by Tahmima Anam
Rehana clutched the envelope in one hand and straightened her sari. She considered hailing a rickshaw and going home. Mrs Chowdhury would understand. She looked down the road, towards Dhanmondi, but she couldn’t get Sohail’s pleading face out of her head. So she made her way across the washed field, stopping occasionally to readjust her ankle strap.
High above, the sky thickened and the air swirled in a leisurely trance. It was an hour, maybe two, before the noon shower. As she approached the entrance to the thana, Rehana realized she had forgotten to rehearse what she would say. She paused outside the door, which had a rusted metal handle dulled by the press of palm prints. The field had soaked her shoes. As she opened her handbag to check for the bundle Mrs Chowdhury had given her, she shifted on her feet and tried to shake away the crawling damp. The sight of the bundle, rolled up comfortably in its rubber band, reassured her. She took a deep breath and prepared to enter. She was about to reach for the handle when the door swung open. A tall, bearded man in a military uniform stood there. He gave her a look of mild bemusement and brushed past her with a brief ‘Excuse me’ in Urdu. And he stepped aside to let her pass.
Rehana crossed a dark corridor and arrived at a large, windowless room. At one end of the room was a bald man behind an enormous glass-topped table. Metal chairs were arranged in rows in front of the desk. Anxious, silent people sat in the chairs. She felt their eyes on her as she made her way to the glass-topped desk. The whirr of the ceiling fan above the desk was accompanied occasionally by the creak of the bald man’s chair as he shifted his weight this way and that. As she approached him, he looked up from under a pair of heavy eyebrows.
‘I need to speak with someone,’ Rehana said. Her voice came out louder than she had intended.
‘Take your form and wait over there,’ the man said absently, pointing with his chin.
‘Form?’
‘Prisoner Visit Form–here.’ He handed her a soggy sheet of paper.
‘I’m–I’m not here to visit.’
His head snapped up. ‘Then what?’ Betel juice had stained his lips a sunrise orange.
‘I’m here–to release a prisoner.’
‘You’re here’–he laughed an orange saliva laugh–‘to release a prisoner?’ Tiny orange dots of spittle fell on to the Prisoner Visit Form. ‘Who are you, Police Commissioner? You don’t release prisoners, we release prisoners–understand?’
He wore a police-blue uniform, tight at the armpits and the collar. Over the back of his chair, where his head would usually rest, was a pink-and-white striped towel. The man turned to the towel and wiped the betel spittle from his mouth.
Rehana held out the envelope Faiz had given her. ‘I have a release order,’ she said.
‘Let me see that.’ He pulled it roughly from her hand. ‘Sabbeer Mus-tafa,’ he said. He turned to an enormous notebook and began to shuffle through the curling pages. Rehana leaned as closely as she dared. The book gave off a sweaty smell. He ran his finger down a list of printed names.
‘He isn’t here.’
‘What? Are you sure?’
The man turned the register around impatiently. ‘Do you see his name?’ he said, before snapping it shut with a clap.
‘Please,’ Rehana said, ‘check again.’
The book remained closed. ‘I said he’s not here. You’re wasting your time.’
Rehana pulled out the bundle of Mrs Chowdhury’s sugar money. She unwrapped it slowly, making sure the man could see the rupee notes. She pulled out fifty. ‘Check again,’ she said, mustering her courage.
He grabbed the money with five fingers, shoving it into a gaping breast pocket, and reopened the notebook. After a brief pause he said, ‘Yes. Mustafa. Released–no, transferred.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘To Muslim Bazaar.’
‘Muslim Bazaar? Another thana?’
He smiled, revealing a set of stripy teeth. ‘No. It’s not a thana.’
‘What is it? How will I find it?’
‘I can’t help you any more.’ He shook his head and waved her away. Rehana didn’t budge. She felt the row of chairs shift behind her. The man opened a drawer and pulled out what looked like a folded handkerchief. He unwrapped it, revealing a stack of heart-shaped leaves. He peeled one off the stack and placed it lovingly on the glass counter. Rehana watched him unscrew the lid from a small round tin. He snapped off the stem of the betel leaf and plunged it into the tin, emerging with a glob of white paste. This he smeared on the leaf. Then he added a pinch of shredded betel nut and a pinch of chewing tobacco, finishing the job with a few folds of the leaf and popping the triangular packet into his mouth.
Rehana let him chew the paan until it settled into a round bulge in his cheek. Then she said, reaching into her bag again, ‘Perhaps you can telephone someone at Muslim Bazaar and ask them.’
The door opened behind Rehana. The man quickly swallowed his paan and tented his fingers on the desk. He cleared his throat. ‘As I was saying, the prisoner is not here.’
‘Kuddus?’ Rehana heard. She turned around to see the man she had passed on her way inside. ‘Ei Kuddus,’ he said in rough Bengali, ‘cha do.’
Kuddus disappeared for a few minutes, came back and squeezed into his chair.
‘Boss likes the Chinese tea,’ he said, sounding a little embarrassed. He rubbed his hands on his trousers.
Rehana was ready with another fifty. ‘Can you ask someone to bring him here?’ She pressed the note on to the glass.
The Chinese tea had made allies of them. ‘I’ll see,’ he said. He picked up the heavy black telephone and turned the dial. ‘Hullo? Inspector Kuddus. Mirpur Thana. There’s a woman here. Says she has a release order. Sabeer Mustafa. Was here–he’s been transferred to you. Hold on? OK. Who’s this? Oh, yes, sorry, sir. Sir, the woman is asking–yes, yes of course. I’ll tell her. Ji. Khoda Hafez, sir. Ji, sir, Pakistan Zindabad.’ He turned slowly to Rehana.
‘You’ll have to go over there yourself,’ he said, almost regretfully. ‘They have to see the paperwork. I’ll send word. They’ll be expecting you. You can catch a rickshaw–tell them Muslim Bazaar, the pump house. They all know it.’
‘Thank you,’ Rehana said.
‘No problem. Best of luck.’ Kuddus looked her over and nodded. Then his face changed as he pointed over Rehana’s shoulder. ‘Sen?’ he said, ‘Mr and Mrs Sen?’
An elderly couple approached the desk, their heads tilted towards one another, the woman holding a tiffin carrier. Rehana heard the slosh of something liquid inside the tiffin carrier and conjured up an image of this woman’s son, sinking his grateful hands into his mother’s dal.
‘You can go in now.’ Kuddus stood up and unhooked a circle of keys from his belt. ‘Come with me.’ They left together. Rehana heard the clang of the gate as he locked it behind him.
Outside, it was raining. Thick sheets of water fell heavily from the sky, hardened by a bellowing, circular wind. The sucking sound of her feet accompanied Rehana as she made her way back across the field and on to the main road. An uneven line of tea stalls greeted her at the roadside, surrounded by a cluster of rickshaws. Rehana tried her best to cover her head with her achol, but it was no use; the wind attacked from all sides, knocking the achol out of her hand and sending her flailing to gather her sari together.
She ducked under the slim awning of the nearest stall, where she saw a group of men sitting cross-legged on the raised floor, their faces lit red by a flickering kerosene lamp.
‘Muslim Bazaar? Keo jabe? Anyone?’ The stall smelled of biscuits and petrol.
They were saying something to one another. Rehana couldn’t hear through the drumming rain on the tin roof. One of them, the youngest and smallest, uncrossed his legs and rose. ‘Bokul will take you,’ a man at the back said, motioning towards the boy with the burning point of his biri. Bokul packed and tucked his lungi between his legs. He looked like he was down to his underwear, but Rehana was beyond embarrassment; her sari was moulded to her body, and she didn’t let herself
look down to see what had happened to the colour. At least the rickshaw-men had the decency to gaze into the kerosene lamp rather than to look at her directly.
‘Wait here,’ the boy said, darting out of the shop. Rehana watched him struggle with the hood of a rickshaw; once he had secured it, he pulled a sheet of plastic from under the seat. ‘Ashen! Come quick!’
Rehana clung to the scalloped rim of the rickshaw hood as Bokul pumped mechanically through the rain. He stopped just once, to yank the front wheel out of a flooded ditch. She couldn’t see anything, she was only aware of the driving, unceasing rain, of the sari clinging to her and the violent wind, which made her shiver and wish desperately for a change of clothes. She ignored the street names and stopped looking for familiar landmarks. The trees glistened in the wet.
Bokul stopped in front of a square concrete building. The building had a high, triangular roof made of wavy sheets of tin. A faded sign painted on the tin read india gymnasium. As she made her way out of the rickshaw, Rehana gave Bokul twenty rupees. ‘I’ll have another twenty for you when I come out. You wait here for me,’ she said, shouting above the roar of the rain. ‘You wait here, no matter how long it takes. An hour, two hours–anything–you wait, you hear me?’
Bokul nodded. ‘Ji, apa!’ he said.
In the third hour of her vigil, Rehana began to worry about food. She had no idea what time it was. She was hungry; it must be after lunch. She berated herself for not packing a biscuit in her bag. She couldn’t be seen fainting. The rain made it difficult to determine the hour; the sun was blotted out by the grey mass of clouds that sat low on the horizon. Through a narrow, barred window pitched close to the ceiling, Rehana could see it was still pouring steadily. By the time her sari was dry, her eyes were stinging, and there was a dull throbbing in her joints. She folded her knees under her and thought of closing her eyes, just for a moment, just until they stopped burning.
When the guard finally brought Sabeer out, Rehana thought she might be dreaming. She jerked herself upright, ignoring the ache in her arms from where her head had rested. The thana was a dim memory. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been asleep. It had stopped raining. The tube light buzzed steadily; it smelled of evening.
There was something black covering his head. A mask–no, a hood. It was pulled tight over his face. She could see his nose, his square chin. He shook his head back and forth, breathing noisily through the gaps in the weave.
He wore no shoes. His soles made sliding tracks in the dirt.
Rehana turned to the man who had brought Sabeer. She saw a sleek black beard. Her gaze travelled upwards. He was very tall. Had she seen this man before? She checked again. Don’t look. The man smiled briefly. Stop panicking. She held hands with herself to stop from trembling.
‘You can take him,’ the man said. ‘Sign here.’ He handed her a form and a pen.
Rehana didn’t read the form. ‘Can you remove–the hood, please?’ she said, scribbling on the sheet. ‘And untie him.’
‘Of course,’ the man said politely.
He undid the knots at Sabeer’s wrists. The sleeve of Sabeer’s shirt flapped over his hands. The man lifted the hood with a flourish.
Rehana kept looking at Sabeer’s face to see if it was him. It was. She recognized the bulge of his Adam’s apple, the thickness of his neck. His lips were blistered; a white crust had formed around them, like a ring of coral.
‘This woman has brought a release order,’ the guard said. ‘You can go.’
Sabeer stared blankly at Rehana. ‘I’m Rehana–Mrs Haque.’
The rain had left the leaves shiny and the air smelling of rust. Rehana and Sabeer said nothing to one another, and she could hear only the movement of his breath, the clouds invisible above, the stars beginning to flicker, the delta beneath them churning and swimming.
‘Bokul!’ Rehana called out. ‘Bokul!’ The road was empty and slick. No sign of the rickshaw-boy. She couldn’t remember where the main road was. There were no shops here, just an empty stretch of road flanked by dipping telephone wires.
‘Sabeer, beta, can you walk a little?’
Sabeer was squatting on the edge of the road like a stray dog, his arms hanging loosely at his sides.
‘We have to walk,’ she said a little louder.
His head was between his knees.
‘Sabeer?’
Rehana heard a sound like a siren coming from his bent head. ‘Sabeer?’ she repeated. No answer. She pulled at his shoulder. The wailing grew louder; it was high-pitched and alien; a cry with no mouth.
She wasn’t sure what to do. He looked so small and insignificant, folded up as though the earth might swallow him; and no one would care that he was gone because he was just a wailing, rocking speck. She crouched awkwardly beside him, wondering whether he could hear her, if he even knew who she was. She felt a sudden, hysterical urge to leave him there and run away.
In the distance she heard the keening of the evening curfew.
‘We have to go, Sabeer, please try,’ she said. He didn’t move. She saw the dirt around his collar, and his neck, grey and tired. Perhaps he was asleep.
‘OK. You wait here,’ she said finally. ‘I’ll find something.’ She continued to speak to him as if he would answer. It made her feel less alone. ‘Stay here. Don’t move. You hear me? Don’t move. I’ll be back.’ He didn’t shift when she stood up and began to trudge up the broken path.
Rehana walked away from the gymnasium, clutching her handbag, feeling for Mrs Chowdhury’s bundle of money. I’ll throw this at the next person I see and beg them to take me home. Or anywhere, anywhere away from here.
She turned a wide corner and continued to walk until the gymnasium was out of sight. It was getting darker; without streetlights or a moon it would soon be impossible to see the road in front of her. I should turn around, she thought. Stay with Sabeer, at least I’ll have him with me. She was about to go back when she slammed into something.
‘Who’s there?’ she shouted into the gloom. She reached her fingers out in front of her and found the ridge of a rickshaw frame, fanning out like a ribcage.
‘Apa, it’s me,’ someone whispered. It was Bokul.
‘Bokul!’ Thank God. Rehana wanted to let out a cheer, but instead she said angrily, ‘Where in God’s name have you been? I told you to wait! I’ve been walking for miles.’
‘They wouldn’t let me stay. A man came out of the building with a stick.’ She could make out his face now. ‘I’ve been here, waiting.’
Rehana climbed into the seat. ‘We have to go back.’
Sabeer was not where she had left him.
‘Half an hour till the curfew, apa,’ Bokul said.
Rehana scanned the area for Sabeer. It was too dark to see anything. ‘Sabeer!’ she called out, ‘Sabeer!’ Then she heard a clanging sound coming from the gymnasium. Hands slapping against the door.
Rehana ran towards the gymnasium. She could barely make out his shape; she tried to reach around to his hands. ‘Sabeer, quiet! I have a rickshaw. We’re going home.’
She grabbed hold of his hand and pulled him towards the rickshaw. Suddenly he let out a scream. ‘No, please!’ he cried.
Rehana held on, trying to soothe him, stroking the softness of his fingers. ‘Beta, cholo, let’s go, I’ll take you home.’ But Sabeer kept screaming and twisting away from her. The sleeve of his shirt peeled away, and she saw that the hand she was holding was dark at the tips. Someone had painted his fingers. Sabeer grunted his animal grunt and said, ‘No, please, I didn’t do it!’ His voice was thick and gummy. Finally Rehana released him, and he sank to his knees and began to sob. ‘No, no, no,’ he whispered, holding his hands against his chest, ‘please.’ Rehana bent down and looked closer. The nails were soft and pulpy. Closer. Not nails, just red-tipped fingers. There were no nails. No nails; only red-tipped fingers.
‘Oh, God,’ Rehana whispered. She was afraid to touch him now, afraid to know what else lay hidden beneath his clothes.
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br /> ‘Apa, I can carry him to the rickshaw.’ Bokul had come up behind her. He squatted in front of Sabeer and cradled his head. He dragged his other arm under Sabeer’s knees and rose with a grunt. He was stronger than he looked. Sabeer’s head flopped back. Bokul trundled to the rickshaw. ‘Can you hold him up?’
Rehana climbed in from the other side and pulled on Sabeer’s collar. ‘Sit up, please, son, try to sit up.’ She felt the tears falling from her eyes. Sabeer’s body stiffened a little, and, with both arms around his shoulders, she managed to keep him upright. ‘Go, hurry,’ she said to Bokul.
‘Where do you live?’
‘Dhanmondi. Road 5.’
All she could think was, I have to see him, just once, just look a little at him. The black hood will disappear, Sabeer will not die, Sabeer is a red-fingered bird, oh, God, just one more time, even if he doesn’t say a word, not a word, I won’t have to tell him, he’ll already know, he’ll know before I step through the gate, he’ll know before I open my mouth to tell him. I won’t tell him about the hood, I won’t say it, I won’t hope he’s still there. I’ll imagine he’s already left; I’ll go home and unroll my prayer mat. I’ll ask God to do it. God will do it. I won’t ask for anything after that. Just take the man away. Take the man away.
Sabeer is a bird, a red-tipped bird.
He wasn’t there. Shona was empty. When her sister Marzia had malaria, Rehana’s mother had sat beside the sickbed and said, please, God, take the sickness from her and give it to me. Not my daughter. Give it to me. Now Rehana wanted someone to look after her in the same way. Take it from me. Take his blistered lips. Take his milky, dead eyes. Take his tired breath. Please, oh, God, take his bleeding hands. Take his red-tipped wings. I don’t want them. Not me. Take my relief. Take my relief it wasn’t Sohail. Take my want, take my want. Take the missed beat when he wasn’t there.
She lay down on the pillow, dipped into his scent.
