This Innocent Corner

by Peggy Herring

  “We’re almost neighbours then. I grew up in Cincinnati,” Beth said.

  “She married a Bengali boy,” Mrs. Chowdhury said. “She met him at the university in Washington. He was an exchange student. Just like you. And now they are married eleven years. Two boys.”

  Beth laughed. “Thanks. That about sums it up.”

  “Do you like it here?” I asked.

  She exchanged a smile with Mrs. Chowdhury. “Very much.”

  “What do you do?”

  They laughed. “Oh, this and that. Just like Salma.”

  “So you’re staying here forever?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Who could answer such a question?”

  “What I mean is – you’re not going back home?”

  “This is home now. But if you mean Cincinnati, I go once a year. To see my parents. My sister has a family, too.”

  “You don’t miss them?” I didn’t miss my own father, and didn’t really expect to very much, but I thought us different from most families.

  “Of course. But my in-laws are my family now. We had a few – obstacles to overcome,” she glanced at Mrs. Chowdhury, “but now, I think they accept me. Still, it’s always good to go back for a visit.”

  “What obstacles?”

  “I didn’t know this would be an interview. Don’t you think she should be answering my questions?” Beth asked Mrs. Chowdhury.

  I shrugged, though I wanted to know what she’d faced. “Sorry. Please. Go ahead.”

  “Well. Let’s see.” She looked at the table beside me, where I had placed my empty cup and plate covered with crumbs and a banana peel. “What I would like to know is this: would you like more kheer?” She nodded at the rice pudding. I shook my head. “Then maybe a sandwich?”

  “Thank you. No.” I was stuffed.

  “Luna? Ar kichu?” Luna, her head down, did not acknowledge that she’d heard which Beth seemed to interpret as a ‘no.’

  I found Luna’s behaviour strange. She was like a shy child possessing neither thoughts of her own nor the ability to articulate them. Where was the voluble Luna I had glimpsed on Elephant Road? The perceptive Luna, at the doorstep of her own home? I had a niggling doubt – perhaps I was talking too much when I should be following Luna’s lead – but I dismissed it quickly. Intelligent, young women do not dissolve into the wallpaper; they do not hide behind their dessert dishes.

  “Well then,” Beth said, “give me time. There will be plenty of questions as we get to know you. And we will get to know you well, I am certain.”

  She turned to Mrs. Chowdhury then. They talked about their families, people they knew, about the weather, the flowers, everything. I was attentive at first. However, as Beth told an elaborate story about her husband’s cousin’s child trying to get admitted to a good school in Mirpur, I lost track of the thread and watched Luna instead.

  Except for continuing to push the swing with her toe, she was still and quiet. She didn’t look particularly unhappy about it. I further considered her lack of participation, and wondered whether I had judged hastily. Perhaps she did not mind sitting on the sidelines. Maybe she was elsewhere. Maybe she had chosen to go elsewhere. Yes. She hovered over us, on a plane much more to her liking; surely that was why she held herself like an unopened flower. I wondered where she was – no doubt her clandestine boyfriend was there, too – and let the gentle squeak of the swing lull me into a daze. Until Beth said “election.” Then I sat up.

  “Not again. It’s not possible,” Mrs. Chowdhury said. “They wouldn’t be so impudent.”

  “Oh yes they would,” Beth said. “First it was October fifth, now the twenty-second. They’ll postpone as often as they need to.”

  “But why? You cannot avoid what is inevitable.”

  “There’s nothing inevitable about elections under martial law,” Beth said.

  “What you say is true. But the people. The people want it.”

  “They’ll blame the rains. Floods. I can hear it now.”

  “Everyone knows the worst of the flooding is past by October,” Mrs. Chowdhury said. “My husband says that is no excuse.”

  Beth shook her head. “There will be no election in October. Mark my words.”

  “What election?” I asked. They both looked startled, as though they had forgotten Luna and I were there.

  Mrs. Chowdhury’s brow furrowed, her lips pursed. “Beth, please help,” she sighed. “I cannot explain to her everything.”

  “Our country has been under martial law for the past twelve years,” Beth said. “We have been promised elections and a new constitution over and over again. But the President –”

  “So-called president,” Mrs. Chowdhury said. “Yahya Khan is self-appointed. No one has voted for him.” I remembered the name – and the rancour it created – from dinner two nights back.

  “I thought you couldn’t explain everything,” Beth said, amused.

  “I just want to make sure you don’t miss any important points,” Mrs. Chowdhury said, a little hurt.

  “Thank you, Salma. Please help me if I miss anything else.”

  Mrs. Chowdhury was placated.

  “He seems reluctant to give over power. Just yet.”

  “This election is not about power. That is what Hasan says,” Mrs. Chowdhury added.

  “Hasan is correct,” Beth said. “There are some who think this election is a referendum. On autonomy.”

  A black crow flew overhead and cawed twice.

  “For East Pakistan?”

  She nodded. “The whole partition thing – you know about that, right? – the whole thing was a mistake. How could Pakistan hold itself together with the big lump of India sitting in the middle like an elephant in your drawing room?”

  “No, no, no,” Mrs. Chowdhury jumped in. “It was not a mistake. The idea is a good one. The problem is the leadership. My husband says they do not listen to the people. Especially our people.”

  “The Bengalis are very different from their western brothers,” Beth agreed. “Language is just the thin edge of the wedge.”

  The crow flew back and dipped close. Whoosh. Air passed over its stiff wing feathers.

  “Hasan said at the Ramna Race Course meeting last week, the cries of ‘Bangabandhu’ would make one deaf.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “Friend of Bengal. It’s what Sheikh Mujib is called,” Beth said. “You must read the papers while you are here. He’s in the news every day. He is the leader of the Awami League – one of the major political parties in East Pakistan.”

  “No, no, no,” Mrs. Chowdhury interjected. “I mean, yes, he is. But he is so much more.” She turned to me. “He is the father of the movement for autonomy. He is the rightful, elected governor of this state. And he is a friend to every man, woman and child in East Pakistan.

  “Bangabandhu is backed by everyone,” she continued. “His charisma is such that absolutely everybody in East Pakistan has been drawn into the politics – even lowly housewives such as I.”

  “You’re anything but, Salma Chowdhury, if indeed such a creature exists at all.”

  The crow returned, dipped down again, and lifted the banana skin off my plate. The tip of its wing brushed my cheek. I jumped.

  “Pests,” Beth said. “It’s better to offer them something than put up with their thieving.”

  “We must go now,” Mrs. Chowdhury said. “It’s late.” She peeled her body, now sticky with sweat, off the chair. “Come Luna.” And although her daughter seemed to have been completely absent from the conversation, she heard this much and obediently leapt to her feet.

  “You must call if you need anything,” Beth said to me. “Anything at all. Anytime.”

  I nodded.

  “I really mean it. Don’t be shy.”

  I followed Mrs. Chowdhury
and Luna back to the car. The sensation of that black crow’s wing lingered on my cheek. The image of it sailing off into the flat horizon, carrying the limp, brown peel between its hooked claws remained with me the rest of the evening.

  *

  “What courses are you taking?” Ruby asked. She flicked ashes off the end of her bidi cigarette onto the grass on campus where we sat between classes trying to shelter from the burning sun which, so far that day, had been undaunted by the monsoon. It was my first day at Dhaka University. Luna had just introduced me to her and Afsana, another friend.

  The shade seemed thin. I sweated in my armpits of course, and on my back, between my breasts. Every pore on my face was wide open, and still it was not enough. I squirmed. I already knew how red in the face I was – as though I’d just run a marathon – and could only imagine how grotesque I appeared next to these three carefree girls who seemed not to move or sweat at all.

  “I just had my Bangla tutorial,” I said. “And I have 14th century Asian history this afternoon.”

  “Is that with Dr. Kabir?” I opened a notebook and shuffled through some papers to find my schedule. “Never mind. It is. He is not the best in his field, but as Yunus Khan is on sabbatical this year, you have no choice.”

  She offered me a bidi. I shook my head. I couldn’t bear the thought of anything hot, even something as small as the burning tip of a cigarette.

  Luna said, “She is learning Bangla. Amma is giving her lessons every – “She stopped, blushed and looked down. Afsana smiled and bit her tongue naughtily, then elbowed Ruby who looked over her shoulder, then exhaled the pungent smoke from her bidi cigarette and grinned.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Shhh,” Luna said.

  Ruby tipped her head back into the distance. “Look. Razzak.”

  Tall and very thin, his hair was long and choppy in the style of the day, similar to Hasan’s. He wore a simple white kurta and a pair of jeans. Flat leather sandals flopped against his feet. He carried a book on his hip. He was alone.

  He passed beneath a sprawling gulmohar, still ablaze with blossoms, and followed a brick path that led to the library steps which he climbed. After he disappeared into the building, they all giggled.

  “You like him?” Luna asked me.

  But he was like a cloud that passed overhead before anyone even noticed the sunlight was blocked. “I’m sure he’s a nice guy. But I hardly know anything about him.”

  “He is too much poor, Apa,” Luna said. “His father is beker. He have no job.”

  “They live in the slum, the basti in Mohammedpur,” Afsana said.

  “No, a house in Mirpur,” Ruby said. “Next to my uncle’s office.”

  “This is not true,” Afsana said.

  “You ask Luna then,” Ruby shrugged. Afsana’s back stiffened.

  But Luna’s eyes were downcast. “I cannot go to his house. His father will not accept me. Razzak is too much proud. He is not complaining.” She blushed. “He not tell me where he is staying.”

  “I don’t get it. Why won’t his father accept you?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine my own, easy-going father rejecting any of my friends – romantic or not.

  “They are Bihari,” Ruby sniffed and butted out her bidi. She wore a thick kohl eyeliner which, with her cigarette, made her look like a glamorous silent film star. “They do not mix with us.”

  Bihari. Again. “I still don’t understand.”

  The girls glanced at one another and shifted. Then Afsana sighed.

  “It’s very complicated,” she said. “You know about the partition of India in 1947?” I nodded. “There was a mass migration across our border. But the Muslims from Bihar – they have never been accepted by the Bengalis.”

  “Why not?”

  “They are too different. They cannot understand our way,” Ruby said. She was already digging in her satchel for another bidi.

  “What way?”

  “Our Bengali way.” I wasn’t sure what that was then, but it seemed too complicated to get into when all I wanted to understand was why Razzak and Luna’s relationship had to be a secret. “Besides, they have Urdu-ized our language. You hear them talk? It is like a broken sitar – twang, twang, twang.” She laughed and pulled a fresh bidi from its package.

  “Let me finish,” Afsana said. “The next year, there was a famine, and thousands more came – with nothing. They have spent years trying to earn back what they have lost: homes, jobs, security. You can see the Biharis in the slums in Mohammedpur. And Azad Gate. Have you been?”

  I shook my head, and began to scheme to convince Mrs. Chowdhury it was necessary to go.

  “Now they have to decide,” Ruby said, “which side to support in the independence movement.”

  “The wrong choice could jeopardize what they have earned back of their former lives,” Afsana said.

  “Unfortunately, most have made the wrong choice,” Ruby said. She lit the bidi. “Those who collaborate with the West Pakistani administration will lose everything. And we Bengalis hate them.”

  “But that’s intolerant.”

  “Intolerant? You do not understand. They are turncoats. They are spying on the leaders of the independence movement and reporting their activities to the army. They are the ones lacking tolerance.” She pointed the burning tip of her bidi at me.

  “So – you expect them to leave?”

  “Some have been here since 1947. They have had their children here,” Afsana said. “And what is left for them if they return? A desert. Houses and land occupied by Hindus who left our country. This is their home now.”

  “That’s awful. Those poor people,” I said.

  Ruby pursed her lips. She was about to say something when Afsana hushed her. Afsana spoke quickly in Bangla. As usual, I listened closely. But of course I could decipher nothing.

  An idea dawned. “You don’t think Razzak is one of those spies, do you?” I couldn’t imagine Luna with someone she suspected was a professional snitch, but Ruby’s hatred seemed out of proportion.

  “Razzak not collaborator,” Luna cried. “Is not true.”

  Afsana touched her arm and whispered in Bangla. Again I did not understand, could interpret neither the words nor the body language. When, after a minute Luna was calm, Afsana held out a handful of hard candies wrapped in cellophane. “Here. Take.”

  I helped myself to a green one. “I can’t wait to meet him. When are you going to introduce him to your parents?”

  All three faces were transfixed by my words. Ruby broke the silence. “Hasan will murder him.”

  “Murder him?” I laughed. “Hasan’s nothing but a big windbag.”

  “Excuse me? Apa? What means windbag?” Luna asked.

  “He’s full of himself. Who cares what he thinks?” The girls exchanged glances. “Do you want me to invite your boyfriend over? Hasan doesn’t bother me.”

  “Apa, please –”

  “But why should you have to keep your relationship secret?” I couldn’t get it out of my mind how different this would be for her if she lived in America. If she were me.

  “Apa, stop!” Luna was horrified.

  “Are you ashamed? Why? It’s totally normal.”

  Luna looked terrified, Afsana disbelieving and Ruby scornful. But I saw nothing unusual about my way of thinking. I just knew that it would be up to me to get Luna to see the truth and start standing up for herself.

  *

  Mrs. Chowdhury and I sat together three afternoons a week. A teacher by training – “That was long ago, dear, before my marriage” – she was to help me transform my interest in the Bangla alphabet, brimming with dees, tees and esses, nearly impossible for my untrained ear to distinguish, into something functional. I was in a hurry. Without enough language to get by, I was at her mercy, and I had already developed the sense she was ho
lding things back from me, things I would benefit from learning without her mediation. Necessity brought timely success, and by the end of a couple of sessions, I could manage a brief conversation; enough to introduce myself, say that I was learning Bangla, and ask for forgiveness if I made a mistake. I found this last part odd. The words did not sit well with me.

  “Mrs. Chowdhury, would I actually say this kind of thing to – for example – a child?”

  “We have formal and informal. Do you understand?”

  “Tell me.”

  “There is one way of talking to your elders or other superiors – like your teachers or your supervisor – but also strangers – but not a shopkeeper or a rickshawallah. Then you use informal.”

  “But what if you have an old rickshawallah? Or one that’s just about the same age as you, but you think he might be older. Won’t he be insulted?”

  “No.” She had no problem understanding what was beyond my comprehension. She squared some papers before her. “And while we speak of this, I think it is time you addressed me differently.”

  After two weeks living under the same roof, and finally recovered from jet lag, I suddenly realized that unbeknownst to me I had been offending Mrs. Chowdhury. “I’m sorry.”

  “I am not accustomed to this. Even Shafiq and Kamala, they do not address me this way.”

  “Forgive me.” The words came easily now, as I squirmed, not knowing still what I had said that was so impolite.

  “From now, you will please call me Amma. All Hasan and Luna’s friends do. It is normal. You must also.”

  Amma. Mother. I smiled. But it was more relief than any kind of familial feeling I had for Mrs. Chowdhury. I was grateful I hadn’t been insulting my host. After consideration, I also felt touched that she included me among her children’s friends. Perhaps I was settling in, finding a place in this close-knit clan.

  Amma’s sessions offered other valuable lessons. Though her explanations were almost always inadequate, she at least initially expressed willingness as she attempted to explain some of the more puzzling aspects of Bengali culture.