Yes, Bangladesh, and not Indonesia or Fiji, she now felt confident of saying, because two further surprises had only just become apparent, in rapid succession, that exceeded even the pond and all the vegetation.
Up here, along the flat, wide portion of this impossible cul-de-sac that began in a Wellington Sajida could still turn around and confirm – a green Metlink bus went past right then, and there was the fence of the Botanics – but somehow ended in rural Sirajganj or Pabna, the houses too weren’t the usual Thorndon cottages of Glenmore Street or the other side roads up ahead. (They had attended two open homes in the area, for a flat and a cottage, both turning out to be three-bedroom only in name, but they’d been within walking distance of Wellington City High). No, what Sajida was taking in with disbelief on either side of her were huts of mud and thatch, partially hidden behind all the lovely, thick foliage, but so much like home that even most of home wasn’t like this anymore. This was the Bangladesh of Sajida’s childhood, of folktales, children’s books and songs, a village of exactly the sort she often wished Runa and Pori could stay in during their short, rushed, usually bi-annual trips home. And, as if to confirm her sense of stepping into the past she noticed just then that the road she was standing on was no longer paved, and hadn’t been beyond the opening few metres down at the turn-off, and also that further ahead on the right-hand edge of the pond was a woman in an everyday sari doing her washing, as though this was simply what one did at 10.40 on a Wednesday morning in central Wellington.
The woman, possibly Sajida’s age or younger, was squatting facing the pond, and at first Sajida wanted to flee. She even took a few backward steps, but then stopped, looked around to see if anyone was watching her from inside one of the huts, and once more took out her phone. Her first thought was to call Abir, but she decided against speaking loudly just then. That could wait; she’d call him from the car. Right now, the priority was to record, before it all disappeared, before the morning became normal again. As she moved the camera downwards from the houses and trees before her, she realised that even the soil here was dusty and dry, as it would be in March at home! Hé Allah.
And yet, I’m not feeling any warmer, was Sajida’s very next thought, as she completed a slow full circle of filming to take in everything around. Which means this must still be Wellington, otherwise the sun would already be unbearable.
Vancouver, London and Hong Kong had had recycling today, she also recalled as she filmed. Their black and yellow bin had been on the pavement along with a rubbish bag. She switched off the camera and looked around to follow up this odd thought. No, not a single wheelie bin on this Wellington street, nor were there any cars. She could still hear vehicles going up and down Glenmore Street, she thought, sounding like a far-off sea; and there her own car key was, in her handbag, where she had put it less than five minutes ago. But not a single home-owner (or rather, hut-owner) on this street seemed to possess a car, which was exactly as it would have been in the rural Pabna of her mother’s childhood.
Playing back the footage she had just recorded had a calming, strengthening effect on Sajida, its mere existence on her phone, a forty-five second clip that confirmed through replication this unbelievable scene she had wandered into. Of course she would speak to that woman. It was the most natural thing to do, and the only way for her questions to be answered. How straightforward this option suddenly seemed, and how absurd her thought of running away a couple of minutes before. Fifteen steps, and one question in Bengali, and everything would become clear.
The woman didn’t turn around even when Sajida was directly behind her.
‘Achcha, can I go to Karori this way,’ she asked, although what Sajida had wanted to confirm was what country they were in. But at the last moment it seemed too weird a question to spring on someone, as though it was Sajida who had just landed from outer space. In any case, wouldn’t this much more normal query, posed in Bengali, clarify everything she sought to know?
‘You can, but it’s a roundabout way with ups and downs. And there are many steps,’ the woman replied in Bengali as fluent as Sajida’s. She was holding a man’s shirt from which she had been wringing out the water.
Sajida was trying to hide her astonishment, process the meaning of this response, and decide what to say next all at once, because her speaking Bengali and yet knowing the way to Karori meant not one thing, but two.
They were in Bangladesh and in Wellington at the same time!
Unless a group of Bangladeshis had managed to recreate village life from back home in this corner of Thorndon, and chose to live this way. But that was impossible, and she and Abir would surely have heard about it.
The woman too had been sizing Sajida up, although she didn’t look unfriendly. She was younger as well, which gave Sajida some confidence.
‘Where are you coming from?’
‘Just back there,’ was all Sajida could vaguely say.
‘Who are you looking for?’
‘No … no one. I was merely going past. I, we … are in fact looking for a house, to be near my daughters’ school.’ Before the woman had a chance to reply, Sajida added ‘Do you know if there are any homes available here?’
The woman thought for a while, then said there was nothing she could think of ‘in this neighbourhood’, but where was Sajida actually from?
‘Uh, Pabna, Munshiganj, Wellington. I have lived in all these places. But now Rongotai, near the airport. Do you know Wellington well?’
‘A little. I don’t go out that often. But the best way to go to Karori is definitely up that main road. Do you want me to show you?’
‘No, thank you. I know that way. I wondered if there was a short cut. But tell me, if I come back here tomorrow, will you still be here?’
‘If it’s not raining, probably. I can ask my husband this afternoon if he knows of any vacant houses.’
The woman got up off her haunches, gave the shirt she was holding a couple more squeezes, then threw it into a tin pail Sajida hadn’t noticed. Now she sat herself down on a flat rock so that she could face Sajida, who stood a few feet away.
‘But I don’t think you’ll like it here,’ she added, smiling. Sajida felt sure she was referring to her jacket, jeans, and shoes.
For the third time, or maybe more, since they had begun speaking, the same strange thing happened inside Sajida. Everything she’d wanted to ask was intended to be subtle and indirect, yet each question that came out of her mouth was almost unimaginably blunt. Harsh, abrupt, terribly phrased. Anyone might take offence at such provocations. What if the woman yelled out in anger to her neighbours?
‘Achcha, have I died? Is this paradise?’
Thankfully, that made her laugh.
‘That you like the place is good to know, but no, you haven’t died.’
‘Are you my mother?’ Again! This was worse than rash. The woman would shortly call for help, to protect herself from a mad person!
But she had evidently decided to humour Sajida as the safest way to see her off.
‘Do I resemble her?’
Then Sajida was proved wrong once more, because the woman asked her if she would like to sit down for a while inside her house. And it was Sajida who refused, who was afraid and said ‘No, I better leave,’ who turned half her body towards Glenmore Street as she spoke.
‘Then come back another day. Bring your daughters with you.’
‘There are no free days besides Sundays, and Sundays go by endlessly searching for a house.’
Sajida’s excuse was genuine, something she might say almost out of reflex to any new acquaintance. The woman raised her hand to say goodbye.
‘I will come one Sunday. Abir can go by himself to a few viewings. But, will you really still be here?’
‘Where will we go? That’s my house, if I’m not here,’ and she pointed to Sajida’s left, to a hut behind a banana grove.
‘I will definitely come. But I’d better go now, as the restaurant will open shortly.’ Finally Sajida
was saying things that she recognised, that were normal, that she might have said to a friend on the phone, and as she spoke, she realised that she no longer felt afraid. ‘This was wonderful. I was going past, and I stopped to take a look, and it’s been incredible.’
‘Bring your daughters soon,’ the woman replied. ‘The lychee season is coming. They can have as many as they like.’
‘Certainly. Then there will be mangoes,’ Sajida said, also with a laugh, again without expecting to, but this time with no embarrassment.
‘And I’ll bring along some food as well. You must try my cooking,’ she added just before waving and turning around.
Sajida had already taken a few steps when she remembered the supply of restaurant cards she was carrying for the morning’s meeting. She walked back to the woman, who had begun to wring a vest, and placed the card on the rock she had been sitting on.
‘You can also visit me whenever you like,’ Sajida said. ‘I am always at the Newtown branch.’
An earlier version of ‘Out of Zone’ was published on the website Juggernaut (2017).
Rajorshi Chakraborti is an Indian-born novelist, essayist and short-story writer. He is the author of six novels and a collection of short fiction, including, most recently, the novel Shakti that appeared in 2020. He lives in Wellington with his family.
Tent on the Home Ground
Witi Ihimaera
George had been drinking in the pub with his friends for about twenty minutes when, from out of the smoke, Api pounced on him like a panther.
“Aren’t I good enough for your mates?” Api said.
George was taken aback. He hadn’t seen Api since they’d quarrelled at Te Huinga. “I don’t know what you mean,” he answered. “It’s good to see you, Api. Been a long time.”
Api laughed. Mocking. Scornful. “Well I’ve been sitting over there ever since you came in,” he said. “Watching you. You and your mates.” He jerked his head at the others at the table.
“I didn’t see you,” George answered.
“You didn’t want to,” Api said.
“So why didn’t you come over to me?” George flared. “Bit of a snob aren’t you?”
“I know when I’m not wanted,” Api answered.
George gave a gesture of helplessness. Api would never change. What was the use. All this suspicion. All this distrust. The wonder was that they were still friends.
He introduced Api to the others: Peter, Warren and David, all from the office where he worked. All members of the establishment that Api so despised. White collar. Middle class. The people climbing to the top. Elitist.
“I’ve seen you around,” David said. He put out his hand and Api gripped it in a test of strength. David gave a nervous smile.
Api filled his glass from a jug on the table. “Up the lot of you,” he saluted.
“Quit it, Api,” George said.
“And up you too, mate,” Peter interrupted. He had met Api before and their antipathy for each other was obvious. Polarised from the beginning by their different backgrounds neither would give an inch to the other. Their meetings had always been characterised by the clash of flint against flint.
Hastily, George separated them. “Look here you two,” he said. “I came in here to have a nice quiet drink. Now simmer down.” He started to make small talk with Warren. The atmosphere began to cool, relax and spread itself out comfortably as if a belt had been let out a couple of notches. George smiled at Api. While Warren was talking with Peter and David, he turned to Api and said:
“You know, it really is good to see you, Api.”
Api shrugged his shoulders. “What’s the celebration? It’s not like you to come to the pub, brother.”
“David’s been promoted,” George answered. “He’s leaving us at the end of the week.”
“And you?” Api asked. “You been promoted too?” There was a hint of derision in the words. Behind dark glasses Api’s eyes pricked George with ill-concealed mockery.
“No,” George answered.
“So you haven’t been sucked into the system,” Api said. “Not all the way yet.”
“They don’t want me,” George returned.
Apparently he still didn’t fit in, still appeared to lack that special sense of administrative ability and those nebulous qualities which interviewers were instructed to seek out in those applying for promotion. What the hell. He was happy enough where he was anyway.
“George should have been promoted though,” David said to Api with a quick, anxious smile.
At his words, Api exploded with anger. “Don’t you patronise us, man.”
“Api . . .” George began.
But once Api was started he was difficult to stop. His temper flashed out like a paw.
“Of course my brother should have been promoted,” he said. “But he’s a black man and this is a white system. And does the white man want us in positions of power? Like hell he does.”
“Hey, easy there,” Warren interrupted.
“Look,” David began. “I didn’t mean to . . .”
“No, you look,” Api growled, “You take a good hard look at the system you’ve created. It’s in your image, not ours. Everything about it is white. Religion. Education. Politics. You name it. And I’ll bet you there’s hardly any of us in it. Why? Because you’re scared of us. So you keep us down. At the bottom of the system. Eh. Eh.” The words cracked like breaking bones.
“Crap,” Peter muttered.
“What did you say?” Api asked dangerously.
“Forget it, Api,” George said. “Peter, just shut up won’t you? Both of you, drink up.”
But Peter took no notice. “I said crap and I mean crap,” he said again. “Just because you can’t cope with the system, Api, you accuse it of being racist.”
“Hell, that’s because it is,” Api answered.
“Prove it then,” Peter said.
Api began to laugh. His laughter rose above the hum of conversations in the pub, catching the attention of a few people in the crowded bar. Momentarily diverted, they watched Api curiously before returning to their drinking.
“What’s the joke?” Peter said angrily.
“You,” Api answered. “You ask for proof and there’s so much of it I don’t know where to begin.”
Because there isn’t any,” Peter said.
Api narrowed his eyes. Then he flashed the quick smile of a panther. “Who discovered New Zealand?” he asked.
“Eh? Oh, Abel Tasman,” Peter answered startled.
Api grinned with triumph. “Man,” he said. “Your answer is your proof. Long before Abel Tasman got here, Kupe discovered this country. But you’ve probably never heard of him, have you. After all, he was only a Maori.”
Peter reddened with anger. “Kupe? He’s just a legend.”
“Your second proof,” Api answered. “Anything that happened to us you call myth or legend. Anything that happened to you is called history. Cheers man. You better shut your mouth by drinking up.”
By now, Api was in a tremendous humour. He drained his glass and winked at George. Then he turned to Peter and said:
“How about buying us another round, friend?”
Peter looked at him with eyes gleaming. “Buy your own,” he said.
For a moment, George thought that Api would lash out with his fists. But no, Api was enjoying the extent of Peter’s antipathy.
“Don’t be like that,” Api mocked. “Buy your brother another drink.”
Api. Circling Peter with his calculated comments. Teasing. Trying to draw Peter further out into the open. Waiting.
“Lay off him,” George warned Api.
But it was too late. Peter had had enough. “You see racism in everything, don’t you?” he said to Api. “The system as you call it. Everything. And only because you haven’t been able to make it.”
“The system won’t let me,” Api taunted.
“Why not? Everybody goes through it. All of us must face it. But you? Oh
no. You want to pull it down. Well you’ll never do it.”
Api’s eyelids flickered with growing anger.
“Yes,” Peter continued scornfully. “I’ve seen you and your friends down at Parliament. You’ve set up an embassy down there haven’t you? To protest for Maori rights, isn’t it? Well, there’s some of us who think you already have more rights than we have. And we all think your protest is a big laugh. A joke.”
“Come off it, Peter,” George said uneasily. “Api, don’t listen to him. It’s the beer talking.”
But Api was moving in for the kill. “You think you’re so superior,” he said to Peter. “Well, laugh while you can, man. The world won’t be yours much longer. Maori rights? Man, we’re protesting for human rights. And we want the white system to acknowledge our rights. We’re no joke, man. And we’re hitting you at the heart of your system. Parliament itself. Your home ground, man. And we’ll win too. You’ve raped us long enough.”
“For God’s sake, Api,” George said. “Enough of that talk.”
Api turned on him. “As for you, brother, whose side are you going to be on?”
“It’s not a question of taking sides,” George answered. “It’s not a matter of winning or losing.”
“So,” Api mocked. “Still sitting on that bloody fence. Come off it, brother. With me. Now.”
“You do things your way, Api,” George said. “I’ll do things my way.”
“How?” Api asked. “You’ll never get the chance. You’ll never be promoted. We can’t make it from the inside so we have to hit the system from the outside. Can’t you see that?”
George closed his eyes. When he opened them he saw Api putting down his glass. Api’s face was filled with contempt.
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