Finding the Unseen

by Taj63622

  Chapter 34

  The whole purpose of this trip depended on this moment. The moment she and Dhadhi have been waiting for could finally be here. As they cross the river to reach the south of Sylhet, a nervous anticipation grips her, which even the glinting river could not remedy. She looks at Dhadhi, who sat next to her, and whose expression established as if she was fighting a thousand questions in her mind. If anything, she would be feeling worse. It did not matter how intent Dhadhi may be with seeing the results, but a slight existence of regret and fear was natural. Fate has quite unfairly positioned them in a strange predicament. They want a positive consequence to this trip, yet they are scared to meet the result. Either way, they have exhausted the virtues of waiting and preserving hope.

  The Shahiraj of Rajshahi sat at the front of the nauka, perched on the wooden ledge as if he were very calm and at ease with the whole journey. Yet she and Dhadhi knew that the results mattered to him as much as it did to them. When they had lost hope, he reignited it. He did not want them to be disappointed.

  This is the second last match. BanGool could not determine the strength of the match, and they will have to decide it for themselves. A man, who goes by the name Mukhtar Ali Rahman, may possibly be Dhadhi's brother. If that is true, then Dhadhi’s brother had served in the fourth Battalion of the East Bengal Regiment. He would have fought for the country’s liberation.

  BanGool’s contact at the police station, where Dhadhi’s brother was in custody forty-seven years ago, was unable to trace the names of the prisoners of that year. In times of political unrest, office clerks managed records very poorly. However, the contact was able to obtain staff records, and from that, he was able to get the details of those officers, who were in service at the police station in Dhaka forty-seven years ago. Many, including the officer in charge, have passed away since, or relocated elsewhere without a trail. But there was one officer, who held a junior position then, that gave the next lead. For a retired man, he had a sharp memory, accurately recalling those events in the years leading to the Liberation war. Inmates that had no relatives to bail them out had an alternative route to leave prison. They were encouraged to serve in the East Bengal Regiment. Dhadhi’s brother would not have had any relatives to bail him out of prison. The army was gaining strong foothold in those times of civil unrest. It was entirely possible that Dhadhi’s brother may have been allured to join the army, a career that could provide him both income and shelter.

  By 1965, East Pakistan had military bases for five of its eight battalions. To determine if Dhadhi’s brother was serving in one of them as an incentive to quit prison, BanGool exercised his press powers further, enlisting help of another contact, who was as an administrator in the army. The level of risk that the contact was undertaking for their behalf demanded a handsome compensation. BanGool obligingly settled the fee, and the contact began to search through legacy staff records to find a match on Mukhtar Mohiddin. There were numerous matches, but none was an exact match. Some had a match on forename, while others had a match on last name. BanGool’s contact explored the most sensible matches, those that also accorded with the age of Dhadhi’s brother and the date of his admission into the army. There were over hundred potentials. Preliminary investigations allowed the contact to establish how the matches joined the army. Where files kept no information on the individual prior to their joining service, the contact saw scope for further investigation. This process of elimination left him with half the matches. He sent those details to BanGool, and BanGool stretched his resources further to obtain their present whereabouts.

  He made the search seem so easy. He so effortlessly obtained results. Jameel Dhadha had approached the same police station and placed the same request, but his voice went unheard. She wondered if he had offered a form of bribery, then would the officer have given her results. The ease at which BanGool surfaced information from the same source had her realise the strength of having beneficial connections and the power of money. It highlighted the serious issue of corruption in the country, how rife the act was, and how well it correlated with the topics, which the Shahiraj of Rajshahi talked of in his street shows.

  However legitimate were her reasons and however pure are her intentions, she has become part of this corruption. Yet, the issue of corruption did not bother her as much as the ease at which one could carry out the act. It appeared as if they could leave the scene undetected of any misdoings. There was the consolation that BanGool was a good man, whom she trusted would use information correctly. But not all are his equal. In settling a payment for the service, these contacts so easily released personal information. There is nothing to say that they will not bow before another’s request, and this other would not perhaps have good intentions. Knowledge is power after all. Power falling in the wrong hands can have detrimental effects. She recalls a particular lecture, which the Shahiraj of Rajsahi narrated not long ago. Greed and Hunger. The poor will always be hungry and the wealthy will always be greedy. There will never be enough. We will always want more, and that want becomes so great that we do not question the means of satisfying our demands. The man on the modest earning has the want of money greater than the importance to question the means of obtaining it. No fear or consequence will discourage him, and he will always validate his actions. Jobs pay so poorly here that the hunger is unlikely to diminish, but in doing so, he becomes accustomed to a satiable appetite. He fears hunger. Even he will not know when he became greedy. Sometimes she sympathised with their fear and struggles. She has witnessed their helplessness. There was limited opportunity for progression en route the honest lane. Work hard, earn good, but here one’s labour does not return justly. It was no wonder that they aspire to leave the country all together. The government is breeding a nation of quitters. Those that must survive here must do so by being greedy. They have become corrupt. BanGool’s contacts did the same. They were government employees on a salary that was insufficient to silence basic demands. To improve their circumstance, they often take advantage of their position. They will not pass an opportunity to earn extra.

  Their acts are not justified. The allure of greed and fear of hunger is present in one by default. Man is not only helpless here in this country. He is struggling everywhere. Does one not struggle in London? People are struggling against their circumstances. Some are struggling to keep a home. Some are struggling to feed their families, while others are fighting for better health. But that did not mean that they fell victim to corruption. They were aware that punishment always followed crime. She wondered at the measures that the system should place here to prevent nourishing those vices, and punishing those, who commit to it. After much thought, she came to one conclusion. Systems can have all the intrusive auditing facilities to monitor users, but without properly educating one on the virtues of honesty, their character will always be subject to wicked manipulation.

  As their boat ride ends, they board a baby-taxi after a short walk from the riverbank. The apprehension she has been suppressing suddenly gained strength. She clutched onto Dhadhi’s arm, not knowing whether she willed to console or seek consolation. Having gone through a questionable route to come here, she only prayed to find the results that would no longer subject her to moral dilemmas.

  BanGool was able to trace most matches to Dhaka and Chittagong, the two places where the East Bengal Regiment had its most prominent standing. However, the process of elimination has left them with two strong potential matches. One was in Dhaka and another being here in Sylhet. The unavailability photo identity meant that it was difficult to determine the strength of the match. If the match in Sylhet was wrong, then they will have to visit Dhaka to judge the last match. But if fortunes are in their favour, then forty-seven years later, Dhadhi will be reunited with her brother.

  The apprehension within her gains tempo. Dhadhi’s brother may not receive them at all. He may refuse to recognise Dhadhi. Perhaps he may even unleash forty-seven years of anguish upon seeing her suddenly. What would be
his reaction to see the mixed race grandchild of his sister?

  Suddenly, she recalls her father’s arguments, which reasoned against their visit to the country. Was she making a mistake?

  At length, the baby-taxi comes to a stop before a dusty entrance, leading to a sandy incline, which further led to a white-coloured property at the top. They will have to walk up the incline. She and Dhadhi exchanged an unsettled glance that sometimes portrayed excitement and sometimes nervousness. As she helps Dhadhi out of the baby-taxi, their gaze wander at the lush green surrounding, covering the handsome property atop the hill. Acres of green land stood beside her. The road was also quiet. Few cycle-rickshaws passed by, but pedestrians, in their lungi and saris were more frequent. If they do not leave this place dismayed, then there will be many questions to answer. How did Dhadhi’s brother come to Sylhet? How did his fortunes change for the better?

  The Shahiraj of Rajshahi helps Dhadhi climb the ascent, while she deliberately keeps her pace slow behind them. This appeared to be a very quiet and serene location, amidst clusters of tall palm-like-trees sprouting from the sandy grounds. The gentle breeze swayed the leaves on the tree canopies, making a sound as if to mislead one to believe it was raining. As she climbs higher, she notices a large round green pond to her left. Clusters of water hyacinths covered the far end of the pond, overlooked by more trees. Stone steps seemed to lead to the pond. The whole place looked very scenic and picturesque.

  At last, they reach the top of the hill.

  She expected to see a whole neighbourhood, but instead she notices two bungalows opposite each other, a maidan separating the two. She looks at Dhadhi, who looked equally taken aback by the discovery. Each bungalow was of sturdy built, long and wide. Steps led up to the veranda, which ran along the length of the bungalow, and from which sprouted pillars to support the roof. The four double doors of each bungalow were wide open. The curtains hanging before each door billowed against the breeze. The shutters of the windows were also open. She looked at the Shahiraj of Rajshahi, who looked rather impressed that the resident could afford such flourished living in Boldhi.

  Scarcely did they wish to proceed that a woman came out onto the veranda, dusting what appeared to be a rug. When the woman notices them, she looked somewhat alert. After some careful thought, she approached them, the whole while wearing the confused look on her face. She regarded the intruders with a guarded expression, looking more precariously at her, who doubtless looked more distinctive amongst Dhadhi and the Shahiraj of Rajshahi. She returned the observation equally, but found it difficult to estimate the woman’s age, for she has commonly found that people here always appear younger than their true age. The woman’s dark hair and mature skin could very well be that of a fifty-year old person. Her head lightly draped under her sari, the woman enquires to their purpose at her address. ‘Is this where Mukhtar Ali Hussain lives?’ the Shahiraj of Rajshahi asks confidently.

  ‘Used to live,’ the woman answers, as she regards them with growing suspicion.

  ‘Used to?’ Dhadhi says in confusion. ‘But this is his address?’ she says looking from her to the Shahiraj of Rajshahi in defeat.

  She was equally irritated at the update. They have waited so long and travelled so far only to learn that they are at the wrong address.

  ‘Yes,’ the woman clarifies. ‘He passed away seven years ago.’

  The shock of the news had Dhadhi lose her balance. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi quickly grabs hold of her.

  ‘We must be at the wrong address,’ Dhadhi says in a breathless voice, which had Mayah frantically root around her bag for Dhadhi’s inhaler. She reads the first warning signs of Dhadhi’s health, and offers her the inhaler. Dhadhi refused to take it.

  ‘We are at the wrong address, Mayah,’ Dhadhi says again. ‘My brother is still alive. He can’t die,’ she says, shaking her head decidedly. ‘I came all the way here to see him. I came all the way to make amends. He cannot punish me so severely that he should take away my right to see him again. No, we must be at the wrong address. My brother must be in Dhaka,’ she says, her voice sounding distant. ‘We must go there.’

  Suddenly, Dhadhi’s feet give away. Panicking, she and the Shahiraj of Rajshahi grab her quickly, trying hard to steady her. The woman also became worried, and offered them to come inside to sit Dhadhi down. They immediately take up the generous offer. Once indoors, she holds the inhaler to Dhadhi’s mouth, pleading her to breathe through it. A few sips of water later, Dhadhi’s health returns to some stability. When she looks up to thank the woman, she finds many other family members in her company. Two young men, a teenage boy and two women were present in the room, looking concernedly at the scene.

  ‘Are you not the person, who lectures on the streets?’ asks one of the men, having recognised the Shahiraj of Rajshahi.

  The Shahiraj of Rajshahi glances at the questioner with some annoyance, before advising her that they should leave. They were at the wrong address.

  ‘No,’ clarifies the woman, whom they first met. ‘This was his address, when he was alive. Now the house is under my husband’s name, Nazrul Ali Hussain - the eldest son of Mukhtar Ali Hussain.’

  The clarification was startling. Dhadhi, she, and the Shahiraj of Rajshahi, glance at each other, not knowing what conclusion to draw from it. There was a quiet uprising of hope and despair at the same time.

  ‘Is your father-in-law originally from Dhaka?’ the Shahiraj of Rajshahi demands to know.

  The woman answered to the positive, regarding the party in visible shock that they should know so much about her father in-law.

  ‘How do you know him?’ one of the young men asks, overcome with curiosity.

  ‘Do you have any photos or any pictures of him?’ Dhadhi asks.

  The woman nodded, but insisted them to answer first her son’s question.

  They will explain, but first they must see be sure that they are talking of the same person. Thus, defeated before their persistence, the woman tells the boy to fetch the photo album from his Dhadhi’s cabinet.

  They wait anxiously for the evidence to arrive, torn between wanting to know the truth and preparing to accept the worst. Fate is doubtless finding a strange humour from their predicaments.

  At last, the boy returns to the room, photo album in hand. He gives it to the woman, whom he addressed as Sasi, that being his Uncle’s wife. After a slight hesitation, the woman passes it to Dhadhi.

  She glanced at picture carefully, flicking through each leaf containing the black and white photos. Soon, she stopped flicking, observing a particular photo intently.

  Mayah exchanges an unsettled glance with the Shahiraj of Rajshahi, as they watch Dhadhi’s gaze fix on the particular photo. She said nothing for a long while, and neither had the courage to disturb her committed study.

  Mayah stretches her gaze to see the picture that had fixed Dhadhi’s attention. It was a family picture. The family consisted of three young children, and a husband and wife. The husband in the picture was Dhadhi’s brother. The man with the moustache was her Dhadhi’s deceased brother.

  ‘My brother is dead,’ Dhadhi says at length. Her face pale and hand shaking, she looks from her to the Shahiraj of Rajshahi in fear.

  ‘He’s gone, Mayah,’ she brings to admittance. ‘My brother is no more. I could not meet him one final time,’ and there, Dhadhi dropped her head upon her shoulder, letting out the tears of anguish.

  The Shahiraj of Rajshahi said a quiet prayer. She repeated after him, and said it one more time on Dhadhi’s behalf. She helplessly watched Dhadhi’s disappointed hopes wash away with her tears, not knowing how to console her own shattered expectations.

  ‘Brother?’ the woman asks, looking bewilderedly at them. ‘You must be mistaken. My father-in-law had no family. They all died in a fire.’

  Neither had the strength to explain or argue.

  ‘Nargis?’ a voice, low and frail sounding, calls Dhadhi by her name.

  They look up in shock a
t the person, who addressed Dhadhi. It was an old woman, sat in a wheelchair, pushed by a young girl, who looked to be in her early teens. With gradual progression, the girl and old woman reach them. There was not a trace of familiarity in Dhadhi’s face as she regarded the old woman. But there was a knowing expression in the old woman’s face. Her eyes, eluding wisdom and warmth, proclaimed as if she was expecting to meet Dhadhi, as if years of waiting was for this moment alone, that she should finally meet her sister-in-law, Nargis.