darkness allows. Who wants, after all,
to be seen too clearly?
—Tarfia Faizullah, from “Dhaka Nocturne,” Seam
Note the trees, because the dirt is temporary . . .
—TV on the Radio, “Staring at the Sun,” Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes
20
Winter, or sheet, was Anwar’s favorite of Bangladesh’s six seasons. Winter brought marigolds and sunflowers, rice pithas doused in gud. Anwar could practically taste it after twenty-seven long hours, through Berlin, Dubai, and now, finally, Dhaka. The plane ride to Dhaka had been quite odorous, Hashi had complained. Ella was reticent on the flight, while Charu seethed in a foul mood, pissed that they’d bought tickets for a flight on New Year’s Eve. Anwar had tried to reason with her, telling her that saving a few hundred dollars was certainly not “ruining her life.” She ignored him.
Anwar hadn’t noticed.
It was a late January afternoon at Zia International Airport. Nothing seemed particularly festive. Anwar and Hashi pushed through the mass of people to get their three suitcases—filled with mostly candy or sundries made in China—from baggage claim. Ella and Charu held back, trying to get a sense of the decrepit airport, while avoiding vacuous stares from a crowd of hungry-looking men.
Anwar spotted a rather impersonal sign that read in English: MR. AND MRS. ANWAR SALEEM. A very tall man holding the sign wore his shirt unbuttoned to the navel, and quickly buttoned up when he spotted Anwar waving.
“Arré!” called Hashi, excitedly. “Rana? Is that you?”
The man waved and strode over to them.
“Ji, Hashi Apa,” said Rana, in Bangla. He did not offer his hand to Hashi or the girls, but nodded respectfully. He took Anwar’s hand and shook it vigorously. —Anwar Chachu, after all these years. Good to see you. “Happy New Year,” he added, in English.
Anwar’s face grew serious and he gave Rana a firm handshake. The young man’s formality touched him. He was a taller version of the lad he remembered, with high cheekbones and ellipse eyes. Rana had been sixteen when they came back to pick up Ella in 1987. To this day, he remained in his station—driving, cooking, and running any errands necessary. Rezwan had wanted the young boy to become as much a part of their family as anybody else. With Rezwan and Laila’s death, the young boy they’d adopted as a son after the war became more of a helping hand.
“You’re quite the handsome fellow. How old are you these days?”
“I just turned thirty-two back in December.” Rana smiled, revealing a slight gap in his teeth.
“Yes, yes, of course. Thirty-two is a fine age. I haven’t heard news of a woman. Or—anyone?”
“I am waiting for her. When she appears one day, you’ll hear news.”
“Thanks for picking us up,” said Charu.
Rana responded in English, “You are welcome.” He turned to Ella and patted her shoulder. “Ella, you are the image of Rezwan photos, ek dom!”
Ella nodded, but recoiled at his touch. She had been silent the entire period of travel, announcing only a walk or a pee. “Let me help you with the suitcases.”
“She can speak!” said Anwar.
“No, no. I can handle,” said Rana, deftly lifting the suitcases onto a dolly.
“Sorry to load your car with all of this crap,” said Anwar.
“Anwar!” chided Hashi. “They are gifts.”
* * *
As they drove out of Dhaka’s airport, the road transformed into newly built highways. Charu, Ella, and Hashi settled into the backseat, with Hashi sitting in the middle, leaning excitedly toward the front to point at the changes she’d not seen for nearly a decade. Ella and Charu leaned against their respective windows and kept quiet. They’d hardly said more than a few words since the plane took off from JFK thirty hours ago.
“Can we take an alternative route, please? Just to see some things before we get home?” Anwar asked.
“We should get back before Baba goes to bed, no?” Hashi said it halfheartedly, as if her mind could be changed.
Charu groaned. “I really need to piss.”
Anwar looked back at her and smiled. “It will only take ten-fifteen minutes maximum.”
Baby taxis putt-putted past them, painted with neon-hued, cartoony Indian actresses. Cycle rickshaws were adorned with metallic lotus and rose patterns. All of these modes of transport were beautifully decorated, perhaps to distract from the danger of riding them. For a spell, they were caught in a traffic jam.
“Jams are getting worse by the day,” commented Rana.
As they stood still amid the honking cars, scrappy children selling strands of jasmine or cigarettes and candy called out. Countless billboards advertised Bangla versions of soap, soda, and skin-lightening creams. Everything glowed with color here, something Anwar realized he missed. He hoped that this trip would bring him closer to his girls, and to Hashi. So far, the girls seemed more irritated than glad to spend the rest of their winter break in Bangladesh. The plane tickets were courtesy of Aman’s credit card, a habit Anwar had not been able to wean himself off of. The overdue bill totaled six thousand dollars, including the boxes of marijuana seed he had purchased.
There was no use worrying about it now. “How’s the flat?” he asked.
“Only two families live in our building,” replied Rana. “Our tenants live downstairs half the time; the other half they are in London. And of course, there is Stalin Bhai.”
“Shameful my little brother’s still going by that horrible nickname,” said Hashi.
“I think he likes it,” said Rana. “Anyway, I should ask you the same thing. How’s your house after the fire? Did they ever catch the men who did it?”
“Oh, Stalin never told you?” asked Hashi.
“We never have much time to sit down and talk.” Rana smiled.
“The police caught two of the young men,” said Anwar. “Their fingerprints were found on the exploded bottles. I spoke on the boys’ behalf. I have no ill will toward them.”
“I’m not sure it was the right thing to do,” said Hashi. “I wonder if they will learn anything unless they pay a price.”
“Prison is no place to learn about life, Ma,” said Charu, popping her head up from the window for a moment, before closing her eyes again.
Anwar beamed, proud that his daughter’s newfound college activism had kicked in. “Very true, Charu. They were charged with what—arson in the fifth degree? They would be in jail for a year. Anyway, Rana, my words on the boys’ behalf let them off with time served.”
“That’s good news, then.”
“Sallah S. was convicted of the more serious arson in the third degree. His bail was set at five hundred thousand dollars, which his community was unable to pay. I’m not sure I know what to believe. One minute a man is good, pious. In another overcome with rage and violence. More than anything . . . I feel guilt—”
“There’s nothing to feel guilt about,” Ella said quietly. “He tried to hurt us. He hurt Maya.”
“Any word on the girl?” asked Hashi.
Neither Ella nor Charu answered.
“Well, I do. Feel guilty. For complaining to the police.” Anwar sighed. Aman had stopped speaking to Anwar, siding with the cleric. Sallah S. was imprisoned in Rikers Island until October 2005, when his trial was scheduled. Anwar was relieved by Aman’s silence, and Sallah’s delayed day of reckoning.
* * *
Rana obliged Anwar by driving a roundabout route, which took closer to an hour than Anwar’s promised ten-minute detour. Rana drove up Fuller Road, passing Dhaka University’s grounds, lined with lushly branched koroi trees and groves of eucalyptus and acacia. Anwar inhaled the familiar Dhaka scent of nature, shit, and petrol. He reached his hand back to grab Hashi’s. Rana turned onto Kataban Road, where shops sold either exotic fish tanks or wedding garlands of marigold and rose. New Ele
phant Road had lost much of the green Anwar remembered. New colleges and shopping plazas had sprouted up everywhere.
“Why didn’t Baba come?” asked Hashi.
“He wanted to come get you himself, but his health hasn’t been so good.”
Her face wrinkled in worry. “Is he all right?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing a party can’t fix,” said Rana, smiling in the rearview mirror.
Both Charu and Ella avoided his attention, concentrating on the new world outside the window.
* * *
By the time they entered Dhanmondi, dusk had settled. All around Dhanmondi Lake, snack sellers wore boxes strapped to their chests, bearing their goods and tiny kerosene lamps to provide light. The steps of the Robindro Shorobor amphitheater were crowded with young couples milling about, munching on snacks and taking boat rides on the lake.
“Let’s grab a handful of the peanuts,” said Anwar.
“The girls will get sick if they eat anything washed in tap water. We have to boil the water,” said Hashi.
“They are nuts, woman! Who ever heard of washing nuts?”
“Babaaa. You’re nasty,” Charu muttered.
Anwar shrugged. “They come with their own protective sheath.”
As Rana drove over Road No. 8 bridge, Anwar remembered crossing the picturesque lake, an oasis in the middle of the city. They pulled up a dusty road full of brightly painted flats. All of their verandas bore small potted plants. Colorful lungis and salwars were strung on clothing lines. Rana honked at the gate of a modest three-story flat made of whitewashed stucco, with strands of blackened mold running down the sides. Monsoon did a number on buildings each year. Anwar hated the obsession with monsoons—restaurants, weddings, spas, and investment firms all claimed the name. He was happy to take the mangoes and wish the season on its way. But he knew without barsha, people and their lands would have no respite from the insufferable heat.
The security guard let them in, mumbling hello. He went back to his desk to watch a drama on a small television.
Rana led them up the stone steps to the second floor.
* * *
Hashi lunged toward her father, Azim, who sat at the dining room table. Shards of wood lay strewn about. He wore a white tank top and plaid lungi, and his gold-rimmed spectacles slipped down his nose. “My girl, you’ve arrived,” he said, taking Hashi into his arms. He gripped Anwar by the neck, and the three of them hugged for many minutes. It was the same feeling Anwar had when Rezwan first brought him home to meet his family. He gave the old man a hearty pound on the back.
“What’s all this, Baba?” asked Hashi, pointing to the wood.
“Indigenous boats. We will forget what these wooden gems look like unless we know how to make them.”
“You’re still the same.” Hashi’s eyes watered.
“Now, girl, you are, too. Please. Don’t cry.” Azim pinched her cheek.
“Well, keep on with it. I’ll help Rana with dinner.”
“No, Hashi Apa,” said Rana. “I’ll be done with dinner in no time. Please, stay with Azim. He’s been waiting for you.”
“He’s right. I’m getting older without all of these beauties around me. Now, let me see my granddaughters. Would you like to make a dinghy?”
“Ummm,” said Charu. Her eyes flitted with exhaustion.
“I am joking,” said Azim. “Please come closer so that I may look at you.” He put his arms around Charu’s shoulders and drew her close for a hug. Her eyes welled up, and he said, “My beauty, those are tired tears—this one must go to sleep immediately.”
“Yes, yes, she doesn’t listen. I told her to sleep on the plane, but she keeps listening to her music,” complained Hashi.
“Rana, please take her to Stalin’s room.” Azim pointed to a hallway leading out of the dining room.
“Yes, sir.”
Rana gestured for Charu to follow him.
“I’m sorry,” said Charu.
“No sorry,” said Azim. He turned to Ella, and said, “Now, let me take a look at you—you are much like your father.” He seemed scared to touch her. “Do you remember me?”
Ella nodded. “A little.”
“Would you like to make a patam?”
“Sure,” said Ella.
Perhaps it’s coming back to her, thought Anwar. He admitted that he’d failed to teach her and Charu to read or write Bangla, and because of their constant interactions with customers, he and Hashi spoke English more often than not.
“I would like to make a boat, too,” Anwar said.
“I should help Rana with dinner,” said Hashi.
Azim’s eyes twinkled. “Remember, Rana will prepare this dinner. You rest.”
“All right, all right, I’ll take a shower then,” said Hashi, laughing. Her lightheartedness struck Anwar. Since they’d landed, she seemed all right relinquishing her grasp. “Baba, you haven’t aged a bit. We are going to have a huge birthday party for you!” Hashi squeezed her father’s cheek.
“No, no party.” He held up a hand to reiterate his refusal. It was shriveled and emaciated.
* * *
Azim handed Anwar and Ella ten evenly shaped shards of wood and a concoction that looked like rubber cement and smelled like whiskey. “Glue the edges together. They are pre-whittled.”
Anwar found that rolling blunts had inadvertently increased his dexterity. There was much he wanted to speak about. He had never had a conversation with the old man about Rezwan’s death, face-to-face. They’d not had enough money to attend the funeral back in those days. Anwar carried a certain shame for not having been there to bury his friend.
As they worked on their boats, every so often Anwar caught a glimpse of Ella, then once more he looked at Azim, one eye shut and the tip of his tongue sticking out in concentration. His left hand was atrophied from years of disuse. Remarkably, he constructed the dinghy entirely with his right hand, patting down the glue with the knuckles of his shriveled left hand.
“Ella, you are staring at my hand,” said Azim.
“Oh, she doesn’t know—” started Anwar.
“I’m sorry,” said Ella.
“It is okay. I was doing the same thing.” Azim returned to the more complicated task at hand—making a sail—and did not elaborate.
* * *
“Do you want to hear about your grandfather, Ella? Anwar, this story may bore you; you’ve heard it so many times,” said Azim.
“I never tire of the story, sir,” replied Anwar.
“Still ‘Sir’ after thirty years?”
“Yes, Si,” Anwar corrected himself. “Yes, Baba.”
“I would like to hear it, Nana,” said Ella, quietly.
As Azim began to speak, he started a new boat, a Chinese-style sampan.
“In the year 1949, I lived in Russia as a medical student at the Moscow Medical Stomatological Institute. I was a romantic man with twenty-twenty vision. This was just after Partition, and just before the 1952 language war between East and West Pakistan. Bangla versus Urdu. I’m not sure if Anwar has taught you or told you any of this. As for me, I wasn’t much of a politico. I believed in science. My life was devoted to my studies, in order to become an ophthalmic surgeon. You see, I had great plans of becoming an eye surgeon. I read Sushruta, the Indian father of surgery, and his treatise describing over three hundred surgical procedures and one hundred surgical instruments. This man lived in 800 B.C. but I was determined to become a modern-day incarnate of him.
“Ah, there was vodka—I learned to love that clear, tasteless stuff. And of course, I met a woman. She was a Russian literature student named Tatiana. I met her while we were both searching a notice board of rooms for rent. I would realize later she’d had her eyes set on meeting a doctor. Her eyes fascinated me—they were unlike any I’d ever seen in person. Blue, but not like the sky or
ocean. Blue like the lips of a drowned person. A bruise. It was very sexy for me. Until that moment, I’d only known fish-eyed girls who were not allowed to talk to me.”
Azim laughed. “Tatiana noticed me struggling with the Russian characters. I worked slowly through the notices, first translating into English, then Russian. It always took me a while. And how lucky for me! Her brother Alexei rented flats near Red Square, and he was happy to rent to foreign exchange students, though most Russians did not want us near.
“Our courtship began over a bowl of ukha fish soup and my first sip of vodka. I became delirious with desire. I let her into the flooded nature of my thoughts. When I professed how much I wanted to marry her, her eyes became warm. Red flags of protest from our families heightened our passions. My telegram to my parents sent a shock wave through our family, though I am certain my father secretly wondered what a blue-eyed child would look like. Tatiana vowed she would convert to Islam. I read Chekhov and Tolstoy, just to have things to talk about with her. Within six months, we were married.
“We had a small wedding. A few of my fellow Bangladeshi nationals, friends from school, and her family. No one noticed my new brother-in-law Alexei glaring at me. He was suspicious of all of the foreign students who’d made their way to Russia, even though they were from homelands sympathetic to the Communist cause.
“One night, in an effort to show Alexei my purest intentions, I asked him over to our flat while Tatiana was in a late evening class. A long-necked vodka bottle emptied between us. We discussed the usual suspects: Trotsky’s exile, whether the KGB was the shield or the sword. I made a drunken, passing comment about how Russia’s cold put a chill in the people’s hearts. In my homeland, people were warm as the land they sprouted from. We had none of this cold, which had made the pogroms possible, which made people drown their misery with a bottle.
“Every word we utter is a matter of life and death, no? Alexei called me a stupid foreigner with a stupid mustache.”
—You talk too much, growled Alexei in Russian.
—Nothing well thought-out, brother; I’m still a newcomer, I replied. I’d learned Russian in order to make surviving the hostile environment easier. Besides, it was good for flirting.
Bright Lines Page 21
