them was not equal. The material was too soft for a coat. The two bottom pockets were saggy. But the coat was black and Nur Hussain liked it. It was his first coat ever. Naturally, I silenced my dissatisfaction. ‘Thank you,’ I told the tailor, as he sat on the cot with great satisfaction on his face. ‘Thank you, you’ve done a terrific job. You have been able to hide your age under your experience. You will make many more coats after this, I am sure. Once Sheikh Mujib knows it is you who have made this coat, he may order a pair for himself. Then you will be recognized across the country. Never be nervous to welcome new challenges.’

  Then we went to the clothing store to buy a punjabi shirt. I sat before the cashier with money in hand. One of the assistants spread several punjabis before Nur Hussain. He tried a couple and chose one from the Mohammedia brand. I paid the money.

  At home he put on the punjabi and buttoned the coat up to his neck. When he pushed his hair back with his fingers and stood before me, I knew we were almost there.

  11

  The Specs, the Pipe and Some Necessary Advice

  That same day I bought him a pair of specs with thick black frames from a newly established optician.

  The automatic glass door opened before us with soft music. We walked on the thin carpet and went directly to the sales counter. The salesperson was an old man with long hair and long beard and a white gown over a white-collared shirt. He asked if we had a prescription, and if we were looking for vision correction.

  ‘Prescription? Vision correction? What are you talking about?’

  He gestured at the ‘Schedule an Exam’ poster on the wall beside the window. It read: ‘When it comes to protecting your eyes, our eye care specialists make your experience easy.’ ‘Eye exam provides a comprehensive picture of your visual ability,’ he said. ‘It is key to your proper eye health. Your vision may change significantly but you may not feel the slightest pain in your heart.’

  I liked the fact that he behaved so politely with us. Manners of this standard were not seen in many places nowadays. After walking across a whole country, and witnessing all the destruction caused by the war, you came to him and found he was living in a sane world. There was no problem here. Everything was clean, professional and scientific. Optometrists were working hard to treat people’s vision problems. Brand-name spectacles, designer and prescription sunglasses filled the revolving shelves. The benefits of freedom had started to show.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Just for everyday comfort; for eye protection against flying dust; full-frame with supporting pads on the bridge, if possible. No smoky quartz or reading stones.’

  ‘Any history of myasthenia gravis, diabetes or atherosclerosis?’

  ‘Does he look like he requires assistance with walking? What do you people think you are? For God’s sake. No, nothing of that sort.’

  He thought a few seconds and then directed us to one of the cases right in the front.

  The vintage-style plastic specs sat on Nur Hussain’s nose like a beautiful ornament. They flattered his face. The black-toned arms clasped his ears perfectly. An absolute fashion statement, I thought. Once combined with the whiteness of the punjabi and the blackness of the coat, the specs would shine.

  ‘Our bestselling item,’ the man said. ‘Suits freethinking, creative individuals. Comes with a manufacturer’s warranty. If you are not hundred per cent satisfied with your purchase, bring it back within ninety days. No questions asked. And what about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘You don’t wear glasses?’

  ‘Why would I wear glasses?’

  ‘To see clearly. To protect what you are left with.’

  I went close to him. ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I do not want to upset you by criticizing you for your attitude. I also do not want to say that maybe, maybe you are too old for this job. Consider this: first you tried to invent a disease for him which he did not have so that you could press us to undergo some unnecessary tests. For courtesy’s sake we have overlooked it. And now you are saying I do not see clearly, I need to take glasses. What do you mean to say?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, as his face turned gloomy. ‘Nothing.’ He walked quietly to the main sales counter and spent a long time to produce a receipt for us. Then, as we were ready to leave, he smiled suddenly. ‘I do lots of push-sales,’ he said. ‘That’s why they say I am a good salesman. Hope you didn’t mind.’

  A person of that character did not deserve to be honoured with an affirmative response.

  Next I bought Nur Hussain a nine-inch, handcrafted walnut-wood tobacco pipe. Sturdy, thick, clean looking, its bowl was one inch in diameter and one inch deep. It was detachable into three pieces for easy cleaning. The seller said the pipe might smell strongly of smoke after being used, and needed to be cleaned more often than other pipes, but I did not want to spend a lot on this either. Nur Hussain was not going to smoke tobacco. Our main purpose was to create a charade. I showed him a picture of Sheikh Mujib holding a pipe between his lips. ‘That’s what you’ll do. That’s what people want to see. You want to try? Go ahead.’ The pipe made him look older than he was. How old was Sheikh Mujib at the time he gave the historic 7 March speech? Fifty-one, if he was born in 1920. The pipe made Nur Hussain look at least forty. He would put it in his mouth after he had finished the speech and would not remove it until after the crowd had stopped throwing coins at his feet and we had found a rickshaw to take us home.

  The hair, the moustache, the coat, the punjabi, the specs and the pipe—all were there now, in a purposeful combination, ready to function and serve. Whatever their standard, they were present. All that was left was to lay down a few important rules, without which the props would not bring the expected results. First: Nur Hussain must control his desire to speak after the speech. ‘No socializing,’ I said, ‘absolutely no socializing of any sort.’ Sheikh Mujib had a hundred things to do every day. He would not talk with people individually, and anything important he had to say had already been said in his speech. The public must be satisfied with hearing his speech. If they wanted to speak to him, to inform him of their problems, they must follow the official protocol or contact the relevant section of the prime minister’s office. We would tell them where that office was. Obviously, it would be our flat.

  The second rule I set was that he would not eat anything in public, for example, in a restaurant or tea stall; neither would he bite a piece of sugarcane while on the street, something young people like him did unknowingly. ‘Any eating must be done at home and in private.’ Nobody ever saw Sheikh Mujib eat. Nobody knew how he looked while eating. An eating scene might reveal the fa
ct that Nur Hussain was not after all any different from anyone down the road. Eating in public would also raise the question: what food did Sheikh Mujib eat, prime minister that he was? If he ate what refugees ate, there would be no difference between them. So a rigorous confidentiality must be maintained.

  The next rule was that he would not eat fish with hard bones; they might get stuck in his throat causing choking and bleeding. Attempting to remove the bones with his fingers might cause further damage. He must chew his food properly before swallowing. That would also help proper digestion and keep him in good health to deliver the speech most attentively. He must go to sleep on time and sleep enough so that he had a balanced temperament.

  12

  Counting Coins

  We made a good team, he and I. I made the plans, he delivered the speech. I selected the venues, he followed me without question—even when it was too hot and the humidity was high and the punjabi was wet with sweat and the coat was the most impractical piece of clothing to wear. I collected the coins, counted them three times, and told him how much we had made; he went to bed peacefully, with trust.

  Soon the time came when I selected his food and checked the size of the potatoes. He ate only after I had approved them. It appeared to be simple fastidiousness on my part. I was controlling his life, he might say. I was standing between him and self-determination. But I believed it was my duty to make sure he realized how precious his voice was for us and how quickly we might turn into nothing if we did not proceed carefully. Destruction was not very far from us. We saw it every day, when we went out to speak, when we spoke, when we returned home after speaking. We had to be extra cautious. He understood me; that was why he never disputed my decisions.

  We went out almost every day now and within a few weeks covered all the local areas, some areas more than once. Then we moved out farther, closer to the bus stand, the overpass on the highway, the district court building, the old book market and the pharmacy square. We attended the week-long city fair every day and spoke several times in the same spot, always to the great elation of our audience. With every delivery he became better, more comfortable and natural, and every time he spoke, our pockets filled with coins.