Bright Lines

by Tanwi Nandini Islam

  * * *

  We realized we couldn’t keep going back and forth between the training camp and the comforts of the golden house in the tea gardens. There were rations for petrol, and the forty-kilometer ride to Sylhet was not sustainable. A week after we had won our prized Enfield, we went to meet Hawa at their usual spot—behind an abandoned Christian missionary school in a Khasi village, just across the Piyain River. Hawa often came here to spend time with her aunts, uncles, and cousins. She would sell woven shawls and pinafores that her mother made. This cluster of villages was still on the Bangladesh side, but they had more in common with their cousins in the north.

  The Khasi tribe survived callous neglect. Their borders were redrawn and erased every couple of decades. Bengali Muslims grabbed their land after marrying Khasi girls, because the youngest daughter was the one who inherited property. We had never shown respect for their matrilineal, religious, or social customs. So they didn’t trust us Bengalis. For good reason. We’d all but pushed them out of their lands into the river.

  This particular village, called Mahapunji, had a Christian church—Our Lady of Grace, I believe it was called. We literally bought the trust of villagers by giving donations to the church. I loved the building. It was painted red with a long white cross as tall as the supari trees in its yard. We left a tip with the minister to watch over our motorcycle while we went to find Hawa.

  Hawa fell into Rezwan’s arms. She seemed quite—emotional.

  —My mother wants to meet you, Hawa told Rezwan.

  —I—I can’t do that, not yet, replied Rezwan. He buried his face in his hands.

  —Man, Amma wants to meet you; maybe your parents can meet hers. Her father is a distinguished man, I told him.

  —No! My mother will never go for this.

  Hawa played with a loose string on her pinafore. —What are you saying?

  —Yes, man. What are you saying? I asked.

  Rezwan wouldn’t answer.

  —Besides, you both can stay at my parents’ house. It’s only 15 kilometers from the camp, said Hawa. You will be safe, fed. Hawa patted her belly, which showed as she unraveled her sarong. Modest dress is a great concealer. But I’d noticed slight appetite and skin changes. But I attributed that to sex.

  —Hai, Allah, I muttered.

  —How can this be? Rezwan asked.

  —You know exactly how it happened. Hawa narrowed her eyes. —Are you happy?

  —This is great news, man, I said. Rezwan Lyngdoh has a nice ring to it, na?

  Hawa laughed.

  Rezwan said nothing. I wondered if he felt shame for having sex, or for being with a Pahari girl. I didn’t see the problem. She had good roots and good genes, and as far as I was concerned, I would marry a girl like that in an instant.

  —We will have a roof over our heads, I told him, as Hawa left us to finish selling her shawls. —Focus on that if you don’t realize how lucky you are.

  A few hours later, we drove back to the border post, to cross over to Hawa’s forest village. Different BSF jawan this time, an older, bearded man in a turban, who didn’t let us pass as easily as his younger colleague. Suspicious of two Bongs toting around a young Khasi girl, he raised a hand. For all they knew, we were taking the girl back to the training camp to do terrible things to her.

  Hawa was quick to answer in broken Hindi:

  —My father owns betel leaf gardens in Shillong. We’re going there for a business matter. This one’s our driver, and this is my business partner.

  Great. I was happy to play the role of driver, if it meant we could pass.

  After a moment’s scrutiny, the BSF jawan let us pass.

  —Fantastic bike, he muttered.

  * * *

  We traced the mossy broadleaf and evergreen lip of the Pamshutia Canyon; by charting this lesser-known route toward Shillong, we saved an hour. As we journeyed north, a dank fog settled, muting the jungle with its misty outline. Rezwan, Hawa, and I wove past trucks loaded with boys and mules and freight, zooming up and down the deadly, cambering ten-kilometer stretch. Again, I drove, while Rezwan straddled me, and Hawa sat sidesaddle, behind him. From my side-view mirror, I could see that Rezwan held her tight, perhaps protectively, around her belly. The closer we rode to Shillong, the less we had to worry about Pakis, but the more Khasi and other tribesmen posed trouble, as they were pissed about the Bangali refugees.

  It was around noon. We had only about a half-hour drive left, until we were stopped in a traffic jam. Flares marked the road. Members of the Tribal Youth Welfare Association had stationed themselves at the helm of the route. Police hovered lamely at the scene. The students, armed with the fearlessness of youth, carried signs protesting the entrance of Bangladeshis to Shillong. Hidden from sight: rifles, unlit barrels of gasoline. The danger was not lost upon the policemen. Or us. There would be no rest until the sun rose and the students scattered homeward, more afraid of their parents than of the police.

  —Where are you headed? asked a policeman.

  —Shillong, sir, said Rezwan.

  —No, you’re not. Not safe for refugees. The policeman shooed us back toward the border.

  * * *

  Hawa directed me to turn northwestward, away from Shillong and Dawki. Signs read Mawphlang, and she ordered me to keep driving, until we reached a closed chai and momo stall. We got off the motorcycle, and wheeled it toward a clearing. Multiply the green in Sylhet by a hundred—this was very ethereal stuff.

  We came upon a wondrous bridge composed entirely of gnarled rubber tree roots, which ran over a stream. Villagers trained the roots to grow through hollowed-out betel tree trunks. Roots grew across rivers, finally settling in the soil on the other side. Trees grew older and the bridges formed, connecting villagers long separated by waters. After one hundred years, the bridges would grow to unearthly proportions.

  Borders erased in twenty years’ time.

  The road tapered into a barren moor. A single stone obelisk stood on a hill, erected by ancient Khasis. This would be our landmark. Hawa motioned for us to leave the motorcycle here. Someone would take it, Rezwan protested. She shook her head, and took off her shoes. We removed ours. We were to touch nothing, take nothing. Not even a fallen branch (or widow-maker, as the locals called it) could be molested. Even a dead man should not be moved unless the syiem allowed it. No one was permitted to come in at night. Some ancient code and sense of honor kept intruders at bay. Dewy grass crunched under our heels. Barefoot, and worried about large spiders and thorny trees, we trudged deeper inside the forest; the wind ceased. I remember thinking, I am a plains person, not a mountain man. Chirping, croaking, hooting, trilling—all manner of fauna bursting alive. A mountain bear, lion, or tribesman could kill us.

  We walked past a bamboo grove.

  —This means a famine is near, for bamboo brings rats, said Hawa.

  Above, dim spots of sunlight filtered through the lush canopy of trees.

  Hawa lead us to a circular house. Sitting on the porch were a wizened woman and a man, burning a smudge stick of some sort.

  —Hawei! exclaimed the woman, delighted.

  —Kpa, Kmie, said Hawa, calling to her parents in Khasi. She nodded at Rezwan, rubbing her belly. —Sengkhún. I’m pregnant. And this is the reason I am here.

  Her father simply nodded, chewing away at his betel. He smiled, revealing teeth degraded by betel juice and tobacco. For a syiem, he seemed like a simple man, not the angry chief I had imagined.

  —Welcome to the Black Forest, sons, said Hawa’s mother. She was a replica of Hawa, but a foot shorter. She fiddled in her shirt for something. She handed Rezwan a small jute bag. It was full of cowries for protection, for her daughter’s care. And so, we had whisked Hawa on our newfound Enfield, to the Black Forest in the Scotland of the East, Meghalaya.

  * * *

  For the next two months,
we went back and forth, your father and I, between Jaflong and Mawphlang, regrouping at the training camp and instigating hit-and-run attacks.

  Each time, we survived.

  More important than any of those guerrilla moves, I came to learn much about the land, the sacred Black Forest, or law kyntang, as the Khasi called it. Hawa and I would walk together, in the stillness of that jungle. At our feet, ferns ancient as time, orchids in hues of pink I’d never seen. Rezwan slept a lot when he was back in the forest, resting from his pursuit of Rajakars. You see, I didn’t have a stomach for killing. Bayonets, never. I threw grenades, ran as fast as I could, sped away on our motorcycle.

  —I am a pussy, I once told Rezwan.

  —There are worse things to be. Besides, you’re not the one letting your child take its mother’s last name.

  * * *

  One morning, when Rezwan slept, Hawa and I walked to that old root bridge, to sit by the stream. She taught me the names of trees, the ones used to make guitars, utensils. A hearth could not be made of twigs from different trees. Tender ficus leaves meant that fish would multiply in our rivers. Pungent herbs, ginger, pepper, turmeric, cinnamon—all at our fingertips.

  —Tit, said Hawa. Tyng-shain.

  —Pardon?

  —Stop looking up, Ang Ang. Look down.

  At our feet, a circle of bioluminescent mushrooms, aglow. I looked down. Up again.

  I looked at Hawa. Without thinking, I kissed her neck. The taste of salt reminded me of a double entendre—Mawmlah: To lick the salt off someone’s back, in Khasi, signified an oath, a promise.

  In Bangla, to lick the salt off someone’s back was an indictment.

  Hawa gave me a look, somewhere between pity and amusement.

  —Don’t do that, Anwar. You know better.

  I nodded, feeling weak for what I had done. Did she think of me as some sort of violator—the way she might think of my brother, Aman?

  —I’m sorry. I would never hurt you. Not like Aman.

  —Then don’t, she cut me off. Hawa’s expression hardened into agitation. She didn’t want to talk about the past.

  Hawa, or Hawei-ha-ar, had retreated elsewhere. She lived in the recesses of my mind. I remembered the old traces of her face, but she was long gone.

  What did I have now? Love I could not have.

  * * *

  When the Indians joined the effort on December 3, it became clear that Sam Manekshaw’s tactics would fracture General Niazi’s slippery hold on the eastern front. Halfhearted Pakistani troops stood landlocked, encircled by Indians on land, water, and air. Days later, the BBC announced that India’s fearsome Nepali Gurkha battalions rained down from helicopters to capture Sylhet. Their placid descent by parachute had the Paki brigadiers shaking in their boots. Fewer than five hundred Gurkha mercenaries—skilled at living off the land, wielding kukris with a butcher’s skill, no fear of death—glided easy as skydivers.

  We knew then, the end was coming.

  * * *

  We weren’t flying out of planes. We were a terrestrial force of wily coyotes preying on Rajakars, our own men who had turned traitor. Desperate, they intensified their killing. The Rajakars in Jaflong had already been abandoned by Pakistani troops, who were en route to Ashuganj, in a miscalculated move.

  The day of the Nepali Gurkha heliborne takeover of Sylhet, Rezwan and I drove back to Mawphlang, to the Black Forest. Hawa had not been feeling well, and her aunt warned that the baby might come earlier than it should.

  A few miles from the Tamabil-Dawki border, we noticed a blockade had been set up. Circling the blockade were a pair of jeeps, and a black Royal Enfield Classic 500, same as ours.

  —What do these animals want? Rezwan said, revving the engine.

  A man cried, Ay, Shaitan! He jumped out of a jeep, and hobbled toward us.

  —I think he is the man you crippled. And he wants his motorcycle back.

  Rezwan rocketed around the blockade as fast as possible toward the border post. Our regular BSF jawan nodded—go, pass, pass—the young man had gotten much friendlier in the past couple of months.

  We heard the Rajakars, stuck at the post, arguing with the jawan.

  * * *

  That evening, in the center room of the circular house, Hawa’s mother delivered Rezwan and Hawa’s son. (I’d started calling her mother Kmie and her father Mr. Lyngdoh, and they didn’t seem to mind.) A few weeks shy of perfect timing, the child was small, perhaps only five or six pounds. Kmie cut the umbilical cord with a sharpened splinter of bamboo—metal was forbidden. I’m not sure why, but perhaps the element was considered too strong at such a young age. She washed the boy’s body in an earthen bath. She placed Hawa’s placenta and a brown hen’s egg in another clay pot.

  Mr. Lyngdoh placed a bow and three arrows beside the boy.

  —My boy is an Indian, said Rezwan, sadly.

  —Your boy was born in a jungle and he is alive, so be quiet, said Hawa.

  They ruminated on names, Khasi, Arabic, Sanskrit. In Khasi: Rain, which meant honor; or Ranain, plenty of foliage.

  Definitely not Ran, which meant to shrivel or shrink. Ramia, which meant dreams or hallucinations, suggested Mr. Lyngdoh. He could learn the syiem’s traditions with plant medicine, perhaps.

  Rezwan shook his head. —Too feminine.

  They settled on Ranap, the slope of a hill, commemorating where they first met.

  Ranap Anwar Lyngdoh.

  * * *

  We returned to Jaflong a few days later. Hawa wanted her whole family in Mahapunji to be involved in a proper naming ceremony. I would make two trips—the first with Rezwan and his brand-new family; the second with Kmie and Mr. Lyngdoh.

  Our motorcycle resembled a poor man’s version of a clown car. Again, I drove, Rezwan straddled, and Hawa and swaddled baby rode in precarious sidesaddle. Now that I think of it, I never would’ve risked that with you or Charu. America, in all of her sanitized glory, makes a man realize his mortality. You’d think with a war and all, we’d be more aware. Nope.

  At the border checkpoint, the young BSF jawan nodded at Hawa.

  —Your business is done, madam? Back to the betel gardens?

  —Yes, sir.

  Something in his tone, I don’t know; perhaps in hindsight I am remembering malice.

  In my rearview mirror, back at the border post’s gate—

  A twin to our black Royal Enfield Classic 500.

  * * *

  We started the naming ceremony in the afternoon. Unless a ceremony involves some sort of inebriating substance, they’re boring. And this naming ceremony did not bore me. In a lush clearing behind the Our Lady of Grace church, Hawa’s clansmen came by with roasted chickens, rice wine, hashish, and eggs. Eggs were very important if someone was born, married, or dead. Hawa and Rezwan were dressed in Khasi regalia, so to me, the whole affair felt like a wedding. Having the child’s naming ceremony before a wedding was no problem. I loved these godly, unwound people.

  Hawa wore a silver crown threaded with marigolds, a red blouse, and a tied yellow sarong. Rezwan had converted into a legit tribesman, in a turban, dhoti, and cotton jacket. He held his baby, swaddled in the same fabric as his father for the ceremony.

  The clan and I collectively mumbled names we thought the child should have, until finally, we agreed on Ranap, the slope of a hill.

  —I just won’t say the P, Rezwan whispered. —Then at least part of his name will be in Bangla.

  Hawa’s father spoke a prayer in Khasi, and grabbed the bowl with Hawa’s placenta, rice, water, and an egg and suspended it from a tree.

  The bow and arrows were handed to Rezwan, who placed them beside Rana. Warrior father, warrior son.

  I became drunk on rice wine, tinged with melancholy, wanting my own family.

  * * *

  We all decided i
t was best to stay in Mahapunji overnight, rather than risk being on the roads after dark. Hawa’s mother would have preferred to go back to the Black Forest. She wanted Rezwan and me to be comfortable and not sleep in the small cave at the perimeter of their homes.

  We assured her that we would be fine. The cave wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. (Or as it sounds!) Besides, the Sufis’ abodes of choice were caves, no? Jute mat, a pillow, a kantha—it was like sleeping on a very hard floor.

  —Your parents cannot help but love her, I said. If not your old lady, then your old man will take to her. She’s beautiful, smart, loving—

  —You’re right, of course. Maybe we can hide here, forever. Rezwan laughed.

  —When will you tell them?

  —Once the war is over.

  —Elation is a good time to reveal secrets.

  As Rezwan slept, I stayed awake. It was our habit. By flashlight, I read the only printed thing I had, a copy of the Quran. My mind wandered to Hawa. In one stroke my brother, Aman, had snatched her innocence. And now, my best friend did not realize his fucking luck.

  I heard a scream, like a bird caught in a trap.

  She screamed again, and again.

  Rezwan was awake, on his feet. He grabbed his pistol.

  —Get up, Anwar. Bring your rifle.

  We ran toward the screaming woman, until we reached the pathway to the outhouse.

  Two red-haired shadows hovered over Hawa. She was on the ground, clutching her belly. I fell beside her. In the dark, her wounds were invisible, but her blood was warm, resinous as sap on my fingers.

  —Riet-shang!

  Rezwan fired his pistol. He did not stop to calm Hawa. His shot cleared the air, cleared my mind—and I realized. The Rajakar twins had bribed the BSF jawan with a motherfucking motorcycle. One of the twins reclaimed the stolen motorcycle and drove off, yelling at his limping brother to hop on. Already maimed by Rezwan before, the leftover twin could not prop himself up.

  —Stop him, Anwar! Go! Rezwan yelled, as he beat the man to the ground.

  I did not hear him. Running was futile. Instead, I whispered, Hawa, as she whispered, Rana. We repeated our rhyming mantra, until she said one last word, which I could not quite make out.