“For you, Robin Rowe, the moon it is then. One small step of the tongue, one giant leap of your imagination is all it will take.” Ah, here was the irreverence I had been missing these past few weeks.
Birds called from the trees and in the distance, a tinny bell of an itinerant mistri was rung over and over again. True, the people had spoken – loudly, historically – but in proper Bengali fashion, it was now time to get on with the business of life.
I waited until I summoned and felt the force of my courage. “Shaheed, I’ve been wondering about something – and I might never get the chance to ask you again. You’ve been avoiding me. Why?”
He shifted. His eyes narrowed. I saw him contemplate a raft of responses, dismissing each one as unsatisfactory. How to answer the unanswerable. He squeezed and twisted his twined fingers.
“These days are troubling,” he finally offered. “I’m sorry.”
I nodded. “That doesn’t really answer my question.”
His face wrinkled as though he was in pain. “I don’t know how to begin to explain it. I’m sorry.” When he saw my face, he added, “I’m sure I must disappoint you.”
It did disappoint me not to know what had happened between us and not to know how to discuss it and work it out. But it wasn’t him. He didn’t disappoint me at all. I thought of all the moments with the Chowdhurys when I needed an ally in the room, and there he was. When I needed a joke or a pat on the back, it was Shaheed who delivered it. When I needed some help with Bengali lit homework, he was always available and happy to help. True, I felt sad about the time we had lost. But it wasn’t that he was a disappointment. Never.
“Oh no,” was all I could manage. “That’s not it at all. I’m so – pleased we met,” I murmured, knowing ‘pleased’ was perhaps the most inadequate word I’d ever used in my life.
We drew closer. We kissed. So awkward and tender, frightened and desperate to feel his skin and hair, his blood and bones – the hollows, the shadows, the places he reserved for himself – it was hardly the best-executed kiss of my life, but it was certainly the most memorable. When we stopped, we hung our heads together, our cheeks, jaws, temples touching, our breaths seeking common ground, a harmony.
Outside the tiny circle we two formed, life revolved, huge and messy, on the brink of war – and irrelevant. A door closed – boro-bhai and chotto-bon shut out there where they belonged. Ours was not the great and tragic passion of Luna and Razzak, but I loved the feeling of believing that for once, I knew what was truly important, and I was exactly where I was supposed to be – right in the middle of it.
Finally, we pulled away, sat back, apart once more. My eyes focused on one small bird that skirted the sky just above us, but no other part of me was anywhere but in our small corner, letting the moment settle. Back home, in Lansing, it would not have ended so suddenly. We would have kissed again, touched, and while making love, I may have accessed the secret places of his body I sought. But here, in a park, in this culture, it was like we had already slept together, had grappled and twined until we both came – so bold was a public kiss. Free love be damned.
“I will remember always your commitment,” Shaheed said finally. “People think I must have it – because of my father – but I don’t. I cannot muster what you and Hasan and Ruby seem to have so easily.”
I had nothing to say then. Of all things to be remembered by – not my lips, not my hands, not my eyes, not even my honest and loyal character – but my so-called commitment. To be lumped together with Hasan and Ruby – that was not how I wanted Shaheed to see me. At that moment, it seemed the least attractive and most problematic aspect of my personality because at the very bottom of my heart I understood that that was exactly what Shaheed could not articulate earlier. My commitment had kept us apart all those weeks.
“Come. I’ll take you home. Amma must be wondering whether I have kidnapped you,” Shaheed said.
He offered a hand, and I took it. But as soon as I was standing, he let go.
The shape of your hands around mine, I wanted to say. That’s what I will remember about you. But the appropriate moment was already gone.
*
The afternoon of my departure, the first step of our plan was taken. Luna told Amma she wanted to dash over to see Afsana’s mother, who had unexpectedly and conveniently taken sick. Amma was reluctant. Mr. Chowdhury had received a phone call with troubling news – political talks had broken off, and Yahya Khan had flown out of Dhaka. The cantonment was unnaturally hushed, and the streets tense and hectic as people scurried to buy up batteries, soap, rice and kerosene.
“I back before dark,” Luna said. “I promise.” By rickshaw, Afsana’s home was less than fifteen minutes away.
Hasan eyed his sister suspiciously. “You should remain here. This is serious. Besides, these are your final hours with your friend.”
After months of scolding and scheming to keep me away from his sister, now Hasan was concerned that we spend time together? He didn’t seem the least bit aware of his hypocrisy. But I saw through him. He’d exploit any situation he could in order to criticize his sister. I had to help Luna.
“If you’re going, perhaps you could take a gift,” I said. “I have a little something for Afsana’s mother.” There was no such present. But I suspected Amma would see Luna’s visit in a new light once she heard the word ‘gift.’ “It’s small – really nothing much –” I looked at Amma, my face half-apologetic, half-pleading while I tried to assess our chances.
Amma beamed. Even in the face of potential incursion, she had time for social niceties and anything related to duty. “You girls are so considerate. But please Luna, do not ignore the time.” She turned to me. “She is so forgetful.”
Hasan harrumphed.
I followed Luna to the gate. Her eyes, cheeks and hair were electric. Every pore in her body had absorbed and could no longer contain knowledge of the adventure she was beginning. But only she, Razzak and I really knew of the passage on which she was embarking. I was fiercely proud of my role helping this young woman to liberate herself.
Traffic was heavier than normal, and in the distance, along the main road which we could just see, pedestrians streamed. It was just as Mr. Chowdhury had heard. We had to wait some time for a rickshaw. I thought about when I would see Luna again. I thought about the uncertainty facing us both.
A rickshaw finally pulled over. Its brakes squealed.
Unfortunately, Luna and I hadn’t properly considered our farewell. Now that it was before us, I longed to hold her close and cry. But I couldn’t. We had to look like friends who would see one another in an hour or two. We had to make it casual.
“Don’t forget to write,” I said as though I was speaking to a mere acquaintance. I was fairly certain the rickshawallah would not understand English, but he would understand if I betrayed too much emotion.
“Of course not,” she said. She climbed on board. She did not smile. I remember that. I also remember the little bulge of fabric where she’d knotted up the money and tucked it underneath the waistband of her shalwar.
“I will miss you.” I looked up when a doyell, a kind of magpie, flitted through the scope of my vision. The sun, approaching the horizon, was a fire ball, much like the sun depicted on the new, illicit flag of independent Bangla Desh, which Amma had placed in the drawer underneath the good silver.
“Of course,” Luna said.
“Dekka hobe.” See you later.
“Dekka hobe.”
“Be careful.”
The rickshawallah was scraping dirt from under his fingernails with a bent scrap of wire. “Jao,” Luna cried. “What are you waiting for?” She winked at me, and the rickshawallah grunted as he threw the wire to the ground and pushed off. Her rickshaw rolled down the street to the main road. I looked away before I could see which way it turned.
*
“Money canno
t disappear, isn’t it?” Mr. Chowdhury said. “It defies the laws of physics.”
Amma wrung her hands over and over, like they were wet dishrags that refused to dry. “Are you certain it is not amongst your papers?”
“I looked everywhere,” I said. “But I know exactly where I left it – in an envelope under my mattress.”
The silence was complete. The only person with business underneath my mattress – because he made my bed – had gone to his village.
It unfolded as Luna had predicted. Kamala was questioned. Of course she was incredulous. Of course she knew nothing. Behind closed doors, Amma and Mr. Chowdhury decided calling the police was in no one’s best interests. Only one thing did not come to pass as we expected. Mr. Chowdhury did not have the money to buy me a ticket.
Amma called Beth.
*
Amma packed the box on the dining room table while I watched. She chose from among papers, reel-to-reel tapes, and several records. Everything scattered as though collected in a hurry.
Inside it was dark. The power was out, and our only light came from a single, smoky candle.
We whispered, in deference to the blackness, and to the blasts of gunfire that had just begun. The otherwise quiet night was split open by the noise.
“Where is that silly girl? She knows she must say good-bye before you leave,” Amma said.
“It’s okay. Tell her I’ll write soon – inshallah,” I said. God willing. The candle sputtered, faded, then leapt to life once again. “It’s better that Luna stays put now, don’t you think?” I spoke to a small shadow cast on the table by a teacup and saucer, beside Amma’s open medicine bottle. I couldn’t meet Amma’s eye. Fortunately, she paid no attention.
“Hasan!” But her son was already in the room, in a chair near the curtained window, for once quiet. We hadn’t noticed. “Please help your mother. I can’t think.”
More gun shots. These were closer.
Amma grabbed the phone and punched in numbers again. We already knew it was not working. “What’s wrong with this thing?” She began to cry. “It’s too dangerous. Why didn’t she have the sense to stay home?”
“Luna will be in big trouble, with only herself to blame,” Hasan said. “My sister is a stubborn and senseless girl.”
“Leave her alone, for god’s sake.” Like the gunfire, my voice cracked open the hushed night. Thank god she had freed herself of any further censure from him. In the meantime, I would defend her. “You don’t know anything about her.”
Still, it was dangerous to speak like that, to draw attention to oneself, one’s family, one’s home. Soldiers and spies could be anywhere, including the patch of sidewalk in front of the Chowdhury’s home.
“Amma, forgive me,” I whispered immediately. “It’s just that he’s so hard on her. She’s very intelligent and he should mind his own –”
“Robin, dear, we don’t have time. You have to get to the airport.” She told Hasan to arrange a rickshaw. It was too dangerous to take the car out. At least in a rickshaw, we’d be quiet. We could keep to the alleys of Kalabagan, the narrow lanes through Monipuri Para, hide in the shadows, if necessary.
“You don’t mind about the box then?” she said.
“No. Thik ache. It’s all right. I want to help. Sahajjo debo.” Stronger than my anti-war sentiments and my distaste for war propaganda was my desire to help Amma one last time. Certainly it was risky to carry these things to the airport tonight, but less risky than if the marauding military found them in the Chowdhury’s home. My guilt also made me compliant.
“Then take this.” She took the flag from her silver drawer and placed it in the bottom of the box.
“And this, please. ‘Joi Bangla,’” she read from the sleeve. A recording of a song for the independence movement. “Shahnaz Begum has such a pretty voice.” She put the disc in the box.
More gunfire in the distance.
“That sounds like it is coming from the direction of the airport. We have to hurry. Where are your bags?”
Kamala had brought them to the door.
Hasan reappeared. “Transport is here.”
“Good,” Amma said. “Not too soon. Take this, too.” She placed a book in the box. “When Bhashani was in Europe. Pity for Mohammed Elias. Such a brilliant writer should never be banned. What else?”
“Give her the seventh March speech,” Hasan said. “It’s a precious part of our history.”
She put a reel-to-reel tape in the box.
“And these, please Robin.” She picked up a sticker that said: Each Bengali alphabet represents the life of one of us. Amma had shown me that during one of our sessions. Then, a poster that said: Finish them. The scowling caricature of martial law administrator Yahya Khan was gruesome. Finally, with fingers that didn’t seem to want to let go, she slipped in a poster of Sheikh Mujib. I’d seen this one, his chubby cheeks, thick-rimmed glasses, and seemingly benevolent face plastered to utility poles and brick walls all over Dhanmondi. Torn down, every single one, the very next day.
She topped these contents with three red balloons, printed with the flag.
She closed the box and tied it with a piece of jute twine. “One day you will return these to us,” she said. “You are true to your promises.” She pulled me close and kissed me as she had when I had arrived and we were all innocent. She pulled a dark scarf over my hair and tucked in the ends around my collar. “Keep your head covered.”
“Come,” Hasan said. “It’s late.”
We stepped outside. Amma trailed. I pulled myself up on the bicycle rickshaw which already held my suitcase. I draped my legs over its bulk, and cushioned the box at my side.
We heard an explosion, but it sounded like it was coming from the other side of New Market.
Hasan pulled the rickshaw cover over our heads and locked it into place. “Jao,” he said to the rickshawallah. Pushing with all his weight, the driver got the bicycle rolling. He flung himself onto the seat. We pulled out through the gate and onto the road.
“Khoda hafez,” I called to Amma.
God go with you.
“Shhh,” Hasan said. “Quiet.”
And in the distance, Amma’s thin voice. “Khoda hafez.”
Gunfire. We turned down the street in its direction.
*
Something whistled in the darkness overhead then exploded in the distance. The earth shuddered. But I barely felt it, overcome as I was with fear for myself, worry for Luna and Razzak, longing for Shaheed, and guilt for lying to Amma. In a lowered voice, Hasan spoke to the rickshawallah, who stopped pedaling and squeezed the brake levers. A squeal slashed through the night.
“Choop!” Hasan said.
The rickshawallah released the brake and jerked the handlebars to the side. We careened through the iron gates of a school, open only because the chain and lock were broken. I thought we would tip over, but the bumpy ground slowed us and we regained balance. We crossed the empty playground, a cracked concrete surface. Rusty posts stood where nets would be tied once more, but not until play became possible again. The idea of children smacking volleyballs or swatting badminton birds here seemed absurd that night. We then bumped over a hard, clay surface, scattered with weeds, grey under the dim lights. The rickshaw rattled like machine gun fire. I looked around, certain we would be detected now, but the place was deserted. We passed through a second gate and were back on the street. There was another whistle and a blast, these even more distant. I thought of Luna and shivered.
“You’re cold?” Hasan whispered.
“No.”
But he put his arm across the back of the rickshaw anyway.
If it had been anyone else, it would have been touching. And though some part of me would have liked that night to have given in to that feeling, to have surrendered to someone else willing to take charge for a change, I had to remi
nd myself that this was Hasan and therefore, there was an underlying motive. Before I figured it out, I pulled away. But there was nowhere to go. With the box squeezed between us, I could not shift my body away from his.
I looked at Hasan, his beard, sideburns – they needed a trim – long hair, the narrow gleam of his glasses as they reflected what little light existed that night. He was alert like a wild animal. He watched the street ahead, the houses and gardens to the side, scouting for movement. Though he was not my first choice of escorts, his vigilance instilled great confidence in me. Nothing would escape his notice, and he would make sure we had the best chance of arriving at the airport safely.
We followed the deserted lanes through a block of government staff quarters. The guards, afraid, or perhaps recruited to the army, had abandoned their posts. All the windows were dark.
We moved along lanes and alleys, staying parallel to Green Road. The blasts and shots continued, sometimes behind us, other times, apparently, ahead. Perhaps it was just the acoustics – sound bouncing off the brick and concrete of the city. But I was not anxious to find out how close we actually were to the fighting.
Hasan muttered something to the rickshawallah. The rickshawallah replied over his shoulder, his voice so low I could not make out what he said. Hasan said something else. The rickshawallah shook his head. What were they talking about? As their discussion heated up, it dawned on me. If we were to get to the airport, we would have to cross the intersection at Farmgate. Open, exposed, six roads met, and there was no way around it.
“We have to go back,” I said.
“It’s not safe to go back.”
“We won’t get across.”
“We will – inshallah.”
God willing, God willing. What madness. I had no faith in God at that moment. I had no faith in anything except my feet and a vague sense of how to get back to Amma’s. I rose, grabbed the side of the rickshaw and went to jump off.
Hasan seized my arm. “Are you crazy?” My head scarf fell, was pulled under the wheels into the dust and was gone. My hair flew out around us, a corona in the dark night.
This Innocent Corner Page 11
