by Tahmima Anam
Though her face betrayed no signs of a struggle, Silvi was still holding tightly to the stack of letters.
‘Yes, yes, of course I’m sure. You can read them. There’s nothing–just poetry, a lot of poetry. I thought you might want it.’
‘All right. Give them to me. I’ll keep them.’
Still she clutched the letters, ‘Or burn them. I was going to burn them.’
A few seconds passed. Then Silvi carefully picked up the petals and retied the bundle, her fingers smoothing the fabric, stretching it tightly, mask-like, over the letters.
When she finally held out the package, Rehana was struck with a presentiment, as though her son had already died and the letters were like a gift, an exchange–a life for a stack of letters. She promised herself she wouldn’t open them.
‘I’m sorry about Sabeer,’ Rehana repeated, in an effort to change the subject. Thank God, Rehana was thinking, thank God my son is alive. ‘So, Sohail told you about Sabeer?’ And again she thought that her son was alive. It sang in her chest. Just being able to ask was a relief. ‘You spoke to him?’
‘He came to the house. “I’m in pordah,” I said, but he insisted. So I opened the window, but I stayed behind the curtain. And he said, “Sabeer’s been captured. They’re holding him somewhere. I’m going to find out.” And he said, “Don’t worry, I’ll bring him back to you.”’
Foolish, foolish boy.
How much did the girl know? Rehana clutched the letters. Her poor, foolish boy.
She went straight to the Major. ‘I want to see Sohail,’ she said, keeping her eyes on his broken leg. ‘Did you know he was in Dhaka?’ She knew the answer. ‘You knew he was here but you didn’t tell me?’
As usual, he offered no explanation. ‘It’s too risky.’
‘I don’t care. Just do it. I haven’t asked you for anything. I’ve taken care of you. Now you have to do this for me.’
He seemed to hesitate, his skin glowing a dark, sickly amber. His fingers fluttered and landed on the buttons of his grey-green uniform. Rehana ignored the small stab of guilt she felt at reminding him of his debt to her.
Three days later she got her instructions.
She was to leave in the morning as usual, with Mrs Chowdhury’s driver. She would instruct him to take her to New Market. On the way there she would complain about all the shopping she had to do, that the tailor had mismatched her green petticoat, that she needed mutton bones to make haleem for Mrs Chowdhury, and where would she find mutton bones at a time like this. When she arrived in New Market, she would get out of the car and ask the driver to collect her in two hours. She would walk straight to the fabric section of the market and stop at the petticoat shop called Miss Pretty. She would ask for a green petticoat–the colour of a tia-pakhi feather, she should say. And the petticoat man would give her a package. It would contain the green petticoat and a kilo of mutton bones. The petticoat man would walk out of the store and lead her to Sohail’s hideout.
The petticoat man led her to a squalid block of flats in Nilkhet. He pointed to a four-storey building, told her to climb the stairs to the top floor and left her with a brief ‘Khoda Hafez, Joy Bangla!’
At some time in its history the building had been painted yellow. Now it was a rainbow of decay: the outside walls were streaked with bright green moss where the rainwater had collected; the paint had peeled in places and the cement showed pale grey underneath; and the remnants of the yellow paint were orange in some spots, coffee in others. The verandas were covered in wet laundry, lungis and blouses and soggy pyjama bottoms. Rehana saw a grey pair of men’s underwear, next to which was an equally tired brassiere, and beside that a small child’s nightie. She felt an old swell of longing for the unit, the family: man, woman, child. This was the formula for happiness, the proper order of things. All other equations suffered in its shadow.
As she approached the building the smell of shutki suddenly assaulted her. Some people considered the dried fish a delicacy, but in all her years in Dhaka Rehana had never been able to stomach it. She saw another clothes line dotted with a row of tiny fish. The smell followed her up the stairs and to the flat on the top floor, where she had been promised her son would be waiting. She knocked impatiently.
‘Ammi,’ her son said, as soon as she entered. The Urdu word was the secret language of long ago; it meant he was a boy, her boy, again.
‘My son,’ she said, ‘my poor Sohail.’ She was so relieved to be in his presence. Everything, the war, the Major, Silvi, all seemed so distant, so much smaller than this moment. She pushed him away and searched his face. She saw the bright, earnest gaze, the serious forehead. ‘Ammi,’ he said again. Through the grate of hardness she could still hear the sound of her son, who was never meant to be a soldier. It was him. She was always checking to make sure he was still there.
‘You heard about Sabeer,’ he said. Rehana looked around the room before she replied. A man’s whole life seemed to have been crammed into the tiny space, like a too-short novel. There was a bed in the centre, overpowering the room, the mosquito net still draped over it, like a giant, elephantine ghost. The windows were shut, and the only light came from a single bulb strung crudely from the ceiling, casting a tired mustard halo.
‘Silvi came to see me on Saturday,’ she said sharply, suddenly reminded of the danger Sohail had put himself in. ‘Why, beta, why did you tell her?’
‘I thought she should know.’
‘But she could find out more. About you, the guerrillas, Shona.’
‘She already knows.’
‘You told her? When?’
‘She’s always known. I saw her when we were setting up Shona. And then later, a few other times.’
‘You went to see her?’ Rehana tried to keep the tension out of her voice.
‘Only a few times.’
She couldn’t stop repeating the question. ‘You went to Mrs Chowdhury’s?’
‘Ammi, I’m sorry. I had to see her. After she was married, I just had to make sure.’
Rehana felt her eyes burning. ‘I can’t believe you would do such a thing.’
‘I thought…but something’s happened to her. Have you noticed? I didn’t see her for a few weeks and when I came back she said she wanted me to stop coming. She said we’d be punished, God would punish us. She said we had sinned.’
‘You went to see her? How many times?’ She wanted to hear the details, the dates, the number of times.
‘Not that many.’
‘How many?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘I’m so angry, Sohail, I can’t speak to you.’ For an instant she thought of leaving him there in his shadowy gloom. She began pacing the small room. She found a pile of his clothes next to the bed and began folding. She counted two shirts, three vests, one kurta, one pyjama, two pairs of trousers.
‘I thought, if I told her, she would begin to trust me again.’
One lungi, one pair of socks.
‘Ammi.’
‘Promise me you’ll never do it again.’
‘I can’t do that. I just need a little more time.’
Rehana put down the lungi in her hand. ‘She wants it to end.’
Sohail shook his head. When he turned, she saw the flattened curl on his forehead. ‘That can’t be true. She says it but she doesn’t mean it.’
‘She’s returned your letters.’
‘What?’ Sohail came over to the pile of clothes and stood above Rehana.
‘I have them at home.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I’m telling you, I have them.’ Rehana paused, and then she guessed: ‘You quoted Rumi, Amir Khusro.’
‘You read them?’
‘Only a little.’ It wasn’t true. She hadn’t dared break her resolve. But if she’d had love letters to write, those were the poets she would have chosen. Then she saw an opportunity and took it. ‘Sohail, listen to me. The Major says there’s nothing to be done anyway. Silvi doesn’t need
to know. The important thing is to keep quiet from now on.’
‘You told the Major?’
‘Of course I told him. Who else can I turn to?’ And suddenly she wanted this meeting to be over, so she could tell the Major about it, about the painful love for her son, about the dirty flat, the girl that was no longer a girl but a curse, and she knew that it wouldn’t be until she told him that the day would have any meaning.
‘There’s nothing to be done, Sohail. Just let it go–Sabeer, God willing, will survive.’ For a second she was almost glad Sabeer was captured. She could trace back the start of all this madness to the day he’d walked into her drawing room with Mrs Chowdhury flushed and cooing with pride.
‘Nei, Ma, there is something. Something you can do.’
Rehana thought she had misheard. ‘Me?’
‘That’s why I came back to Dhaka. It’s you. You can save Sabeer.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘He’s been brought to jail. We know he’s somewhere in the city.’
The light outside was fading. Sohail was kneeling in front of her. His hands were on her knees but she couldn’t feel them. His voice was coming from far away, under water, and hers was unnaturally loud when she said, ‘You want me to offer to take Sabeer’s place? Should they torture me instead of him? That’s what you want?’ Rehana could barely see Sohail any more; he was a blur of hair and mouth.
‘Faiz Chacha can get Sabeer out,’ said the under-water voice.
‘Faiz? Your uncle Faiz? No.’
‘I’m telling you.’ A wave, a roar.
‘Why?’
‘He’s got something to do with the army–we’re not sure exactly what. But he has a lot of influence.’ Sohail’s red-rimmed eyes widened.
The words sank in, and the room grew quiet. ‘You’re going to send me begging to him?’ Rehana whispered.
‘It’s the only way Silvi will trust me again.’
‘You’re serious.’
‘Yes.’
Rehana waited for the words to settle. Go begging to Faiz and Parveen. Rescue Sabeer. When she pictured it in her mind, she felt strangely relieved. It was the most distasteful, gruesome task. But it was also an opportunity. Her son was giving her another chance to atone. The years of slavish devotion, the mothering, the theft–she had always known they would not be enough. She could not help welcoming the prospect of some new sacrifice.
Still, the feeling of injustice did not vanish. ‘You can ask me to do this?’
‘He’ll think you’re doing it for Mrs Chowdhury. You can say she begged you to come to him. Say how fond you are of her daughter.’
‘You’ve thought of everything.’
‘Ammi, please do this for me. This is the only thing I care about.’
‘This is the only thing? What about the war, the country, the refugees, all of that? Suddenly none of it matters? What do you think will happen if I bring Sabeer back? You think Silvi will fall into your arms?’ Before he said anything she already knew the answer.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘She’s married to him. Not to you.’
‘She’ll know how far I’m willing to go.’
‘What have you been doing all these months? Fighting a war or throwing sand at Silvi’s window?’
‘Ammi, I was there when Aref died. He looked at me and he said, “If I had a hundred lives I would lose them all.” How can it be the greatest and the very worst thing we have ever done? Everything, everything is upside down. Wrong is right. My mind is full of the filthiest, most brutal things–and I just need her. I can’t explain it. When I see her, at the window, I just need her.’ Sohail’s eyes were swimming. ‘Please, Ma, for me, just once, I’ll never ask you for anything, just please, go and get Sabeer, get him out of there. Ammi, amar jaan, please.’
‘Enough. Stop begging.’
Sohail was sobbing now, his face collapsed, his palms pressed against his eyes. ‘It has always been Silvi, ever since I can remember.’
‘All right.’
‘You’ll do it?’
‘I’m as much a slave to you as you are to her.’
He looked up, and she knew he was thinking he would someday make it up to her, pass the debt back. Neither said anything for a few minutes. Sohail was still kneeling in front of her. She passed him a rag from the pile of clothes, and he wiped his nose. And then he smiled and said, ‘How do you like my palace?’
‘It’s disgusting. They couldn’t find you somewhere decent?’
‘I’ve been teasing Joy. He has your cooking, and I have to stay here.’
‘Why don’t you let me bring you something?’ It seemed such a pathetic question. What could she possibly bring him?
‘You can’t come back here,’ he said.
‘I can send someone with food, clothes.’
‘It’s too dangerous.’
Something snapped inside Rehana. ‘Dangerous! There are enough explosives buried under the rosebushes to flatten all of Dhanmondi. You’re worried about putting me in danger?’
Sohail wrapped his long arms around her and whispered, ‘Thank you, thank you, Ammi, you are saving my life.’
My life is your life, she thought. ‘Will you be here long?’
‘No. As soon as Sabeer is released I’ll go back across the border.’
‘There’s no guarantee Faiz will release him. Or even if he can.’
‘He can. I know he can. You just have to convince him.’
The first thing Rehana did when she got home was take a bath to get the fish stench out of her skin. She changed her sari and put the rice on the stove for dinner. Dusk was settling in the sky, its purple light gently grazing Shona and the bungalow.
Then she went to the Major’s room.
The record player was silent, and his hands were folded together on his lap. He appeared to have shaved, his chin and cheeks gleaming. He was sitting up and doing nothing, just staring at the opposite wall, which was bare except for a framed, garlanded photograph of Mrs Sengupta’s parents.
‘Was it far away?’ he asked without saying hello. ‘Did you get lost?’
‘No.’
‘You just got back?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why is your hair wet?’
‘I bathed.’
‘I thought you said you just got back.’
‘Are you worried or just nosy?’
He didn’t say anything after that. It was obvious he wanted to know what had happened, but for some reason she was irritated at him, and the events of the afternoon refused to assemble themselves into any sensible order. Now that she had finally seen Sohail, she could no longer imagine they were using him for some exclusive, important task. He was just a beast like the rest of them, useful only for his body, his strength, like any other body, any other strength. If it was the same to them, why did they have to have him?
‘He thinks I can get Sabeer out,’ Rehana finally said.
‘You? Get a soldier out of jail? How?’
‘My husband’s brother. He has some connection with the army.’
The Major’s face closed up.
‘The thing is–Sohail is in love with Sabeer’s wife.’ It came out accidentally. Why did the words just fall out of her mouth in this man’s presence? Again he said nothing, and again she was grateful–probably because he appeared never to be shocked. To make herself feel better she told him to get up so she could change the sheet.
‘You told him you’d do it?’ he asked, not moving.
‘Of course I did.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
The suggestion irritated her further. ‘How can you?’ she said cruelly. ‘You can’t even walk to the gate.’
‘You could get caught.’
‘He’s my brother-in-law, he wouldn’t turn me in,’ she said, knowing it wasn’t true. ‘I can just be concerned for a neighbour. There doesn’t have to be anything suspicious about it.’
‘And when he asks you where you stand, with the war,
if you believe in Bangladesh or Pakistan, what will you say?’
‘Whatever I have to.’
‘You shouldn’t do it.’
‘You don’t have children.’ She felt her neck burning, and she smelled the wheel soap she had scrubbed into her face, and the remnants of the jobakusum oil in her hair, and the astringent sharpness of the talcum powder under her arms.
The Major’s ceiling fan was switched off. In the afternoon, though it was always hot, his fever rose and he would shiver under his blanket until the sun travelled low and dipped beneath the horizon.
Rehana, wiping the dampness above her lip, said, ‘Why don’t you play a record?’
‘This is a bad, a terrible idea.’
‘I’ve already sent a message to Parveen. They’re expecting me for lunch on Friday.’
I won’t tell Iqbal, she said to herself that night, watching a mosquito trying to break into the net. If I tell him I’ll end up talking myself out of it. I know it’s dangerous, and it probably won’t work. And imagine the smug look on Parveen’s face. Those stupid, bulging eyes. No, it probably won’t work. Who is Sabeer to me anyway? Would he save my Sohail if he had the chance? Nothing doing. Phat-afat he would run the other way. Mrs Chowdhury? We both know the answer to that. And that girl, Silvi, she’s the cause of all this hangama.
By the end, she would have talked herself out of it. No, she would not visit Iqbal.
A black Mercedes-Benz came to collect Rehana. The driver was a man in a white shirt and a skinny black tie. He sat rigidly in his seat, blowing cigarette smoke out of the window. When he saw Rehana close the gate and turn to fasten the padlock, he shot out of the car and stood stiffly against it. He was dark and very thin. He crushed the cigarette with the heel of his shoe and waited for her to approach.
When she was within a few feet of the car, the man’s arm scissored into a clean salute.
‘Mrs Rehana Haque?’ he asked.
Rehana’s tongue glued itself to the roof of her mouth. ‘Ji,’ she managed.
‘Quasem driver. Accompanying you to the Haque residence.’
‘Thank you,’ Rehana replied.
The door slammed shut behind her. The inside of the car was enormous and smelled of kerosene. Quasem jammed his foot on the accelerator, and they sped away. Rehana felt herself slide uncomfortably on the leather seat, her sari getting crumpled as she was dragged from side to side. She had dressed carefully for her meeting with Parveen. She wore the most unflattering sari she owned–a starched, grey organza that would puff out at the pleats and make her look thick-waisted. She didn’t try to iron out the creases; she didn’t even smooth them down with her hand. She didn’t wear any make-up; she tied her hair into a flat, severe bun and fastened it with plain black bun-clips. Parveen always needed to be the more beautiful one.
