This Innocent Corner

by Peggy Herring

  “Yes, she’s a very fast learner,” Amma said. She motioned to Shafiq and he placed the teapot next to her. “She has an ear for languages. Soon she will be giving speeches.”

  “Oh no, Amma, not me,” I laughed. Shaheed watched me rather intently, but it was not unnerving in the least. “Ami korte pari na.” I can’t do it.

  “Inshallah you will,” Shaheed declared. God willing.

  “Now please sit,” Amma said. Tea was served.

  Shaheed’s presence changed everything. Light as a brook in spring, his chat flowed over and around the room. Difficult family topics were immersed in goodwill, a silent conspiracy to let them be invisible and for the moment, irrelevant. He complimented Amma on the tea, and Shafiq on something I missed, but I thought I saw the old man crack a smile. He talked cricket with Mr. Chowdhury, and told Luna about a film that was coming to Dhaka next month. He was Hasan’s antithesis. I couldn’t imagine on what their friendship was built.

  But even babbling brooks eventually reach the plains, and when Shaheed ran out of steam, a long silence ensued. Perhaps I needed to fill it. Perhaps I was still angry with Hasan. Perhaps some part of me felt all Shaheed’s benevolence needed a balance, or maybe it was as simple as I needed to impress him further. Whatever the case, I’d done some reading, and the political situation was no longer such a mystery. I couldn’t resist showing off.

  “I was just wondering,” I said. Everyone sat up. Polite smiles flowered around the room, residue of all that affability. “When Sheikh Mujib says the six-point plan represents the demands of fifty-five million East Pakistanis of their right to live, do you think he meant everyone?”

  “Aha. Someone has been studying, isn’t it?” Mr. Chowdhury looked up from his cup, and settled his gaze on Amma.

  “I just gave her a few things,” Amma murmured. “Nothing much.”

  “Of course,” Hasan answered my question. “He is not elitist.”

  “Then, does he include those members of the civil service and the armed forces and police who are here from West Pakistan?”

  “If you read the Six Point Plan carefully, he says that all right-thinking patriotic elements of West Pakistan are also in agreement,” Hasan said. “It is right there, on the first page. How could it be otherwise?”

  “Robin, dear, take another biscuit,” Amma said. “They’re quite tasty.”

  I did. “Does he mean the Biharis, too?”

  Luna blushed, a violent shade. Mr. Chowdhury’s eyebrows scaled his forehead. The mood in the room changed.

  “They are different,” Hasan said.

  “In what way?”

  “They are not Bengali,” he said. “However, in any case, they too, at least, those who are right-thinking and patriotic, if there are any such in this country, they would also be included by Bangabandhu.”

  “What I wonder then is who can really say what is ‘right-thinking’ and what is ‘patriotic’? Surely that depends on your particular point of view.”

  “What is your point?” Hasan raised his voice. “Get to your point.”

  “There’s no point. I’m just wondering, that’s all.”

  “Well.” Mr. Chowdhury forced a laugh. “Usually it is I with all the questions. But this afternoon, our exchange student beats even I for curiosity.”

  “Can I ask one more question?” His eyes glazed and he nodded apprehensively. “When Sheikh Mujib says there are agents of vested interests lying in ambush everywhere, who does he mean?”

  “It’s very complicated Robin,” sighed Amma. “Perhaps you should not take it so literally.”

  “Does he mean the Biharis?” Luna’s right eye twitched. “And if so, how are they ambushing the plan? The Biharis Amma and I saw last week were breaking bricks on the side of the road or fixing rickshaws in the dark.” I had managed my visit to Mohammedpur by tagging along with Amma one day while she visited some relatives in a nearby neighbourhood. She had pointed out the quarter where many of the Biharis lived. “They didn’t seem to have time for lunch let alone ambush.”

  “That is a most interesting question, isn’t it?” Shaheed said.

  “You show supreme ignorance.” Hasan ignored his friend. “Plus unbelievable stupidity in reading comprehension.”

  “Hasan,” Mr. Chowdhury warned.

  “Is it wrong to ask questions? Or does asking questions make me a so-called vested interest?”

  “No, no,” Amma said, soothingly. “Everything is perfectly alright.”

  Luna rolled her eyes.

  “I respect the frank ways of your people,” Mr. Chowdhury said, following Amma’s lead. “A healthy state can weather the trials of dissent, isn’t it?”

  “Then tell me this. Say someone wanted to go for full independence. Not autonomy, as is stated in the plan. Couldn’t they also be considered an agent of vested interests lying in ambush?” I looked directly at Hasan so there could be no misunderstanding my meaning.

  Bull’s eye. His chair clattered to the floor as he threw himself to his feet.

  “You are a stupid American girl,” he shouted. “Go home before you shame your people any further. And before word of your ignorance spreads so far that I will no longer be able to protect you. I will no longer sit in this room with that infidel,” he said to Mr. Chowdhury, and stormed off.

  Mr. and Mrs. Chowdhury exchanged glances. Luna cradled her face in her hands. Shaheed, it appeared, was trying hard not to laugh.

  Me, I was flabbergasted. Not at Hasan’s violent reaction. Not at Shaheed’s amusement. Not at Luna’s embarrassment or her parents discomfort. What really caught me off guard was this: who on earth had asked Hasan to protect me?

  This was a question for Beth.

  *

  “Do you know Hasan? I mean, know him?”

  It was another monsoon day in Dhaka, so we stayed off Beth’s terrace. Her drawing room curtains were open to the weepy skies. The plants outside were jeweled with water drops.

  “Since I’ve come to Dhaka. Since he was a boy. Is that what you mean?”

  I spilled like an overflowing tank – everything poured out, from our first clash at my first dinner, to our walk down Elephant Road, and the latest incident. “You should hear the way he talks to Luna,” I added. “Even his own mother. It’s outrageous. He’s as tyrannical as Yahya Khan!” I laughed at my own cleverness.

  Beth’s face remained still. A pointed finger traced the knots on the tatted antimacassar draped over the armrest of her chair. “There are many adjustments to make when you come to this country. It helps to remain open-minded.”

  “Well, of course. But Hasan would drive anyone crazy.”

  “It takes several years to figure out what’s going on around you, several more years to understand it all and a lifetime to accept it. It’s not easy to enter this society. Don’t let your first impression be your only impression.”

  “But it’s got nothing to do with me,” I said. “He’s the problem.”

  “Hasan is Hasan. And there are thousands more boys in Dhaka exactly like him. Loyal, smart, passionate. It takes time to see his good qualities.”

  Loyal? I wouldn’t trust him with my wastepaper basket. Smart? I had seen no evidence of anything at work in his brain but the most knee-jerk reaction. Passionate? There I had to agree. Most of the time, the man verged on hysterical.

  Beth continued. “It took years for us to appreciate one another. I support his commitment to his country. It’s vital to instigating the change he believes is inevitable. But I have learned to get out of the way when I sense his fervor may be headed in my direction.” She paused. “You would be wise to do the same.”

  “But this is all Hasan’s fault. Why should I have to do anything?”

  “Did you ever consider why he monitors what American newsmagazines have to say about East Pakistan so rigourously? Perhaps at some l
evel he is interested in America. And, whether you like it or not, you are, to him, a first-hand experience of America. He’s curious about you, too. And trying to come to terms with that.”

  “But he’s already made up his mind about me. He thinks I’m nothing more than a goonda at the beck and call of the west wing.” I laughed. “The twisted thing is he also seems to think he’s supposed to protect me. Can you imagine?”

  Beth smiled mildly. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. There are many levels to Hasan.”

  “I don’t need anyone to protect me.” I spat the words out. “Especially not him.”

  “You may as well tell a tree not to have leaves and branches.”

  I waited until the rain had passed before I went home, unsatisfied with Beth’s advice.

  *

  I didn’t like my involvement in Luna’s romantic correspondence, yet somehow I continued to be convinced to deliver and pick up letters on demand. I wanted to support her, especially once she agreed to raise the subject of her romantic relationship with her parents before the year’s end. I suspected it was again an empty promise, the deadline a chance to buy time. Still, I made a decision to take her at her word, and tried to remain patient.

  But I had another motive. Every letter that passed through my hands was a slap in Hasan’s face, a rejection of every backward idea he stood for. If he had his way, he would have confined me to my room. Every letter was a reminder of my independence, a subversive act to undermine a bully.

  The phone calls began after the monsoon was over, on a sultry day in early October, when I knew in Michigan, cold autumn winds from the Great Lakes were blowing leaves to the ground, and the inevitability of snow could be felt in the air.

  “There is a message for you,” Amma said when Luna and I returned home from campus that day. “From the embassy. A Mr. Razzak.” I tried to hide my reddening face. “The number is there by the telephone. Is he new?”

  Luna was standing slightly behind her mother, beyond Amma’s peripheral vision, and good thing, too, for she was transparently guilty and desperate. She folded her hands, begging for my complicity.

  “Yes,” I finally said. “He’s the new – education liaison.” Luna’s face blossomed into gratitude.

  “Please give him my best regards then,” Amma said. “I’m sure we will be hearing more from him.”

  “Oh, I doubt it.”

  Later in my room, I lost my temper. “You tell your boyfriend never to do this again.”

  “But Apa, there is a big problem.”

  “Yes, there is. You promised nearly two months ago that you were going to tell your parents. I’ve been very patient. If you don’t tell them now, I will.”

  “No, listen to me. Razzak’s being accused of collaborating with the army.”

  “But that’s ridiculous.”

  “One worker in Jahangir’s he has seen you and Razzak with letters every week. He telling Razzak you give money or I telling Awami League. Apa, you must help.”

  It was a predictable, yet totally unforeseen consequence. How could the three of us have been so blind? I’d witnessed the quiet, but unbroken growth of political tension since I had arrived. It had shot out roots everywhere. Everyone had become, in my opinion, paranoid and suspicious. Physically, as a stereotypical fair American, it was impossible for me to blend in with the crowd. And since the political ties between my country and West Pakistan were widely acknowledged and loathed, I was of course a potential target of that mistrust. However, I thought Razzak and I had been surreptitious enough, our movements unworthy of scrutiny.

  I considered the remote possibility that I’d done something in Jahangir’s to tip off the busybody. I sighed. Maybe the phone would be easier. With all the comings and goings of the family, there would times when Luna could actually speak to Razzak without anyone knowing. And I would no longer have to make excuses to disappear by myself.

  “Will you promise, absolutely promise to tell your parents before the end of the year?”

  “I will, Apa, believe me. As soon as the time is right.”

  I nodded, though my agreement still did not sit comfortably with what I knew to be the right course of action.

  *

  Amma presented me with a saree in November for my first Bengali wedding. “Rose is perfect for your complexion,” she said. She rolled the pink silk around my hips, necessarily, as I had no idea how to dress myself in it.

  “Let me do the pleats,” Luna begged. Amma indulged and handed her the fabric. Luna began to weave it in and around her fingers.

  “That is too loose,” Amma said. Luna adjusted. “Two more. No, one more.”

  “I can do it,” Luna said.

  “You are learning,” Amma allowed. But she took the pleats, lined them up expertly, and tucked them into the waistband of my petticoat. “Does it feel tight?”

  “A little.”

  “Then it will be just right.” Amma arranged the pallav so it cascaded down my back. “Now you are ready. Take a look.”

  My hair had already been brushed and pinned up with sweet-smelling flowers. As usual, the ends were coming loose and curling like wood shavings in the humidity. Luna had done my make-up. “This the kohl,” she had said, a tiny black brush poised just over my eyelid. I blinked. “Don’t move.” “I’m not,” I had said. She rested the heel of her hand against my cheek as she drew a black line on my eyelid. Though I feared I might end up looking like a campy version of Ruby, I let Luna have her way.

  Around my neck, Amma had closed the clasp on a thick gold chain inlaid with emeralds and blue sapphires. If they were artificial, they were convincing fakes. At least, I had been allowed to put on the matching earrings myself. Prepared for a transformation, I stood before the mirror. But the transformation was not what I expected. I hardly recognized my bizarre reflection. I looked like an Italian pastry, not a wedding guest.

  “Adorable,” Amma pronounced.

  “You are ravishing,” Luna said. “Like the bride.”

  Like a science experiment that should have been terminated.

  “Perhaps it’s too much,” I said, not wanting to hurt their feelings.

  “Nonsense,” Amma said. “Come. We go.”

  Shafiq opened the front door to let us out. It blew ajar and nearly knocked him off his feet. A strong wind was coming up from the southeast. The trees sighed in gusts, the shrubs and flowers shivered. The atmosphere was thick with the beginnings of a big storm. We packed into the Citroën – Amma, Luna, Mr. Chowdhury, Hasan and me. On the roadside, palm trees swayed to the wind’s force. Tin signs shuddered against the bolts that attached them to their iron frames.

  “This does not bode well at all,” Mr. Chowdhury said. “What must it be like on the coast?”

  “Actually, Abba, the meteorologists have downgraded their alerts,” Hasan said. “I heard it on the radio this afternoon.”

  “I hope the evening will not be spoilt,” Amma said.

  The reception was held in a large hall whose outside was draped with coloured lights and strings of pungent marigolds. A white tent extended onto the street in front of the hall and flapped in the wind that threatened to lift it from its bamboo supports. I felt a raindrop as we entered.

  It was hot and humid, and packed with noise, perfume, sweaty smells and colour. Amma and Luna pulled me along, and introduced me to aunts, uncles, cousins, sisters, brothers – a kaleidoscope of family, many of whom wore the nowka pin, a tiny boat that symbolized support for Sheikh Mujib, on their lapels and blouses. Once greetings were spoken, we moved on – out of necessity. The flow of people was strong. It proved impossible to resist the current.

  “Come. We view the bride,” Luna said, and we joined a stream of people headed for a brightly lit corner.

  Mira was perched on a dais bedecked with red and gold fabric, her body even more elaborately dre
ssed. Significantly younger than me, she trembled. It may have been the weight of all her gold jewelry, but more likely, it was the attention. Women, children, Luna and I – we all stared as though she was a mannequin in a shop window. Three attendants, also ornately dressed, stroked the bride’s arms and shoulders, pushed strands of her hair into place, adjusted her red and gold saree, and touched up her make-up every time a camera came near.

  “Salaam aliekum,” I said when we were close enough. She had small shoulders, and a child’s hands. An angry pimple, not quite veiled beneath face powder, adorned her left cheek. She was even younger than I had first thought. We both blushed. “Mubarak.” Congratulations. But she lowered her eyes, as though she had sensed my shock. Luna murmured to her, something which I could not decipher. The crowd pushed us along.

  Just then, a young man with a camera emerged. Luna pulled me close and posed. “Smile,” she said. The flash burnt into my eyes.

  There was no custom of gawking at the groom on a little platform. Unlike his new and very stationary wife, Qashem moved with a pack of young men. I couldn’t see him until Luna pointed him out. Dressed in a very stylish suit, he had to be at least ten years older than Mira. I heard he was from a very respectable family, and lived now in Fresno, California. I found the relationship a curiosity, the logistics nearly impossible to understand.

  “How did they meet?” I asked Luna.

  “Who?”

  “Mira – and Qashem.”

  “Apa, don’t you know arranged marriage?”

  Of course I did, but I thought it an outdated custom. I never imagined I would meet a modern couple going through the practice, especially if one of them already lived in the United States. Why wouldn’t the groom have found his own bride? Why hadn’t he already fallen in love with someone of his own choosing?

  “Razzak and I will have love marriage,” Luna whispered. “Like Americans.” She squeezed my hand.

  When the meal began, Luna, Amma and I sat with all the other women on one side of the hall, the men opposite. This was nothing new to me. Every function I had attended so far in Dhaka had had the same guest configuration. But it still irked me. I considered what might happen if I excused myself, stood up, crossed the floor and took a seat at one of the men’s tables. I imagined with glee the heavy silence that would come crashing down on the guests. I pictured with delight Hasan’s raging disapproval.