by Laki Khan
There were just the two of us. My father had passed away a few years ago due to physical ailments and old age. We missed him dearly and not a single day went by when we did not think of him. I had just graduated from the first stage of my teaching English course, which now qualified me to teach pre-schoolers to read and write basic English. My entire community were proud; I had become the first female to teach English. Every time Ammu was around the villagers they would express just how happy they were with my achievement, which made her even more proud. I was overjoyed to say the least, as I wanted to promote education, success, achievement and employment for the womenfolk of my village, just as my father would have wanted me to.
Six thirty in the morning. Ammu and I sat together out in the back courtyard; our back and front courtyard had an extending roof made out of burnt clay called tali. This was very common in our village as it protected from the scorching heat of the Grishmo – summer – season as well as the heavy downpours that came in the Barsha – the magnificent season of monsoon. I adored this part of our house as it was almost perfect for our morning, afternoon and evening ginger tea and chat times, often spent in the company of Ammu and Sumayah. The air was fresh with a light breeze; I enjoyed this time of morning. I enjoyed watching and listening to the entire Gao come to life, as the melodic humming of the birds echoed through the mud-filled valleys, the children were up, and the women were heading down to the big pond that was shared by us and a few other families. The women of the house would take all their pots to be washed at this time so the morning tea could be brewed and food preparation for the day could commence. We had no running water in our village, hence the pond was the main source for cleaning, bathing, washing laundry, and even rearing fish, whilst water for drinking was collected from the water pumps and wells that had been randomly placed around the communal parts of the village. I heard the cockerels and roosters as they dawdled across the muddy ground pecking at seeds. The men were out in their lungis busy preparing the cattle to be taken to plough the fields, as farming and agriculture remained the profession and livelihood of the majority. Nearly every household in our village owned cattle, mainly to provide fresh milk and a means to bring goods such as rice back home from the fields, whereas chickens, ducks and pigeons were raised for fresh eggs and as a source of meat and poultry.
Life here was colourfully vibrant and happy. The air and food were fresh – almost every field grew fresh vegetables just ready to be added to the menu. People lived in beautiful houses built out of burnt clay, mud, tin and even brickwork, depending on their wealth and what materials they could afford, although most villagers were burdened with poverty. Our Bari consisted of three rooms and a bathroom; the structure was built of bricks with a roof made from tin. My father had worked very hard to build this house for us and everything about it reminded me of him: the colours, the very carefully chosen pieces of furniture. We were one of the few families fortunate enough to have an indoor bathroom, as usually only the rich and elite had that facility. There was an apparent division between the rich and the poor in our village and somehow we were categorised as working class. I slid into my – soft, cotton, patterned kaftan – providing ample comfort and coolness during the heat and humidity of the village air, and wrapped my scarf loosely around my face to escape the intensity of the heat. Just like every morning Ammu packed me some thinly cut pieces of papaya as a means to stay hydrated and to avoid the heat headaches. My satchel was already packed with materials I required for the day – some paper and coloured chalk – and I slung it across my body and set off.
‘I’m going now, Assalamualaikum,’ I shouted, which simply meant peace be with you, and hurried out. This was the way that we greeted and bid farewell to each other in our village.
I knew that Ammu’s reply would be, ‘Saira, don’t forget to eat your lunch and return before nightfall.’ Ammu always wanted me to return home before the darkness of the night loomed. Firstly because she was always worried for my safety, and secondly because in my village all the women would return home before it became dark – it was almost an unspoken rule that could never be broken unless the circumstances were exceptional – although most women did not even venture out of their kitchens let alone the house, and if they did it would only be in the event of a dire emergency. The sun was shining brightly and I knew it was going to be another hot and humid day. The mud on the ground was dry and I could see the dust scattering around me as I walked. The village school was ten minutes away and I was greeted by, and greeted back, almost everybody that I met on my way.
‘Salam, Teacher,’ I heard coming from behind me. It was a group of pre-schoolers looking adorable as they began skipping away in the direction of the school. This was a proud moment for me as only yesterday I had taught them to greet fellow villagers with ‘Assalamualaikum’, and amazingly they had been able to retain that information and implement it. I felt immense love and pride for this place, and for a second could not contemplate my life without it. Jahed Pur was the name of my village; it was situated on the southern banks of the Makunda River, one of the branches of the great River Surma. Jahed Pur was two kilometres in length and situated in the south-eastern part of Sylhet Town. The majority of my village heavily relied upon agriculture as a means of livelihood, the main crop produced being rice. Not everybody here had wealth, although they carried beautiful smiles on their faces as if they had everything in the world. It was a very close-knit community, full of laughter and joy, and seeing these children every morning warmed my heart and brought a feeling of satisfaction and contentment. Deep in my heart I knew that if my father had still been amongst us he would feel the same.
I welcomed and greeted my class in Bengali and then continued in English. We went through phonic sounds and simple welcome words of the English language. These children continued to fascinate me every day. They expressed a commitment to learn that I found inspiring and this made me teach them with even more dedication. We ended the day by singing the famous pre-school rhyme ‘Goodbye everyone’, which almost all the village children had been reciting for the past two weeks: ‘Goodbye everyone, it’s time for us to go home now… we say goodbye to all our friends and playmates too.’ I waited for the children to leave one by one and then set off for home.
It was nearly afternoon and the sun was shining low and hot. I wondered how Ammu’s day was going; she was a hard worker just as my father had been. Barefoot I walked along the riverbed. I sat down for a moment, dipping my toes in slightly, and closed my eyes, enjoying the light breeze and the coolness of the river. I looked up as my attention diverted to the sound of hurried footsteps, only to discover a group of women with what looked like bloodstained mouths from chewing pan, as if they were newborn vampires. They were heading towards the river. I continued to watch a lady fully immerse herself into the water, and, as expected, a few seconds later only her head remained visible and the sari that had been draped around her earlier was now floating in the river. This was how they bathed, which I always found mesmerising – often I asked Ammu how the sari used to float so quickly. Ammu just laughed in response, informing me that this was how life had been here for generations. This notion left me wondering whether or not these women were truly happy and content in their lives or perhaps I just wanted something more in mine. I found it uncomfortable to bathe in the river, thus Ammu and I always bathed in our bathroom, which most villagers found bemusing. Watching the children splashing away made me smile; some could swim, some new swimmers were learning using the thick branches of the banana tree that floated so perfectly to support them. I continued walking as the whiff of tobacco overtook the air; the elderly men of our village had gathered, taking shade beneath the tall towering betel nut trees, drinking tea from the makeshift tea stall and smoking tobacco from their hookas. As usual they raised one hand to greet me and I returned the gesture by waving back as the sweet aroma of frothy overcooked milk tickled my taste buds. I turned to watch one of the men throw a few biscuits into his piping tea
and then slurp it down as if it were soup, which made me smile.
I reached home to discover Ammu was still at work. Although I was hungry I chose to wait for her return. I startled at the sound of a high-pitched scream and found myself being lifted up into the air and spun around the room. ‘Saira, Saira, Saira, guess what?’
Screeching back in a state of dizziness I demanded Sumayah put me down at once. ‘I can’t guess anything until you put me down.’ We ended up sprawled across the floor laughing so hard that we both complained of stitches. Only she would greet me in a manner this eccentric. She was my best friend, we had grown up together and shared everything from clothes to dolls to our innermost secrets. We saw each other every day, and could sit together for hours conversing, laughing, dreaming and even debating; most evenings the three of us would dine together. Sumayah was almost like the sister that I never had; in fact, most people upon first impression believed we were biological sisters. We sat out in the back courtyard near the narrow stream that ran through the back of our house. We sat for what felt like an eternity dipping our toes into the coolness of the water, and found it hilarious how damp frogs would jump in and out every so often as if they were stealing glances at the both of us. My stomach was still in stitches. ‘Hey, so what did you want to tell me,’ I asked, slightly out of breath. I soon discovered Sumayah’s excitement was due to the fact that, just like every year, the elite and the exuberant as I called him had come to grace our village with his presence. Rahim Khan, who was one of the most eligible bachelors in our entire village for the prospect of marriage, was spending his vacation here at his grand house which was almost the size of a palace. He visited with family and friends for a month every year without fail. They appeared to be one of the wealthiest families in the village; they owned land, cars, a large house made out of brickwork and many servants. They resided somewhere in the United Kingdom, I never bothered to enquire where exactly, as we villagers referred to the entire United Kingdom as London. Every year that he visited, most of the girls in the village would secretly hope and pray that they would be the one he chose to ask for their hand in marriage. Unfortunately, Sumayah was in this majority. I mainly found him to be disrespectful and arrogant; there was nothing about him or London that I found alluring, and Sumayah of course thought I was strange for feeling this way.
‘Saira, if I marry someone like him, I would be the happiest girl in the world. He has everything in life I could possibly want or need.’
‘Sumayah, you don’t know anything about him, apart from his wealthy, and that he prances around the village as if he owns it,’ I reasoned with her.
‘Saira, I am not educated like you, neither am I beautiful. What chance would I have with someone like him, I’m just being silly,’ she replied, dejected.
‘You are beautiful inside and out, and one day you will meet someone who will shower you with so much love that you will even forget me,’ I placated her whilst placing my arm around her shoulder. We both giggled and sat in deep thought for a moment. I pondered and questioned many things, such as whether wealth could really bring happiness into one’s life; surely that was a very skewed misconception. As for true love, I believed God had that one figured out too – everyone had a destiny and I was yet to embark upon mine. If I was completely honest, marriage was the last thing on my mind. I had just turned twenty-two years old. I had plans and goals that were yet unaccomplished, such as studying further and working, my ultimate goal being to set an example that would empower and provide opportunities for the women of my village and to inspire them to think beyond the limitations and confines of their own minds.
My attention quickly diverted to the sound of gentle footsteps coming towards the stream; Ammu had finally returned home. At once I took her bags and began to massage her fatigued feet with the mashed green roots of the water lily plant that we kept in our house, which seemed to ease her pain slightly. Ammu suffered arthritic pain and its severity appeared to be increasing on a daily basis. I had tried my utmost to convince her to give up work as I was now earning enough for the both of us; however, my efforts were to no avail. She was truly my inspiration in life; she had worked tremendously hard to build up her tailoring business, which she maintained with another lady from our village. Together they sewed baby clothes, shirts, dresses, and many other items that people requested. Ammu began this business after the devastating demise of my father; she wanted to teach me independence and to educate me, whilst instilling in me the qualities that would make me a good person. She always taught me to follow my heart and vowed to give me a life filled with opportunities, although this had proved to be a challenge at times as our village believed only boys should be educated and that girls should marry and become homemakers. Now that I was an adult, I wanted to tell Ammu and Abbu that they had given me every opportunity in life to prosper, and that everything I had achieved today was due to their love and nurture. I desperately wanted to hold my father’s hand just one final time to express how much I loved him, and to thank him for giving me the life I lived today.
I thought back to when I had been a little girl, sitting tall up on my father’s shoulders; together we would walk all around the village counting the numerous water lilies. Water lilies, or shada shapla, as we called them, were the national flower of my native land: Bangladesh. Abbu and I loved watching them floating around in the ponds, streams, lakes and rivers, especially in the monsoon season. I loved how the leaves opened up during the day and closed during the night. Abbu was a hard worker and was very passionate about developing our village and had been instrumental in achieving this goal. He encouraged the poorest families in our village to participate in the cultivation and growing of jute, in the wet and warm climate of Barsha. He then purchased handlooms and spinning wheels so that they could weave clothes, mats, and even bags to sell to nearby villages, which then became a source of livelihood for them. My Abbu was generous and kind and always smiling. One day Abbu was informed by our local Imam that the small mosque he lived in was collecting rainwater, which had seeped inside, soaking everything. The next day Abbu left very early in the morning; he walked to every house he physically could in our village and the nearby ones to raise funds just so he could rebuild our mosque. When he returned that evening, he was ecstatic. He picked me up and lifted me high into the air and said, ‘You give me so much noor when you smile at me, Saira’ When Abbu presented the funds to the Imam, who I always called Mesabji Chacha, he was so grateful that he kissed both Abbu’s hands and cried out in joy. The next morning almost the entire village arrived to express their gratitude and respect to Abbu for this wonderful gesture.
Consequently, Abbu was asked to become the head of our village council, which he reluctantly agreed to. The village council comprised a few older men who were deemed to be wise in nature, fair and just, and experienced in matters of life in general. Every village was led by its council, which people utilised whenever they were unable to sort out their differences amicably, be it a quarrel between neighbours, between spouses, or even a situation that just required someone who was fair and just to provide a few peaceful resolutions. The main purpose was to maintain peace and harmony throughout the village and its occupants.
I thought about the time when a girl that Sumayah was acquainted with had been seen out in the fields with a boy from another village; this matter had been escalated to the attention of the village council. My Abbu, being the kind-hearted man that he was, sent away all the bystanders who wanted to defame and scrutinise this girl and even punish her, which was not uncommon. He turned around to the council members and said, ‘A daughter is precious, just as is a son. They are our pride, honour and dignity and we must ensure we treat them with honour and love.’ Surprisingly the council members surrendered to this and instead of rebuking and being punitive to this girl they treated her with respect, although her mistake was still seen as being undignified, and did not pertain to the societal constraints of our village. Later that evening this girl visited ou
r house. She appeared very coy and subservient and wanted to thank Abbu for supporting her. I recalled the exact words that Ammu had said to her: ‘All that love you have, you save it for your future husband.’ I found myself wondering what she had meant.
My parents had an immensely profound faith in God, which shaped their principles and values in life and how they dealt with their trials and tribulations. I felt honoured that today those very principles and values had been instilled in me. I recalled a lady in our village who gave birth to her second child, only she considered this to be her misfortune and an omen, because she now had two daughters and her husband became adamant that he wanted to give the second daughter away. This mentality was common to the majority of people in our village; they felt daughters were mainly a burden, requiring dowry when it came to marrying them off. Whereas giving birth to a son was admirable as men were seen as the providers and the ones who would continue forward the family name, honour and traditions. This lady approached Abbu and asked where she could leave the abandoned child for someone to take in. I remember Abbu became very distressed by this; he held this child up in his arms and looked into her mother’s eyes and said, ‘Have you heard of the saying that lucky is the woman whose first born is a girl, and should a father who is blessed with two daughters raise them well with due love and care, then his journey to Jannah is made easier?’ And he smiled at the child. Suddenly this lady began to wail uncontrollably, holding her baby close to her chest almost as if she was disgusted by the action she was about to undertake. I recall the sound of her crying hysterically and then repeatedly asking God to forgive her, as she pulled the child into the warmth of her chest almost in an act to placate her.
