by Taj63622
Chapter 4
With more eyes keeping observation, Nargis’s schedule could hardly remain secret.
The next day, when she left her small apartment with a wash load of clothes, heading directly for the Buriganga riverbank, the children immediately informed the resident at number twelve. He settled the children’s due and collected Jameel rom his place of residence. Being a journalist, he had the requisite talent to follow one without going detected.
At length, Nargis reached the riverbank. Thankfully, there were both men and women at the bank, and was conveniently busy, making his appearance less distinct. White sheets and long yards of colourful saris hung loose from the washing lines, widely spread to dry under the sun. Nargis promptly took to the task of washing her clothes, while Jameel casually gave him a tour of the scene, pointing here and there, explaining this and that. He took random pictures of the setting as an intrigued tourist would. They have to appear indiscreet. Women shied away as they took their pictures, but men stood proudly at their photo shoot. The sudden coming of a light breeze lifted the hanging sheets as he quietly walked past them, allowing him to see her on the bank. He stood here for a while, his gaze fixed on the girl, as if in a calming trance. The breeze mustered a strange energy, lifting the sheets high into the sunlit air, unveiling completely as if to let his eager gaze see the girl unobstructed. She sat there, at the edge of the riverbank, beating her clothes, rinsing them repeatedly in the silvery water with her lithe arms. He watched her in an inexplicable rise of pain, desiring to request the girl to have some pity on those fragile arms.
Did she hear, wondered he in amazement as she stops almost immediately. Her dark eyes look here and there, as if looking for that culprit that should admire her. He feared the girl might have noticed his shameful behaviour of stalking, but she merely looked for a vacant space upon the washing line. She touched the hanging sheets to check their dryness, and satisfied they are dry, push the whole lot to one side, creating space for her sheet, and unexpectedly bringing him to her notice.
There remained little difference between those hanging sheets and the colour on her face, both plain and drained. Her eyes would have deceived her mind to believe she had never seen that face before had it not been for the unmistakable camera. His identity fell to her familiarity at once. She was scared and concerned for her safety. She suspected his intentions to be ill. Yet she made no move to ascertain her safety, eyes fixated upon the Englishman lest the slightest flicker should provoke him. She stood immobilised, one arm stretched to the sheet and another holding the one she intended to hand. Questions overwhelmed her mind to his purpose here. Perhaps he was just taking pictures. Or did he misconstrue the reasons she returned his camera to him? Did the Englishman conceive some other meaning of finding him in the bazaar?
‘Do not be alarmed,’ he said noting her sceptical gaze upon him. Jameel, now beside him, translated without delay, echoing his words into Bengali. ‘We want to discuss something important. It is related to your brother. But we cannot discuss this here.’
‘What about my brother?’ she asked in the natural sisterly concern, looking from Jameel to the Englishman.
‘Not here,’ Jameel echoed again. ‘We need a quiet location,’ he said looking away from Francis. ‘But you should choose a place you feel most safe.’
He did not wish her to interpret any offensive meaning from his request.
She was startled, but more eager to learn the matter regarding her brother. She could not agree rashly and place herself in possible danger. The English are not to be trusted. She gave his request a lengthy thought, but her brother’s safety raised her concerns more. She studied the Englishman continuously, hoping to detect insincerity in his character. To her dismay, she found nothing to favour her doubts. His grey eyes possessed innocence and his face portrayed an unarguable concern. But even under this witness, she could not resolve her mind to heed to his request. ‘Jameel will be present too,’ he made clear, having read her hesitations accurately. ‘If not trust me, an outsider,’ Jameel repeats, but in Bengali, ‘then at least have faith in one of your own.’
She did not know why, but it was this – the Englishman’s last sentence – that formed her agreement.
The condition that she decides the meeting place gave her great confidence. Public meeting place posed many dangers. She decided her to meet them at her present accommodating place. If she should be under any threat then at least help will be nearby. As the matter regarded her brother, she shall inform him too of this meeting.
‘No,’ Francis objected rather quickly. She understood that much English that Jameel did not have to translate. ‘Your brother must not be aware. Please,’ he willed her.
Her questioning look softened at length. It was another fleeting acceptance, in which her mind did not feel the necessity to predict the possible disadvantage of her bravery.
‘My brother spends most of his time in our old village,’ she informs the two men. ‘Anytime between two and four will suit.’ Her brother comes home for lunch at one, and then returns home at five for prayers.
He and Jameel left immediately, while Nargis resumed her chores with a heavy heart. That night she could not sleep. Her brother’s welfare had her in great distress. What matter involved her brother that the Englishman needed to discuss? She had lost her parents already. She cannot bear to lose her brother.
The reason became clear the next day. It was approaching half-two. Her brother was safely out of the small apartment when they arrived promptly. It was an awkward setting. They sat opposite her, stealing glances at each other as they struggled to find the fuel, which could ignite mouth to erupt words. She felt rather self-conscious, holding securely the drape of her sari as it guarded her petite frame against their watchful study. A brief silence ensued between a conciliatory greeting and her eventual initiative to enquire the matter involving her brother.
‘Your marriage,’ Francis began. ‘Do you know who you’re marrying?’
Jameel found a slight discomfort in relaying the question, for it was not the usual custom for men to speak openly of these subjects with unrelated females. However, reclaiming his position as a mere interpreter, he helplessly overcame his modesty and translated promptly.
The voice was his, but the words were of the Englishman. Thus, she kept her gaze attached to the latter throughout. His acknowledgement of her marriage startled her. She wondered how and why the Englishman showed interest in her personal affairs. They waited patiently for her reply, but overcome by embarrassment, her mouth did not find the encouragement to speak. Her gaze lowered as mouth continued its struggle. Francis noticed the indicatory features to conclude her discomfort. His length of stay here has made him familiar to the customs here, but the current matter was not such that he could abide by them. He pleaded her to speak openly.
‘I thought you wish to discuss something about my brother?’ she asks, her voice small, her gaze lowered, clearly demonstrating her discomfort on the subject.
The medium, through which her words traversed, obediently delivered her question to Francis. ‘So you are getting married,’ Francis confirmed, a little disheartened though did not understand the reason. ‘Do you know who you are marrying?’
She nodded.
‘And you are happy?’
She nodded again.
He thought a long while about her response.
‘If you can say no to this marriage,’ he asks, ‘would you say it?’
Her dark gaze lifts at him in astonishment. Girls did not have the liberty to decide whom they marry.
‘You are not happy,’ he states on her behalf. ‘Then why did you give your consent? Why did you agree your marriage with a man old enough to be your father?’
Her silence turned into a form of punishment to his eager ears. She sat still, eyes unable to meet anyone in the room, gradually welling up, and she began to feel even more embarrassed. She dared not blink lest she should squeeze her to e
scape. She was at a senseless age, lacking understanding to give any suitable reply. She was afraid and nervous, embarrassed and humiliated - by what or whom she could not tell. She feared to speak her mind. She feared to lose. She feared the truth. Her heart and mind was not one with the alliance her brother decided.
The realisation detained her in such fear that she advised herself to remain silent, and not endanger her brother’s expectations.
‘I have no right to interfere,’ the Englishman said in abating tones, ‘but you have the right to make decisions for yourself. You will do no wrong if you voice your refusal to marry the landlord. It is not your brother’s marriage - it is yours.’
His words were fresh to the ears of that sex who was accustomed to hearing the contrary. The rim of her lower lids had now surpassed its ability to collect her tears, giving way to a hushed cascade.
‘Do you know how old your suitor is?’ he asks in an uprising of disgust, rising to his feet unable to sustain his anger. ‘Your brother wishes to get you married to a man whose widow you will most certainly become in just a few years should you marry him! Then what? Who will you marry next? It is not your happiness your brother seeks, but a form of financial recovery. It is not marriage, but an exchange, a selfish deal between your brother and that scheming landlord. Your brother wishes to rebuild a house on the foundation of your ruined prospects. Do not sell yourself at such despicable prices, and sacrifice your hopes for believing yourself fulfilling a sisterly duty.’
Jameel came to the end of his translation. This time he did not wait for the journalist to finish first before proceeding with his directed role. It appeared as if the journalist forgot the girl’s inability to understand the language and spoke freely without pause or indeed allowance for him to translate.
Jameel’s mouth moved, but she heard only the journalist’s voice. He spoke those words, but it was the journalist, who defined them. He was livid, but why for her sake? Why does he show compassion for her welfare?
‘Why,’ she musters encouragement to ask, keeping her dark eyes fixed with his, ‘do you care so much about my future?’
Mouth opened, but spoke not. Eyes met hers, but answered not. Her question silenced him, and instead he wonders, unable to reach an answer to her question.
Jameel waited rather impatiently to hear the journalist’s reply. He too wished to learn the reasons of the journalist’s interest.
He looked astounded, nay, lost - he was lost. He was but a mere guest. Amongst them, he was but a stranger. Then why did he attach himself to another’s affair? And this strongly too that he should leave his place of living.
‘I don’t,’ he says at length, keeping his gaze fixed on her. ‘I don’t care.’
What else was she expecting to hear that she should look at him in contempt?
He felt uneasy and irritated, at what or whom he could not decide. He could only ascertain that much that his interference will avail no consequence. Thus, he decides to leave.
He nods to bid his leave, and she notices a faint disappointment in his eyes. She looked at endearingly at his concerns for her welfare, that there was one that sought her betterment.
He turned away, and she felt as if he extinguished all her hopes.
He did not like the way matters ended. He sincerely hoped to convert her mind about this marriage. He leaves instead knowing he achieved nothing.