This Innocent Corner

by Peggy Herring

  “Don’t worry, Amma. They’ll find him at someone else’s place. And if not, he’ll be back after Jumma prayer.”

  They all looked irritated. Mr. Chowdhury blinked as though facing a sandstorm.

  Hasan seethed. “Don’t you understand? He’s been taken into custody.”

  “Shaheed? What for?” I almost laughed.

  “You are a stupid.” Hasan stormed from the room.

  Shaheed was not found at anyone else’s house, was not back after the prayer as I had predicted, did not get home for supper, nor for breakfast the next day. In fact, he was gone three whole days and nights. After the second night, I had to admit my version of things was wrong. I had to consider the possibility that Hasan was right about the custody.

  I then began to think the worst – everyone had heard the stories about boys being taken into custody and never being seen again. Though my anxiety and distress were strong, they were lost in the Chowdhury home as Mr. Chowdhury and Hasan came and went, struggling to locate him, while Amma and Luna cried or wailed with each bit of news they discovered.

  Finally, his mother called to report his reappearance. Amma and Luna cried, but Mr. Chowdhury and Hasan skulked off behind the study door. Low voices could be heard through the lock and the cracks. “I knew they’d find him,” I said though by that time no one else was in the room.

  As soon as I could be alone with her, I asked Amma, “So what happened?”

  “He has returned, thank God. God, in His graciousness, has seen fit to return a son,” she said piously. “This is the only important fact of the matter. The rest we need not mention – ever.”

  I didn’t see Shaheed again until the following week, on campus, outside the TSC. Students lazed on the steps to take in as much pleasant weather as possible before the heat enveloped us. But when Shaheed surfaced, boys and girls sprung to their feet and jostled for a look at the celebrity. He was mobbed.

  Between the bodies, I tried to locate his face. I expected a bruise, a broken nose, a missing tooth. Or perhaps something less physical – the kind of wound that remains trapped inside, a darkness that slips out through the eyes. But no. No broken bones, no apparent injury. When I finally caught Shaheed’s eye, I flashed him a peace sign. But he held my gaze without expression, and then turned away. At that moment, I felt the ground slip out from under my feet, and I had to sit back down on the steps. The notebook I’d been holding fell too. It was open. Pages and pages of things I’d written scattered. Inside me, light had turned to dark, up to down. I felt more alone than I had ever felt in my life – as though everything I’d ever understood came up short when laid up against some great measuring stick I hadn’t even known existed.

  It took days before I could see him alone. We went for tea at the canteen. He hunched over the table, and with a crooked finger, spun his worn glass in slow circles, as though winding it up.

  “I still don’t know what happened to you,” I began, not wanting to ask directly.

  He looked sad as a clown.

  “Was it bad? I mean, of course it was –” I cut myself off before I said anything else asinine. Three students walked behind his chair and whispered all the way to the other side of the room.

  Still, I wanted to know and I couldn’t keep quiet. “And why you of all people? OK, your father’s a martyr, but you’re not your father. That much is obvious. I don’t get it.”

  But more than wanting to know why and how, I wanted back the old Shaheed. I wanted him to wink and tell me everything was fine. I wanted his experience in custody to be erased at least for this moment so we could be as we once were. I needed the chasm of language and history and culture to stop widening and reverse its direction.

  I reached across the table in an effort to retrieve his old self, and cupped his hands which cupped his tea. I thought how he had held my hands at the wedding, and so I adjusted my hands to assume that same shape. There arose from that gesture something meaningful and gentle I wanted to say, but not knowing what it was, or how to form the words, I instead found myself falling back on ideas. “Custody – what a ridiculous idea. The violence perpetrated by institutions in authority in the name of politics is reprehensible. Everyone must commit to peace through negotiation.”

  He sighed, deeply and painfully, so wearily I thought I might cry. I held on across the divide, though I felt him slipping further away. “I envy you your commitment to your beliefs,” he finally said. “You make it sound so simple.” He looked up, his face naked and aged. I withdrew my hands.

  “You are right about another point as well. I am certainly not my father. If there was ever any doubt, now I know. I don’t have it in me.”

  *

  Rafiqul Alam was completing a Ph.D. in chemical engineering in New York City. During reading week, he would be in Dhaka to view prospective brides, pre-selected by his family. He was, according to his family’s report, tall, fair-skinned, intelligent, gentle, athletic, family-oriented, literate, God-fearing and anxious to marry. The photos showed a serious but stunningly handsome man. He could have been a Greek god.

  Like the obedient daughter she was, Luna looked at the pictures and said nothing, reluctant to be the cause of any more of Amma’s fainting spells. Inside, I willed her to speak up and say something but my message was lost and she remained silent.

  “His father’s business is reputedly worth several crore,” Mr. Chowdhury said. “Very respectable.”

  “But America,” Amma moaned. “When will I see my daughter?”

  “He will join the family business here in Dhaka. An office in Motijheel has already been designated in anticipation of his return. I expect this will be their home base, but that they will retain some presence in America. Perhaps a small flat in Manhattan?”

  Their home base. They will retain. Had Mr. Chowdhury already made up his mind? Did he have no interest in his daughter’s feelings?

  “Luna? Would you like to see the new World Trade Centre?” Amma grinned like a scarecrow and spoke as though coaxing a toddler to down a forkful of liver and spinach.

  Luna again said nothing.

  “He is a son of this soil, through and through,” Mr. Chowdhury said. “Of course, if Luna doesn’t like him –” But the way he said it made it clear: this was a suitable match and Luna had better like him.

  Even I had to admit Rafiqul Alam appeared to have everything and Luna would have a hard time finding fault. When we were finally alone, she buried her face in her pillow.

  “Maybe it’s just a flattering photo,” I offered. “Perhaps he’s not as tall as they say. Maybe he’s not very nice. When you meet him –”

  “I will not meet him,” Luna said, her voice muffled. “I will not.”

  But she did. Rafiqul Alam and his parents appeared for tea that Friday afternoon. The photo was, indeed, not accurate. Rafiqul Alam was even more gorgeous in person. It was almost unnatural. He spoke English beautifully – with a perfect British accent, better suited for the other side of the ocean, yes, but lending him a sophisticated and intelligent air. He carried himself like royalty, but there was nothing snobbish about him. He was so nice. He listened attentively while the parents exchanged pleasantries, spoke jovially with Hasan about cricket, politely inquired about my impressions of East Pakistan, and offered other opinions only when asked.

  He was not the demon I had been expecting. I had been prepared to dislike him, and to spend hours later with Luna dissecting his many flaws. But Mr. Chowdhury had located not only what he thought was a suitable son-in-law but someone who was just a really pleasant person. Even from this one brief meeting, I could see Luna and Rafiqul together. Maybe not married, but dating. Maybe one day falling in love and getting married – but of their own accord, not because of some antiquated tradition that oppressed women’s rights. But such imaginings felt disloyal to Luna. The fact was she had met someone somewhere else and had fallen in love wit
h him and did want to marry him of her own accord. Surely this was more important than having one’s parents find a successful match.

  Rafiqul Alam smiled generously at Luna from time to time, though she refused to look at him.

  “Luna?” Amma prompted when it became obvious and uncomfortable. “Tell this pleasant young man what you were saying about New York City.”

  For the first time since the Alam family arrived, all eyes turned to Luna. It was as though they were finally getting down to business. Luna, however, would not speak.

  Amma laughed nervously. “These prospective brides! So bashful! But a little modesty goes a long way in a young girl, don’t you think?” she said to Mrs. Alam, while I bristled into my tea. “Luna was just saying how much she would like to visit the new World Trade Centre.”

  “Oh.” Rafiqul smiled. “But it’s just opened – and not really very interesting inside – far more impressive from the outside. Nevertheless, there are many more beautiful places in the city.”

  “Excuse me,” Luna said. She rose and left the room, leaving behind stunned silence.

  Amma waited a discreet ten minutes. If this was a washroom break, Luna had to be finished. Then Amma went to fetch her.

  It became increasingly uncomfortable in the room as we all awaited their return. The Alams were shifting nervously in their seats, and just when I thought for certain they would leave, Luna and Amma reappeared. Luna’s eyes were red, the flesh around them swollen and moist.

  After a decent interval, the Alams took their leave. “Thank you for the lovely tea,” Mrs. Alam murmured.

  Rafiqul graciously thanked Amma, then carried his majestic body out of the house without looking at Luna. The Chowdhurys never heard from them again. Afterward, I felt a little badly for Amma who was embarrassed by the whole episode, though she would never let on, and for Mr. Chowdhury, too, who had, I thought, found a reasonable match which, I assumed, took considerable thought and care. But I didn’t feel badly enough to change my mind about Luna’s future.

  *

  “You have to help,” Luna said. “My heart will break.” Her hand stroked Razzak’s shawl, which rested beside her on the bed. Though we halfway expected the incriminating evidence to reappear, we didn’t count on Amma’s strategy. As soon as the Alams left, Amma staged a mother-daughter showdown behind the bedroom door. She quietly blind-sided Luna with the shawl.

  Now I understood why Amma kept the incompetent but inordinately loyal Shafiq in their home.

  “Then make it clear what you want.”

  “I can’t. I can’t. They will never allow it. They will rather kill me.”

  I was fed up and tired. Tired of the creeping around, and having to always watch my back. I was tired of Luna’s constant melodrama, and how every little event in her progression toward marriage assumed some gargantuan proportion when all she had to do was tell her parents. I confess I also felt slightly sorry for poor, rejected Rafiqul, though I was certain he would land on his feet. Maybe I was wasting my time butting up against a tradition that, I had to admit, I found incomprehensible. Perhaps Luna should just listen to her parents and marry the next boy they found for her and save everyone a lot of grief.

  “If you won’t tell them how you feel, then only one thing is possible,” I said more harshly than I intended. “You will marry someone else.”

  Luna’s tears began anew. “But I cannot. I would rather die. You are the only one who understands me.”

  Contrite, I toyed with the fringe on the shawl and thought about the idyllic afternoon in the Botanical Garden we had shared, when our world was entirely different. Why should she have to live her entire life like this? It seemed so unfair.

  “Tell me Apa, what can I do?” She wiped her face with her dupatta, a broad stroke from chin to forehead. Her nose was runny, but even still, she was beautiful. “What would you do?”

  I answered honestly and spontaneously. “I would run away.”

  “Run away?”

  “Sure. If I really loved him, and I felt there was no other option. But hey, that’s me. I still think you should give your parents a chance.”

  She looked doubtful.

  “It’s not such a big deal as you think. And even if they do get upset, they’ll come around.”

  Luna thought for a moment, her eyes searching the corners of the ceiling for answers.

  I sensed advantage. “Trust me. I know exactly what they’re like.”

  Luna was her father’s favourite and could do no wrong in his eyes. As for Mrs. Chowdhury, she’d do whatever her husband said. So I knew it was just a matter of time before they’d come to accept their daughter’s choice of husband.

  Luna bit her lip and looked worried. Then a smile bloomed on her face. “You are right, Apa. I will do it. I will run away with Razzak. I don’t need Amma or Abba or Hasan if I can have Razzak.”

  “No, no, no,” I said. “That’s not what I meant. Just because I would do something doesn’t mean you should – not while there are other options –” But then I heard myself. The hypocrisy I was spouting. If it was good enough for me, why wouldn’t it be good enough for her?

  “And you will help us,” she continued.

  “No – how?”

  “You give me money.”

  Fifteen crisp hundred dollar bills, handed to me through a barred wicket by a bank teller with oiled hair, sour breath and fingers covered with gemmed rings, were stashed beneath the mattress in my room. I didn’t want to give them away. I’d already begun planning a train trip to Calcutta, Benares and Bombay at the end of my stay; from there, I’d fly home. But I thought about all Luna had given me. Her friendship, her sisterhood, sharing her friends, her clothes. My ally against Hasan. Was this friendship not worth several times fifteen hundred dollars? And the idea of my friend ending up in an arranged marriage, even to a man as perfect as Rafiqul Alam, made me sick. I had no doubt Luna and Razzak were right for each other. And if no one else would intervene to make things right, then it would be up to me. It took me less than a minute to put aside my doubts and decide. I knew what the noble course of action was, what was required of me.

  “Oh Apa, you are saving my life. Thank you.” She scooped up my hand and kissed it. I shivered.

  *

  A boy in a green kurta distributed notices on campus. Like a Spartan quarterback in the Rose Bowl, he shouldered his way through the crowd until he blocked my path. “Take it, American girrrl.” He growled out that “rrr” like an angry mantra, then disappeared in a flutter of cotton. I couldn’t stop to see what he’d given me. The flow of students was too thick and persistent, and I had no choice but to allow myself to be moved along with it. It was like the weather. I didn’t like it, but if I wanted to get to class, what else could I do?

  I was finally able to slip out of the crowd’s current and shelter beside a water tank near my next class. In the shadow, I smoothed the thin, yellow notice. In the centre was a grainy black and white photo of a dead man. Cloudy eyes, chest bare and smooth like a child’s. His slit-open windpipe poked out of his gaping throat. He looked like butchered poultry. A blotch beneath the slash was either ink or blood.

  I looked up. Had anyone else received a notice? Had anyone seen me? I spotted Ruby in the throng. “Ruby!” I waved the notice to draw her attention. “Ruby!” I called louder. But she was swallowed up in the chaotic tide, though I suspected there were other reasons she didn’t hear me. She never seemed to spend time with Luna anymore whenever I was around.

  The rest of the notice was covered with blurry, smudged script. I could make out and understand only one word. Kukur. Dog.

  I showed Amma during our lesson that afternoon. “Where did you get this?”

  “University. What does it say?”

  She sighed. “It is troubling news. From Khulna. It says this farmer – a local politician – was found last week bes
ide his paddy. He was killed after speaking in support of independence at a meeting in his village. Who gave you this?”

  I told her. Also how he had growled.

  “Robin, dear, you must be more careful.”

  I laughed. Me, even more careful? Under Amma’s thumb, not to mention Hasan’s vigilant eye, I could be no less careful unless I shackled myself to the bedpost. In any case, I had no idea what I could possibly do to prevent someone handing me a notice. “But Amma – it’s not personal or anything.”

  She gave me another bewildered Amma look. “You do not understand.”

  “Amma – the guy was looking for attention, that’s all. He was probably pagol.” I tapped my finger on my temple.

  She ran the heel of her hand down the spine of the book in front of us and appeared to be contemplating what to say next. “Just heed my warning, if you please. And beware. Now – shall we begin your lesson?”

  “Wait. Please explain it.”

  She examined me. Though neither of us moved, it was, for an instant, as though we were magnets, our identical poles meeting, then pushing us apart. I felt, rather than saw the physical differences in our skin, eyes and hair. “It’s just that these days people know Americans are supporting the government of West Pakistan. You are giving guns to protect your regional interests.”

  I looked again at the farmer’s windpipe. “But no one associates me with decisions made in Washington.”

  Her voice lowered. “They say the guns will be used – against the Bengalis – not the communists.” She paused. “And then who will protect us? When attacks like this occur in our motherland, where is the American government with its guns and bombs?”

  “Amma, I’m fine. Everyone is friendly and really nice.” I decided not to mention the apparent cooling of my friendship with Shaheed, or Ruby’s turned shoulder. “Thik ache. We’re all going to be okay.”