This Innocent Corner

by Peggy Herring

  “I worry that our world is changing. You may not be safe here any longer.”

  The birds chattered outside, a rickshaw bell rang in the distance, an ice cream wallah called down the street, and Kamala or Shafiq rattled aluminum pots in the kitchen. I couldn’t imagine feeling further from danger. So the country was going through a troubled period which would be worked out in time. It was safe here, as safe as anywhere. “You shouldn’t worry about me. I’m not worried.” I offered a confident smile to sweep aside Amma’s concern.

  “Your Embassy called this morning,” Amma said. “The security chief asked my husband whether it would be more prudent if you went to stay with an American family in Gulshan.”

  I was stunned. “But that’s ridiculous.”

  “Initially, we thought so, too. Now I wonder. This notice is disturbing. Perhaps the Embassy is right and we can no longer protect you.” There was that absurd notion again. This country was filled with people who wanted to protect me and yet, what protection did I need? “I will show this notice to my husband and we will inform you of our decision in the morning.”

  “But I don’t want to go. Please, Amma – ”

  Amma wheezed a dramatic sigh. The subject was closed. She pointed to the text. “A Day in the Life of a Farmer. This is a useful lesson.”

  “They’re overreacting.”

  “Krishok. This means farmer.”

  I sighed now. “I know, Amma. You already told me.”

  *

  Mr. Chowdhury announced his decision over breakfast. Luna cried, Hasan looked smug, while Amma tut-tutted and declared it was the only sensible course of action.

  I argued. “But I’ve got a major essay due for my Bengali lit class, and then there will be exams. I need to concentrate on my studies or I might lose my year. Besides, the Embassy is known to err on the side of caution.”

  Mr. Chowdhury was adamant. “This is for the best. You can finish your studies in Gulshan as well as you can here. Please attempt to understand our position, too.”

  “I do understand,” I said, “it’s just that I’m perfectly safe right now. And I’d rather stay here.”

  “You will visit us, Robin dear. Our home is your home,” Amma declared.

  Then I had a flash. “Could we ask Beth? Whatever she says, I will do. I promise.” Though a gamble, I was fairly certain Beth, whose views were measured without being extreme, would understand right away and do what I was unable to do – convince them to let me stay.

  The Chowdhurys glanced at each other. Mr. Chowdhury barely inclined his head – Amma understood he had given his consent.

  That afternoon, Beth came for tea. I didn’t have a chance to speak before Amma squirreled her away in the drawing room. The door closed with a great flourish. After half an hour, I was invited to join them. I could read nothing from their faces.

  “You are brave, Robin,” Beth said. “You know the foreign missions have begun the repatriation of children and dependents?”

  “Brave?” I snorted and rolled my eyes. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “Perhaps. But you understand the position you are putting the Chowdhurys in?” Beth continued. “If anything happens –”

  “But it won’t.”

  “Pardon me?” Beth’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Nothing’s going to happen. Everyone’s exaggerating the danger. You know it.”

  “How could I know what even the country’s leaders do not?”

  I blushed. “What I mean is that it isn’t so bad that I should have to leave. Not yet, anyway. Let me stay – for now. And then, when you think it’s become too dangerous, I promise I’ll go. I won’t argue.”

  Beth and Amma exchanged a glance. Then Amma sighed. “All right. You may stay for now. But you must make adequate preparations in case it becomes necessary to leave the country quickly.”

  I leapt up and hugged her. “Anything, Amma, anything. Thank you.”

  Though I longed for her approval, Beth would not meet my eye. It made me suspect her advice had not swayed Amma, but rather Amma had come to her own conclusion. Whatever the case, I would have a few more days or weeks – perhaps even months – with the Chowdhurys, depending on how the political situation unfolded.

  Besides keeping a suitcase packed, I had to make arrangements to fly home. On Friday, after mosque, Mr. Chowdhury and Hasan took me to the airport to get an official chit. The national airline, anxious to have the exodus appear calm and orderly, was assigning numbers to people who, in case of serious violence, would have to depart. Passengers would be called according to their assigned place in the queue. We joined a throng of people jostling to reach a small desk.

  A woman in front of us, very pregnant, fell down. A young man wearing an obscene opal ring stepped over her to take her place in line. With one hand, Hasan helped the woman up, while with the other, he grabbed the young man’s shirt. Mr. Chowdhury tugged Hasan’s arm. “Aste, aste,” he cautioned. Slowly, slowly. But Hasan shrugged his father’s hand away. Others jumped into the fray, and one shoved the ringed man, who stumbled and bumped up against someone else. When two armed soldiers appeared, Hasan and the crowd simmered down. Confrontation was then limited to hostile looks.

  We passed the rest of the time waiting and listening to the roar of jets as three planes took off, one after the other. I wondered who was in them, where they were going.

  Then a plane landed. If it was so dangerous, who on earth would be coming to the country now? A troubled look passed over Mr. Chowdhury’s face, and he gave a significant glance to Hasan, but his son was looking off in the direction of the runway.

  Finally I reached the desk. A harried woman in an airline uniform wrote down my name and gave me a chit. Number two hundred and three. She told me to watch the newspapers, and keep in touch with the airline and my embassy. When my departure date was determined, they would tell me. On that date, I would have to come to the airport with my luggage and cash for my ticket.

  “Come,” said Hasan. He cleared a path through the crowd.

  We drove back to Dhanmondi in silence. The cars lined up to get to the airport far outnumbered those cruising out the gates.

  *

  In the midst of this change, Shafiq and Kamala fell into the background of my life. I knew they were there, for my bed was religiously made, my bathroom consistently cleaned, hot food always on the table. But I paid little attention to them. I was fully engrossed in Luna’s situation. We schemed to avoid the next prospective groom. I covered for her, made excuses to Amma and Hasan when she and Razzak had arranged a rendezvous.

  “I needing him like desert needing the water,” she declared one night. It was disgraceful that they had been kept apart.

  I was curious about their plans. “Where will you go?”

  She frowned. “Razzak say I must tell no one.” She looked down. “I sorry.” I squeezed her hand. I understood.

  I was so completely involved in their situation that Shafiq’s announcement that he wanted to leave immediately for his village took me by surprise. The anti-Pakistani demonstrations were growing in his district, and he wanted to help. Amma was reluctant because she needed him in the kitchen. But as with all troubling decisions, no matter how trifling, she deferred until she could take matters to her husband.

  “That man a protester?” Mr. Chowdhury said, disbelieving. “Well, good for him. The autonomy movement knows no bounds. I give my blessing.”

  So Amma again handed over three hundred rupees and provisions, and released Shafiq from his duty. Once more, he tucked his prayer mat under his arm and left the next morning.

  Hasan was green with envy, I could tell. For what he desperately needed and would never get – Amma’s permission to join the independence movement – an ordinary house servant was easily granted.

  *

  Then Amma announced the arrival
of the next prospective groom. Mohammed Akhtaruzzaman was a thirty-two-year-old businessman living in Calcutta. His pedigree was distinguished, his prospects excellent. He was already a junior vice-president in his uncle’s jute export company. “Very respectable, Luna,” said Mr. Chowdhury. “He is known to your cousin in Jessore.” Mohammed Akhtaruzzaman would be in Dhaka at the end of the month on business, and would like to view potential brides.

  “Razzak and me leaving,” Luna said when we were alone.

  “Don’t you think you should wait?” Now that I had permission to stay, I did not want Luna to go so soon.

  “For what? For more of Abba’s pressures and Hasan’s criticisms? For Amma to cry like the broken water pipe again? No.”

  She and Razzak had a plan. They would leave the day I did. That part of the arrangement pleased me. I would have as much time with Luna as was possible. But there was sound strategy behind the decision as well. Amid the confusion and emotion that was certain to erupt that day, their absence would take time to percolate through the family’s consciousness. And I would not be left in the uncomfortable position of having to account for her. I would be on a plane.

  That left one huge problem. The money. I hadn’t yet had the courage to tell her I now needed it – or, at least, most of it – to buy my own ticket. And there was no way I could ask my father for even more money. In the denial part of my brain, I kept thinking something would happen to resolve the issue before it came to a head. Now I had no choice but to confess.

  Luna thought a moment. “You give me money. You tell Amma Shafiq taking your money.”

  “No!” I was horrified. “That’s a lie.”

  “Apa, why not?” She spoke quickly, her words jumbled, as thoughts and feelings cascaded over one another. “Shafiq gone now. He is too much old. Probably he will not come back. He is getting another job. Maybe he staying in village now. No more working. Maybe he breathing his last. No one is knowing.”

  “But it’s wrong. Besides, what good would it do? I still need to pay for my ticket.”

  “Apa, everyone feeling so sorry and worried. Abba give you money. I know it.”

  I was startled. I never expected Luna to be capable of such calculating deceit. Was Razzak behind this? No way. He could not possibly know about the money problem.

  “But what if your parents call the police?” I said, thinking of another argument, though I was still most concerned about implicating rickety old Shafiq. “What happens if they want to interrogate me?”

  “You don’t tell until last minute. There will be much confusion, they won’t knowing. Apa, they never will call police. Abba thinking Shafiq is take money for autonomy movement in his district. Maybe he think this not so bad. And Abba not like these police from the west wing. Amma agree, because they will take Kamala into custody, maybe beat her. There will be no police.”

  Luna’s plan made sense. She knew her parents well, and their reactions were as clear to her as the palms of her own hands. Slowly, my reluctance diminished. By the time I handed over the fifteen hundred dollars, I was certain I was doing the right thing, proud of my part serving justice. Any suffering that Shafiq or the Chowdhurys would experience as a result of our plan was, I supposed then, a necessary sacrifice, and they would eventually get over it.

  *

  My number was called, and once Beth heard the news, she said, “Now is the right time.” “But –” I said. But nothing – I had promised. My flight would depart March 25, just before midnight. I didn’t have to be on it. I could move to Gulshan instead, then queue up and get another number, wait a while longer. But the streets of Dhaka were tense and Beth sensed this opportunity might not come again soon. I argued, but didn’t put up much resistance. I knew Luna was now waiting for me to leave, so she could escape. Amma remembered my promise to heed Beth. “You are good to your word,” she said. In the face of Amma’s admiration, my strength wavered. But I pushed the uncertainty aside, and by the time I had finished packing, I once more felt noble about my sacrifice.

  I remained a little nervous about the ticket and money. It was a lot of cash for anyone to have to come up with at the last moment. But even if Mr. Chowdhury could not, what was the worst that would happen? I would get a few extra days in East Pakistan until I got another chit and my father wired more money, which of course I would pay back once I found a job. In the meantime, I could withstand the queries about Luna’s absence.

  As March 25 grew nearer, rumours of an impending military crack-down spread up and down the street, magnified with each retelling. For three weeks, Hasan kept hearing of platoons of Pakistani troops secretly being flown into Dhaka. Word was the martial law administration would attack once they were in place. Mr. Chowdhury dismissed these reports. “Not while talks are continuing,” he said, referring to the troubled but ongoing negotiations among Sheikh Mujib, Yahya Khan and Zia Ali Bhutto. Then he chuckled. “There are too many young men with overactive imaginations on our side, I fear.” But Amma was nervous. To me she murmured, “You are getting out just in time.”

  Behind closed doors, Luna and I rehearsed our drama in whispers. She asked all the questions we thought might be possible. I practiced my answers until they sounded natural. Still, I was terrified Shafiq would reappear at the last minute and foil the plan. Or that I would collapse under pressure and be incapable of carrying out my role.

  Two days before I was supposed to leave, Sheikh Mujib called for a national Resistance Day. Hasan left after breakfast and joined a crowd outside Mujib’s house. After Bangabandhu spoke, Hasan attached himself to a group of demonstrators marching along Topkhana Road, throughout Purana Paltan, and Ramna Park. He came home mid-afternoon with Shaheed, both of them dusty, hungry and flushed with excitement.

  “Bangabandhu raised the flag of the independent Bangla Desh at his own house this morning,” Hasan declared. “Surely the tide is turning.”

  “You boys must remain disciplined,” Mr. Chowdhury warned. “Never forget that our chief strongly condemns all acts of violence and attempts to sabotage the movement through instigation of communal riots. Otherwise, what little progress has been achieved in the talks thus far will have been for naught.” Though I concurred with his sentiments, I said nothing, so worried was I about my pending performance upon which Luna’s future would depend.

  “Take lunch,” Amma said to Hasan and Shaheed. “I have mutton and roti.”

  After lunch, during which Hasan spoke passionately about the demonstration, Shaheed, in a gesture reminiscent of his old manner – perhaps now that I was about to depart, he felt duty-bound to perform some final act of friendship – offered to take me to Ramna Park to see the site where the masses had gathered so peacefully. Amma examined Shaheed as though assessing the odds of his becoming kidnap material again and then shook her head.

  “It is too much tense today. You should instead take rest at home.”

  But Mr. Chowdhury surprised everyone by intervening. “On the eve of her departure, our American exchange student may like to have the opportunity to view this place which will no doubt go down in our history as a vital birthplace of autonomy. And when you are back in America, you must tell your people. Go,” he told us, “but remain cautious.”

  We careened down the streets toward Ramna Park on a rickshaw. Buoyed perhaps by the morning demonstration, something of Shaheed’s old self emerged. He laughed and told the rickshawallah jokes many of which I understood until he reached the punch line. The two of them laughed again and again while I sat grasping at puns that seemed to fly about and then evaporate before I had the chance to take them in my hands long enough to make sense of them. Still, their laughter made me laugh and I was happy to witness Shaheed’s joy that afternoon.

  I could not still a suspicion that Shaheed was only putting on this façade of happiness out of a sense of duty toward me. However, I felt so relieved and happy he was back, and that we were alone once more
that I decided to ignore my doubt.

  When a moment of silence fell upon us, or Shaheed was between jokes, I was reminded that I still didn’t know what to make of us as a couple. We’d never explored beyond our tentative hand-holding experiences, never discussed his recent retreat from our friendship. But as my departure loomed, every emotion felt disproportionately weighted, and frankly, I was confused and petrified. Did I really want to know exactly what I meant to Shaheed? I mentally ran from one extreme to the other and back again. He’s my soul mate. No, a friend. Soul mate. Friend. I couldn’t bear the thought of either one because even then, on the back of a rickshaw bouncing to Ramna Park, I could see how either answer would colour my time in East Pakistan and ripple through the rest of my life.

  He paid the rickshawallah generously, and we walked through a gate and set out along a paved pathway. Shaheed showed me where the people had stood and chanted. The grass was flattened and strewn with rubbish. He pointed out the stage where Bangabandhu had stood only hours ago. It was being slowly dismantled.

  We continued further down the path and wove around the stagnant fountain. Through some unspoken agreement, we found ourselves a private corner. A thick shrub rife with small white pin-wheeled flowers shielded us from much of the rest of the park, and certainly from other park visitors. We sat on untrampled grass, still moist from the gardeners’ early morning watering. I crossed my legs while he folded his and hugged them against his body, his fingers intertwined.

  “So now that you have seen this place,” he said lightly, “what do you think of our Bangla Desh?”

  “You’re still East Pakistan as far as I know,” I said, smiling and hoping not to change the mood.

  “You can sit here – where the people have spoken just moments ago – and deny us the right to name our motherland?”

  I laughed. “Mothers name their children – not the other way round. In any case, you can call it the moon for all I care. I will still remember it forever.”