Finding the Unseen

by Taj63622

  Chapter 27

  For a long while, he said nothing. She wished to acknowledge him of her ordeal, but instead she comes to realise the extent of her situation.

  ‘So you have no money,’ he notes thoughtfully, reclining idly in his chair, ‘no spare clothes, no passport, and no address?’

  Her head lowered, she answers with a reluctant nod.

  ‘Apart from some Jameel Dhadha, who lives in Sreemangal, and an estranged relative you’ve never met, you have no other contacts here?’

  She nods again.

  ‘Your father maybe in Bangladesh, but he doesn’t know your whereabouts and you don’t know his?’

  She nods again, helplessly admitting one more fact. ‘During the whole Dhadhi commotion,’ she says, her head still lowered, ‘I dropped my phone. I don’t have it on me, and I don’t know Jameel Dhadha’s contact number of-by-heart.’

  The Shahiraj of Rajshahi elapsed into another silence. Neither said anything.

  The nurse leaves Dhadhi’s room again, informing them that she is awake. She eagerly rises to her feet and enters the room. She hugs Dhadhi tightly, expressing her joy and relief at finding her well.

  ‘I’m fine, dear,’ Dhadhi reassures her, trying to calm her as she helplessly cries again.

  Carrying a clipboard, the doctor comes in with a smile. ‘The reports have come back normal,’ he says in Bengali. ‘I understand your Dhadhi is on medication for her blood pressure.’

  Mayah affirms, explaining once again the reasons to why those medicines are not in their possession. He has prescribed them again and an inhaler. He hands her the prescription papers, and she takes them hesitantly. Apart from that collection, the doctor was happy to discharge Dhadhi.

  The Shahiraj of Rajshai enters as soon as the doctor leaves. ‘Assalamualaykum,’ he greets Dhadhi.

  Dhadhi returns his salaam immediately, while Mayah watches anxiously as Dhadhi’s expression changes to mark her recognition of the Shahiraj of Rajshahi.

  He understood the reasons behind Dhadhi’s astonishment. The two women needed some time in each other’s confidence. Thus, he offers to collect the medicines, taking the prescription slip out of her hands. As soon as he leaves, Mayah relates the development between here and the airport.

  So much has happened in those six hours.

  The Shahiraj of Rajshahi knocks and re-enters the room, carrying a small bag of medicines.

  ‘You can thank me once we have vacated the room,’ he says having read the two women’s appreciative glances.

  Dhadhi and Mayah exchange an unsettled glance on the mention of vacating the room. They have nowhere to go once they leave the hospital.

  ‘There are many options,’ the Shahiraj of Rajshahi announces wisely, ‘but of them only three are sensible.’

  They eagerly wait to hear more.

  ‘It’s always three,’ he adds quietly, but then adopting a serious voice, he continues. ‘Option 1: British High Commission. You can knock on the doors of the government, tell them your story, and wait patiently for their help. They have an office in Sylhet, but their opening hours are from eight in the morning until half-three in the afternoon. The time is now,’ he checks his silver pocket watch, ‘coming to eight in the evening. During office closing hours, please call 88028823305. Having gone through one operator to the next, you will be advised to set up an appointment with one of their agents. Once they have confirmed your case is genuine, and you are not some terrorist or an escapee, they may give you a replacement passport. Only they know how long this will take, but I strongly advise you to consider your Dhadhi’s health.’

  In spite of herself, a small rose to her lips. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi gave this option, but in a way as to not have said anything negative about it, yet highlighted the flaws in accepting it.

  ‘Option 2?’ she asks interestedly.

  ‘I take you to the train station, and personally deliver you to your relative, Jameel Dhadha. I can only recommend you to consider the time and length of your travel. It is dark out there and it will take us at least three hours to reach your Jameel Dhadha’s house. Consider his reaction when he receives you, and your Dhadhi’s health. Oh, and this is all dependent on if we can get tickets and whether there is an available train to Sreemangal at this hour.’

  This option did not seem too appealing either, which leaves option 3.

  ‘I share a flat,’ he recites the final option, ‘with two respectable men and an orphaned child, whom you have already met at the dhaba. It’s been a very long day. You need rest, your Dhadhi needs rest, and I need rest. I can spare you a room, and we can let this night somehow pass. In the morning, we will have a fresh mind to decide on the next action. If you agree, then I promise to take full responsibility of your welfare.’

  She and Dhadhi exchange another unsettled glance. It was tempting to not think about tomorrow, and yet put this disastrous day behind them. But she did not have the indecency to intrude in someone else’s household like unexpected guests. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi has suffered enough inconveniences at her expense. She could not delve him into any further. Scarcely did she wish to decline this offer that the Shahiraj of Rajshahi speaks again.

  ‘You have no reason to suspect my intentions,’ he says.

  ‘It is not that,’ Dhadhi reassures him. ‘We can’t intrude your space. You have a life of your own and we don’t wish to disturb you any further.’

  ‘I have a living, not a life.’

  He spoke in a way that struck Mayah with empathy. It’s as if everything he said rose from a bitter experience. A strange mystery surrounded the Shahiraj the Rajshahi. She grew ever so curious to know. Besides, what other choice did they have?

  Not their own, but towards a home they will go.

  The Shahiraj of Rajshahi lives in Lamabazar, in a three bedroom flat of a three-storey building, which he shares with three other people. Each floor had a flat, and each flat had its own balcony. The middle floor belongs to him and his flatmates. Their landlord is native of Sylhet, but lives in America having gained citizenship twenty-two years ago. The landlord was a restaurateur, the income of which helped him construct this three storey building. This was not the only property under his name. Apparently, the landlord had several around Sylhet. ‘I have only one confusion,’ the Shahiraj of Rajshahi admitted as they hopped off the rickshaw. ‘I cannot seem to conclude whether his restaurant earning funds these constructions, or whether the rent he earns from these properties funds his business abroad. Don’t stress your mind,’ he advised her as soon as she set to resolve the confusion. ‘I’ve been living here for four years, and the dilemma remains a dilemma.’

  The landlord comes to Sylhet every three months to collect his rent. He had a family of his own. In fact, he married a girl from Sylhet, who also immigrated to the US.

  It was very dark and the only sound was that of the crickets, pulsating through the humid night air. The poor street lighting made it difficult to gather the surrounding. She could only see similar looking buildings, some smaller, some bigger, with specks of overgrown trees growing between the concrete structures. Empty washing lines strung from one tree branch to the other, while others hooked from one building to another.

  The Shahiraj of Rajshahi’s flatmates were both workers, of similar age. Shoaib works at a garment factory, and Hassan works at one of the newly built shopping malls in Sylhet. The scarcity of jobs in their native villages attracted both men to seek employment opportunities in Sylhet. Shoaib has been in Sylhet for the last four years, and Hassan has been here for almost a year. They send money regularly to their families at home. None was married, and she gained the general impression that their struggles have not improved much. The only person that does not pay rent is the orphan boy, whom the Shahiraj of Rajshahi named Live Wire. When she enquired why he gave this name to the child, the Shahiraj of Rajsahi answered, “When I first saw him, he was as thin as a wire, yet very charged, running around here and here, thieving away”.

&nbs
p; Live Wire was still at work at the dhaba. When the dhaba closes at ten, someone often drops him home.

  The two flatmates received the Shahiraj of Rajshahi with visible concern. All three usually meet at their local mosque for the sunset prayer, but their friend was absent today. When they wished to learn of the reason, the Shahiraj of Rajshahi introduced her and Dhadhi to them instead. Concerns turned into confusion, at which point the Shahiraj of Rajshahi requested his friends to refrain from asking anything until he accommodates their guests. Explaining nothing, he leads her and Dhadhi towards the room where they are to spend the night.

  She and Dhadhi stole interested glimpses about the house as they walked along. The flat was not small, but spacious enough to fit four tenants. The furnishing was nothing to share, but for a house that had no female tenants this was hardly surprising. The most distinctive item of furnishing she noticed was the television. It was the conventional television, with the concave screen.

  At length, they reach a bedroom. It was a small room, with two single beds at each corner. There was a glassless window besides one of the beds, its shutters safely closed, while a single wardrobe and a small chest of drawers stood in between the two beds, aligned against the green washed walls. ‘This is my quarter,’ he gestures to the room proudly. ‘But it will be yours until further notice. Live Wire usually sleeps there.’

  ‘Where will you and Live Wire sleep?’ she asks, feeling ashamed that because of her stupidity she has deprived her well-wisher of his bed.

  ‘I sleep wherever I find sleep,’ the Shahiraj of Rajshahi answers easily. ‘Live Wire can sleep on the bedstead in the living room.’

  She disapproved. It did not feel right to deprive a child of his bed space, especially after he comes back from a hard day’s work.

  ‘The comfort of a bed is beyond an orphan’s expectation, when he is more than grateful to have a roof over his head,’ he cajoles her. ‘Why don’t you and Dhadhi freshen up? The bathroom is in the next room. Turn the geyser on to get the hot water, and I should have some spare towels.’

  He rummages through the wardrobe, into which Mayah stole discreet glances. He had similar clothes to his present attire of white shirts, dark blazers, hats, and black pants. He finds a spare towel, neatly folded, and hands it to Dhadhi. ‘I only have one,’ he admits. ‘You will have to share.’

  Mayah thanked him wholeheartedly for all his help. ‘Mention not,’ he replies somewhat distractedly, heading over to the bed, and declining to the ground, he retrieves something from underneath it.

  An old trunk.

  He looks at it carefully, almost melancholically, for some time. He looked torn, but eventually recovering, he gestures to it and says, “All yours.”

  Explaining nothing further, he reclaims some of his essential belongings, and takes his leave.

  Her curiosity unable to contain itself, she unclasps the buckles of the trunk. Inside, there were many clothes, mainly saris, some plain and some fancy.

  Nargis feels the material between her fingers. No one makes saris of this quality anymore. These saris must be of a time when the labourer was paid his full due to make it.

  Mayah leafed through the clothes, finding nothing that she may feel comfortable wearing. When she reached the bottom of the pile, she noticed a package of some kind. It was a small envelope. She was conscious of her inappropriate temptation to pry. Dhadhi warned her against it, to which she did not argue, replacing the envelope at the bottom the pile. ‘I don’t wear saris,’ she helplessly complains.

  ‘These saris are not the ones you tried in London,’ Dhadhi defends the material. ‘Look at the quality of these saris,’ she says appeased. ‘These are handmade by hardworking labourers. Their earnings depended on the quality of their work. And even then they got paid poorly.’

  She turns red with shame.

  ‘I’ll dress you in a way that your stomach doesn’t show,’ Dhadhi reassures her.

  There was no other alternative. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi has been so kind to them that she could not risk offending him by refusing to wear these clothes. Dhadhi decides to freshen up first, while she flicks through the pile of clothes, undecided to which one she should wear. Immersed between the clothes, she notices something else again. It was a photograph – a coloured photograph of the Shahiraj of Rajshahi’s graduation. A man in spectacles stood on one side of him and a sari-clad woman stood on the other side. Both were smiling proudly. They must be his parents. Where are they now?

  She recalls something that Iqbal said to her some time ago. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi is fighting a war with himself every day. What war was this? What compelled this first-class degree holder to become a Street Entertainer? What are the reasons to his strong objections to education, when he himself is a graduate?

  Who is this Shahiraj of Rajshahi?

  He could be a chef.

  For Dhadhi he cooked ‘kisuri’. It was a simple rice dish, slowly boiled in water, with a flavouring of salt, ginger, methi seeds and bay leaf. During Ramadan, Dhadhi always prepares it for iftar. It was easy on the stomach. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi did not wish to take any risks with her health.

  Being under no restriction, she ate her rice and curry welcomingly, despite the discomfort of wearing the sari. Everyone ate together. Her Sylheti is bound to improve the more she hears another talking it. During dinner, she learnt more about Shoaib and Hassan brother’s jobs, and of their families. Shoaib’s father used to work in the rice fields, but is now retired, and Hasssan’s father passed away when he was a child. He does not remember how old he was, but it was before his little sister learned to walk. In return, she and Dhadhi talked of their family and life in the UK. Surprisingly, Shoaib and Hassan were very familiar with the famous places of London. They have seen Buckingham Palace, London Eye, Big Ben, and Tower Bridge many times in Bollywood movies. She never watched any Bollywood movies, so was quite shocked to learn this bit of news.

  They shared something of their family, except the Shahiraj of Rajsahi. He said nothing about his family. At one point, she was tempted to ask him. But for some reason, she swallowed the question, leaving it unsaid. Live Wire soon joined their small group. He came home shortly after ten. When he saw her, he turned pale at the very sight of her, greeting her with the word “Mastorni”. Dhadhi laughed at the referral he gave her. She later learnt that ‘Mastorni’ means teacher, a name the boy doubtless gave her after their last meeting.

  She enquired after his day at work. It was a busy day at the dhaba. Customers came in their masses. He barely had more than two minutes between customer orders. Returning to his usual sense of humour, the Shahiraj of Rajshahi jokingly told the boy that he would be taking a contribution towards the rent this month. Thankfully, the boy does not start work until one in the afternoon, and more than that, he was happy to work at this age.