by Taj63622
Chapter 36
She struggled to sleep over the noise of birds tweeting and what sounded like chickens. Bleary eyed, she gathers the time through the mosquito net, and found it to have passed seven in the morning. Sunrise happens so early these days that she finds it a struggle to wake up on time to pray. Rubbing sleep from her eyes, she escapes the netted prison, unlocks one of the two doors in the room, forgetting which door led where, and leaves the room, hoping she remembers her way to the bathroom. However, she found this door led her straight to the veranda. She would have retraced her steps to the other door had she not taken a fancy to the crisp early morning air. The courtyard was basking in bright sunlight, but the general air was deeply comforting. To her surprise, she found Azad Chacha also on the veranda. He sat at the far end, deeply absorbed in reading the newspaper. She considered against disturbing him, but eager to learn the headlines, she approaches him. When he noticed her, he gets up from his chair like a gentleman, asks after the quality of her sleep, before gesturing her to take a seat. After the Shahiraj of Rajshahi, Azad Chacha was the only other person she knew, who spoke such impeccable English.
‘Breakfast will be served later than usual today,’ he says jovially, also sitting down. ‘Bhabhi – Rabia Chachi,’ he clarifies, ‘is making a special breakfast for you and your Dhadhi.’
She made a start to refute the unnecessary hospitality, but her kind Azad Chacha gestured her to sit down again. ‘I woke up very early to buy the list of ingredients, which my wife slipped into my hands last night,’ he says wittily. ‘Please don’t let my unfulfilled sleep go to vain. Besides,’ he lowers his voice, ‘it’s not often that your two Chachis serve delicious breakfast. At least, by your arrival, I get to eat something nice!’
She laughed heartily at his joke.
‘Where is Dhadhi?’ she enquires, peering through the billowing curtains, as if Dhadhi stood there.
‘In the kitchen,’ he answers, ‘with the rest of the female gang. She tried to check on you earlier, but you must have been in deep sleep to not have heard the door knocks.’
It was a good sleep.
‘What’s in the news today?’ she asks with interest, glancing at the various Bengali newspapers laid out on the table.
‘The usual,’ he shrugs, taking off his glasses. ‘Corrupt politicians, state of the country, ongoing arsenic issue, pollution, murders and lootings. All the usual stuff that sell papers.’
‘Not much different than the English papers I guess.’
‘That is because Man has been fighting for the same cause since his very existence, whether English or Bengali. How are you finding your first visit to the country?’
‘Insightful,’ she answers after a careful thought. ‘It’s very different than anywhere else I have been. The culture, the relaxed laws, the scenery, they are all very interesting.’
‘No doubt made only more interesting by your friend, the Shahiraj of Rajshahi,’ he says raising his dark brows. ‘He has some interesting stories to share on the streets.’
‘Do you always attend?’
‘Not by choice,’ he admits. ‘I find myself joining the crowd quite helplessly on my way home from work.’
‘You also work in the council with Nazrul Chacha?’
‘No,’ he answers promptly. ‘I was never a politically astute man like my father or brother. I work in a private bank across the river, quite near to Zindabazaar.’
She was impressed, and enquired more about his job.
‘I have been working there for almost twelve years now. That was when the bank first opened. I am the manager now. Although, we do not get half as many customers as a public bank does. That was where I used to work. Private Banks offer better pay. Do you work or are you still in education?’
‘Graduated last summer,’ she answers, suddenly realising how distant her life in England appeared. ‘I studied English, but unsure what I should do for a career. I have been very confused.’
‘I have a favourite pen at work,’ he says randomly. ‘Two weeks ago, I lost it somewhere. I looked for it everywhere, home and work, but did not find it. Then, some days later, I see it on my desk. When I asked the peon, “Who found it?” he said it was one of the cleaners, who found it in the washroom. Therefore, child, what we cannot find ourselves is probably not for us to discover. We just have to depend on others to bring it to us.’
He spoke so well that her distresses shrank at once.
As she pondered over the next subject of their discussion, Sadia suddenly comes out onto the veranda. She was a slender but shapely girl, whose figure did justice to her salwar kameez. She was of average height, her complexion warm, and she had a notable likeness to her father’s facial features. The girl looks startled to see her, and at once asks her how long she has been awake. Learning it has been a while, she gently rebukes her father for not telling her earlier. ‘Sorry, Baba,’ he apologises, holding the lobe of his ear to seek her forgiveness. ‘We got carried away in our conversation. Take Mayah to the washroom, dear,’ he advises his daughter. ‘Then, quickly get ready for college.’
‘College?’ Mayah asks excitedly, struck by the word.
‘Sadia attends Sylhet Model School and College,’ Azad Chacha elaborates. ‘She’s studying sciences. Why do you look so surprised?’ he asks, reading her face.
‘Because,’ she replies promptly, ‘Sadia is the only girl I know who attends college in Bangladesh.’
‘It is uncommon,’ he admits with an easy laugh, ‘but improving. I had to fight, what you English would say, tooth and nail to continue Sadia’s education. She’s very good with her sciences. I believe I can see a doctor in her, despite her mother’s objection.’
‘Why would she object?’ she asks confusedly.
‘Because medicine is a long course,’ he says shaking his head. ‘Her mother worries that no man will want to marry an old woman, which Sadia will become after she qualifies. If it were up to her mother, then she would have terminated her education at ten, and got her married by now. But I want Sadia to progress and earn an independent living. Her mother disagrees. She says that no respectable in-law would permit their daughter-in-law to work outside however legitimate the job is.’
She recalls Dhadhi's insistance for her mother to attend abroad literature fairs and conferences, despite having a child scarcely two years old. Dhadhi never discouraged the progress of her mother’s writing career.
A familiar voice suddenly interrupts her thoughts. It was Dhadhi also come out to the veranda. There was visible relief on her face as she saw her, before gently rebuking her for sitting here without brushing her teeth. ‘Quickly wash and get ready,’ she advises. ‘We have much to do today.’
She, Azad Chacha, and Sadia wait for Dhadhi to elaborate. Smiling knowingly, Dhadhi answers at last.
‘We’re going to meet the bride.’
Marriage is the union of two families. To keep this union healthy, they have come to the bride’s maternal home.
Dhadhi, Rabia Chachi, and Nazrul Chacha, sat in tense silence, as the mother and uncle of the bride regarded her dubiously. Rabia Chachi considered it wise to introduce the new family members to the bride’s family. It was big news. Dhadhi’s colourful history and her granddaughter’s mixed race roots made this introduction appear like a confession. Rabia Chachi somewhat reluctantly gave the bride’s family one last opportunity to retract from this alliance should they object to their connection with her and Dhadhi. The mother and uncle of the bride observe her carefully, taking in her distinctive mixed race appearance, before assessing Dhadhi. She felt conscious, despite wearing one of Sadia’s best suits. She hoped she looks decent enough to pass for a sister-in-law. She can never forgive herself if this alliance breaks on her account. Knowingly or unknowingly, she will disappoint many.
The wedding is in three days, but the henna ceremony is in two. The sudden revelation of her and Dhadhi’s connection to the groom’s family has doubtless placed the mother of the bride in a difficult
position. She has been here long enough to understand the importance of marriage. Cancelling the wedding so close to the date will subject both families to great humiliation and speculation. The fact that the groom’s family is visiting the bride’s family three days before the wedding is doubtless stirring up sufficient speculation amongst the neighbours. It was a close neighbourhood, and it appeared as if they knew who the unexpected arrival at the bride’s house was. Neighbours peeked through the prison-like windows, and gazed at her as most Bangladeshis did when she passed by. She wished the Shahiraj of Rajshahi were here. Even a gentle nod from him would calm her nerves. Her gaze returns upon the mother of the bride, Shumi. She welcomed them warmly enough. Her manners were pleasing and her hospitality commendable. She looked very young to have a daughter old enough to marry. Her hair, lightly tucked under the drape of her sari, was still very dark. She had strong resemblance with her brother, whose hair was beginning to grey. Rabia Chachi said that Shumi Aunty became a widow at a very young age, leaving two children to her care, one of them being a girl of a few months. Her brother took on the care of his widowed sister, providing for her fatherless children. However, a conflict of interest had forced Shumi Aunty to separate from her son, whom she sent to England with a relative so he can grow up and provide for his family here. The separation has not gone to vain. The house was beautiful.
Her son’s name is Shah, and he is the eldest of two siblings. He is not home presently. He left before they could meet him, at the late hours of the morning to collect some family members, who lived in a village in south Sylhet and are guests at the wedding. They must come upon a conclusion now to avoid undertaking any further travel activity and bring guests from far away locations to attend a wedding that may not possibly happen. Yet, one can easily overcome that disappointment. What would become of the bride’s hopes? Sabina will be devastated.
‘We have only one condition,’ the maternal uncle of the bride demands gravely. Her body stiffens and she could sense Dhadhi was no different. The uncle keeps a mysterious pause, before relaying the remainder of his demands. ‘The new members are to eat dinner here tonight.’
A relief and bursts of laughter later, they accept the offer. Shumi Aunty and her brother went onto explain that they have no objection to her mixed race. The offer of dinner was merely an excuse to detain them longer. After all, they still have to meet one more member of this family, and he just happens to be a fellow Londoner.
She has come to the general conclusion that a Bangladeshi hospitality consists of feeding their guests until they struggle to breathe. The kind-hearted Shumi Aunty constantly filled her plate with rice and curry, claiming a girl of her size should eat more. She could not refuse, especially after Shumi Aunty offered her a spoon, having learnt that she has not yet mastered the technique to eat with her hand. She was glad dinner was over, and even more glad when her host served her tea. The elders regained their position in the living room, conversing in great lengths and discussing the remaining preparations of the wedding. Not needing much persuasion from Shumi Aunty, she stole to Sabina’s room. This is the first time she is meeting a Bangladeshi bride before her actual wedding. Sabina has stayed in her room the whole since they have been here, in order to project her demureness and honour the ancient old custom that a bride-to-be should not go before her in-laws. Funnily enough, when she questioned the reason, Sabina just shrugged, adding that she never asked. “It is what our mothers teach us.”
Sabina did not appear to strike as the demure, quiet types. She was very talkative, and grilled her enthusiastically about the ways of London living. She answered as much as she can in the local dialect of Sylhet, before helplessly reverting to Bengali, which thankfully Sabina understood very well. Her brother also lives in London. He was an architect for some big firm. He does not come to Bangladesh often because he is always busy at work. For the wedding, he first came in March for one week to help with the invites and preparation, returning to London thereafter. He came back home last Saturday, just in time to settle in for the wedding.
‘This time,’ Sabina says brightly, ‘Shah bhaiya will be staying for three whole weeks. He worries for my sake. He thinks I won’t be happy in my in-laws' house.’
‘Are you not happy with marriage?’
‘I don’t know,’ Sabina admits, her face ejecting an unmistakable look of doubt. ‘If I looked like you, then I definitely could be happy.’
She did not understand.
‘You have light skin,’ the girl explains dejectedly. ‘I have dark skin. Husbands choose wife that have light skin.’
‘But Shabul chose you,’ she comforts the desolate bride, whose figure and features were finely formed. ‘Colour of skin does not signify beauty. You are beautiful. That is why Shabul and his family chose you amongst all the other light-skin girls.’
‘I think he chooses me because my brother is from London,’ Sabina reasons.
She could not entirely dismiss the possibility. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi often lectured about the appeals of Western cities. The topic of their discussion being too serious, she tactfully changes the subject. She requested to see the wedding dress. At once, Sabina’s face lights up and she hurries to the wardrobe to pull out her bridal attire. She was in awe as her gaze cast over the intricate gold embroidery against the maroon georgette. She picks it up to hold it against the bride-to-be, but found it somewhat of a struggle. ‘I can barely hold this,’ she says between short breaths, ‘and you have to wear this?’
‘The bride does nothing else on her wedding day,’ Sabina helpfully clarifies. ‘I just sit and look pretty. What are you wearing?’ she asks, as the sudden thought strikes her.
It was a good point.
‘I don't know,’ she says, her own curiosity quickly rising. ‘I didn’t know that I will be attending a wedding, and that too the wedding of my own family.’
‘Do you wear sari?’ Sabina asks, frowning at her present attire of salwar kameez.
Her mind resurfaces a distant memory of her failed attempts to try on Dhadhi’s sari. She shook her head decisively in reply.
‘I teach you,’ and at once, Sabina excitedly brings forth a collection of her prized saris, experimentally placing each one of varying colours against her mildly tanned skin, until she settles with the emerald with the gold border. Feeling somewhat conscious, she peels off her clothes, and slips into the petticoat and blouse. The latter fitted her quite comfortably. She stands patiently as Sabina wounds the endless yard of emerald around her, ending it by tucking the pleats just below her belly button. The drape carefully pinned above her shoulder, and her hair gently straightened with the GHD straighteners her brother brought with him from London a year ago, Sabina takes a step back and admires the result of her creation. ‘You look like a shining Bengali girl.’
Scarcely did the words leave her mouth that darkness engulfs the room.