“Are you?” As if to prove my point, guns went off, one, two in succession, five, six. Then we lost count. They were ahead of us. I shrank down in my seat and pulled my hair back.
The rickshaw slowed, then stopped in the shadows. The Farmgate intersection lay before us. We looked up the street. A rail car had been dragged across the road. Otherwise, nothing was amiss. No one moved. Perhaps there were others like us, lurking in the shadows, but I saw no sign. We sat beneath the canopy of a small tree with saucer-shaped leaves. The ripe scent from its boughs seemed out of place.
Hasan and the rickshawallah conferred. Though there was no one in sight, once we made the decision to cross, we would become visible and vulnerable. If we made it, we would be camouflaged by a park until we entered Monipuri Para. We were perhaps twenty seconds away from protection. We listened to the blasts and shots, and waited, though for what, who knew?
The rickshawallah climbed off and wrung his hands. He paced a small circle, then squatted on his haunches. He was silent, but waved his hands back and forth, in debate with himself. Finally, Hasan stepped down too, and walked a few metres up the sidewalk. He moved at the edge of the shadows, where he would be noticeable only if someone was looking carefully. I stayed in my seat, though I still wanted to run back to Amma.
Eventually, Hasan finished his scouting. He returned and stood beside the rickshawallah. His voice was quiet but commanding – he told the rickshawallah in no uncertain terms to get back in his seat and pedal. The rickshawallah stood and shook his head. Hasan raised his voice and waggled his finger. The rickshawallah clasped his hands together. “Saheb, saheb,” he repeated, until Hasan sliced his hand through the air between them. “Bas!” Hasan cried. Then, to me, “Let’s go.”
Hasan grabbed the handlebars with those bear paw hands and pushed. I was thrust back in my seat by the force. He threw his leg over the rickshaw driver’s seat and pumped the pedals.
“What are you doing?” I shriek-whispered. Hasan cycled for all he was worth. I clutched at the seat, then the box, as it began to slide. “Stop. You’re going to get us killed.”
The rickshawallah, reluctant to let his sole means of livelihood disappear at the hands of a madman, ran behind. I felt a jerk. It was the rickshawallah pushing. He hid in our shadow as he helped us along. The twenty seconds to cross the intersection at Farmgate felt like twenty minutes, and yet, once we stopped beneath a tree on the other side, I wondered if our passage had ever happened.
Hasan panted. The rickshawallah, too. Both their faces were drenched in sweat.
We waited for someone to call out, to come running down any of the roads. But there was no one. Nothing. Just silence.
I shook, my hands fluttering from the box to my hair to the rickshaw seat. Hasan’s smile was grim, but he was relieved.
Then the rickshawallah pointed. Down. My heart sank. The chain had snapped.
“But he can fix it, can’t he?” I said. I looked at the rickshawallah’s hands. “They can fix everything. On the side of the road, everyday – ”
“Not without tools.”
“Fuck.” I stomped my foot on the tin footrest of the rickshaw.
“Shh!” Hasan said. He spoke to the rickshawallah, then turned back to me. “He has a cousin near the rail station at Tejgaon who can help.”
I calculated. “That’s a good thirty minutes by the time he gets over there and back. If he runs. And if he doesn’t get caught. What are we going to do?”
But what could we do? We pulled the rickshaw into the park and concealed it behind a shrub. While the rickshawallah went off to find his cousin, Hasan and I crouched in the shadows.
“You should go home,” I said finally. “Go back to Amma.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“The rickshawallah knows the way. We don’t need your help.”
“He’s a coward. You cannot depend on him.”
“Then I’ll walk the rest of the way. It’s not so far.”
“You have luggage.” We both knew the walk would be impossible, even in daylight, even without a war going on around us. “You’re not going alone. It’s out of the question.”
Even then, in the most desperate of circumstances, I let his words, his tone under my skin like a burr, let them aggravate my insides, until I could no more bear the irritation without bursting.
“Stop telling me what to do.”
“You require protection.”
“I don’t want your protection.”
“That’s enough. Soldiers will hear you. And then you will have much more to worry about than your luggage.”
Gunfire. Then gunfire returned. I shuddered. Here I was, senselessly drawn into argument with Hasan once again. Where was Luna? I prayed she had already left the city. That she and Razzak were on their way to Aricha or Mymensingh, anywhere closer to India. I thought of the cantonment which lay just beyond the airport. The unspoken deeds which had been done there to Shaheed. What might happen there, if rumour could be believed, to Luna.
I thought hard about Amma, too, at home, both her children out on a night like this. I tried to send her a mental message to tell her not to worry. It would all work out in the end. We would all be okay. Eventually I convinced myself, and I calmed down enough to hold my tongue.
The explosions, shots and whistles continued. They seemed to be coming from all around now. We lacked only the pretty coloured lights in the sky, blossoming before our eyes, to differentiate our circumstances from Spartan Stadium on July fourth.
Hasan and I sat in the dark, alarmed by the noises around us, frightened because we could not see, did not know what was happening. When I let the sting of his words fade, I realized it was the first time we had ever shared something. The first time we had ever met on common ground. Brought together by fear. The irony did not escape me, but I rejected the softening I felt for something stronger. The urge to speak welled up. I struggled to keep my tone of voice casual.
“I want to ask you something. What exactly is it you dislike about me so much?”
He rolled his eyes and turned his face away. But he said nothing. I took this as encouragement.
“Do you find me outspoken? Forward?” I leaned in, and when he still did not answer, I gave up all pretense of neutrality. “By the way, I use these terms for your convenience only. Others would say instead I have self-respect and dignity, and I speak honestly.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Perhaps it’s simpler. Biological. Is it because I am female that you dislike me? Because I don’t sit home and obey Hasan’s petty rules of engagement?” I could feel his breathing change. “Just tell me what it is. Then I can go home in peace and forget about you.”
Finally speaking the words was a relief. I sat up, invigorated by my sense of injustice. With no Amma or Abba to defuse the situation, Hasan had to respond. I was ready for battle. I waited. And I refused to look away. However, it surprised me that he was not affronted as I had expected. In fact, he seemed – puzzled.
“You will go home,” he said finally. “And it will be in peace. You are lucky.” He picked up a dry leaf and slowly crushed it in his palm.
An explosion. Shattered glass. A man screamed, “Rehana, Rehana,” over and over again, until the woman’s name degenerated into a wail, a screech dragged over my flesh like a jagged blade. Hasan twitched and made as if to rise, then hesitated, and again, I thought he would get up, run and help. But he hesitated once more and at last, the cries faded away. We sat in silence for a few moments.
“Your father will be waiting for you,” Hasan continued. “Your home, too. Your classmates. Everything exactly as you left it – when? Only nine months ago?”
Detecting a slur, I replied huffily. “Well, some people like it that way. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying a world you can depend on. You might not like it –”
Bu
t he did not wait for me to finish. “Do you know what this street will look like in nine months? This country?” The dust of the crushed leaf fell through his fingers and was lost on the ground. “Do you think you will be able to recognize it if you ever come back?”
Guilt rose inside me, like a bubble rising through oil – slow, viscous – but I pushed it down. It was thick, yes, but it wouldn’t protect me against Hasan. “But you want to fight. You said it a million times.”
“I would do anything for this land. I will never forsake it.” His tone was strangely calm.
“You don’t have to go to war to achieve your goals.”
“Sometimes, drastic measures are called for.”
“And so – you’ll stop nowhere?”
“And you? You’ll just give up?”
“I have convictions, too, you know.” I said it but it felt like a lie. I knew the words for the things I thought important. But I felt washed with doubt about my own ability to act on them.
He looked at me then, for the first time. Right at me. His eyes were dark and clear. I pulled back, disarmed. It was like a beam of light had been directed right into my core, into the shadowy place where my duality, my ambiguous feelings, my contradictions were concealed. I felt reduced – able to sense, yes, but lacking both maturity and the ability to understand something big, important and vital. Hasan broke off the stare. But it was I who had backed down.
“Shaheed is joining the movement.”
His news was another bomb dropped. “He can’t. He doesn’t believe.”
Hasan laughed. “He told me this afternoon. He says it is all due to you. You have taught him the value of commitment.”
I was certain he was lying. Tossing this tidbit my way to see how I would respond. Perhaps he knew something about our kiss, and was baiting me to reveal more about our relationship. A moment ago, I had felt stripped before his gaze, unsure of myself; but this revelation and the manner in which it was delivered reminded me once more exactly who he was and would always be. He’d say anything – even something to damage his best friend’s reputation – just to continue his insane attacks.
“Shaheed believes in peaceful negotiation and passive resistance. You’re so cowardly, you’re using him to put me in my place – but it’s not going to work.”
“Your self-appointed place is of no interest. Like the traitorous country that sent you here, you are abandoning us.”
From down the road, footsteps faded into our hearing range, though we could see no one. Then the rickshawallah appeared, the chain a perfect circle again. While I continued to feel the nasty sting of his words, Hasan helped slot the chain over the gears, and turn the pedal until it slipped into place. “Cholo,” he said as he climbed on board.
The rickshawallah pushed us down a path in the park. We entered a deserted Monipuri Para, followed its lanes, then crossed another major road where we saw soldiers huddled in the distance, too busy with something to even hear or turn their heads to our rattling rickshaw. And then we reached our destination.
The gate to the airport was a contrast to the rest of the city. Thick with people, luggage and vehicles, noise and confusion battered us. I could hardly see the terminal. Clearly, I was not the only one hoping to get out tonight. The rickshawallah tried, but guard after guard stopped us from entering. They yelled. Grabbed his handlebars and steered us away. Finally, one approached, brandishing a nail to puncture the tire if we proceeded. We backed off.
My suitcase was heavy, the box awkward. Hasan found a hungry-looking man and slipped him a brimming handful of coins to carry my luggage into the building. From the look on the man’s face, I knew the payment was more than he expected, even in a time of war.
So this was it. My good-bye to my Dhaka. There was no time for apologies, no time for promises, last minute confessions. Still smarting, I held out my hand. Hasan shook it as though we had just met.
“Dhonnobad,” I said. “To your family. I enjoyed my stay.” It sounded cold, and was not what I meant, not at all, but I couldn’t really find the words I wanted in that crush.
“I hope your journey is pleasant,” he returned, and pulled his hand away. I felt cheated. All his passion, his anger, had been reduced to polite words, the kind offered to strangers. I wanted more – one last joust perhaps to prove to myself that I was right about him. “Go. Your coolie is waiting.” And indeed, the thin man had lifted my suitcase on his head. He balanced it with one hand, while with the other, he propped Amma’s box against a bony, lungi-clad hip. He appeared to be jumping from one foot to the other, but it was just the effort of trying to steady my things against the jostling of the endless stream of people.
When I turned back, Hasan was already on the rickshaw. The rickshawallah rang his bell, adding to the confusion, and pushed into the throng. I watched him manoeuvre the tightest circle I had ever seen one of those ungainly machines make. It curled around like smoke.
And they headed off. The rickshaw hood rose above the swarm. And on the back, in faded crimson letters, a single word eaten away by the hungry crowd: Surinder.
2001
“Thank you, Falguni,” I say. Dutifully, she has led me back to the Sheraton Hotel. Now, hands neatly folded, dupatta draped evenly over her shoulders, she stands at the bathroom door beside a small plastic stool and waits for instructions. It depresses me to see her behaving so obediently, just as Luna did. Has nothing for young women changed in thirty years?
She lingers, and though we both pretend otherwise, watches my hands, which, I notice for the first time, shake. I presume she sees the tremors as a sign of my guilt, so I entwine my fingers until there is no room in my palms for shame. I hold fast until they are red and still.
“No need to wait around. You can go.” She redirects her gaze to a corner of my room, where flaky paint reveals pockmarks of mildew. “Falguni – go.” The words come out harsher than intended, but then again, maybe firmness is necessary with girls like her.
Falguni looks at me as though leaving has not occurred to her. I get the feeling she and I are performing together using different scripts. But she finally slips away, into the hushed corridor, and when she does, the click of the door latch is clear, final, and a deliverance.
Alone again. At last.
I must have been crazy to think I could come back to Dhaka. Hasan’s raging face resurfaces in my mind. I hear his voice, then the sound of the shouting audience, incomprehensible words beating at auditorium walls. And me, in the spotlight, a spindly insect with hinged legs pinned to a silk background. Only I consciously chose my torment when I accepted the invitation to come back.
I turn on the television. I watch news in Bangla. A moment later, I change to a music show. Tinny instruments, a misdirected spotlight, a singer who clutches hands to chest and warbles in a falsetto that could curdle milk. I turn it off.
I lie on the bed. The lumpy pillow smells of mould. I throw it across the room. The stool falls with a muffled and dissatisfying thud.
I wonder if the Bangla-American Women’s Friendship Society will ask for its money back. I’m sure the organizers never expected controversy. A presentation on my once outspoken and misinterpreted views of student political movements – such a singular and minor work, hardly worth anyone’s attention, certainly not trouble of this sort. Should I have warned them? About what? That I helped a young woman in love find happiness? Of this, I am guilty. Of collaborating with the enemy, I am not.
My stomach grumbles. I should go for lunch – oily parathas. Maybe some mustardy ilish mach, if it’s on the menu, bitter, salty karela and whatever saag is in season. But leaving this room has no appeal. The three days before I return home, to Canada, stretch out interminably. Relief is possible if I change my flight. But I lack the energy to pick up the phone and deal with anyone who could make the arrangements. My stomach grumbles again.
Then I remember the box. When
I’d arrived, I’d put it in the closet until I had time to deal with it. Now I have plenty of time.
The box should have been returned years ago, once the war was over. That would have saved me all this grief today. But it wasn’t. The excuses swirl around my head – the war and the resulting lack of communication between me and the Chowdhurys. Then it was my self-exile from my country of birth. Then it was the patina that coloured my life once my child was born and made it difficult to look anywhere for years but at the baby in my arms. And it is true: a task delayed will diminish in urgency as it is replaced by new demands, though that says nothing of that first task’s importance. I never forgot my obligation. I just pushed it into a corner where I didn’t have to think much about it.
When I found out I’d be making this trip, I mustered up the courage and wrote to Amma, my second letter to her in thirty years. I told her I was finally coming back with the box, and would bring it to her. I mailed the letter, having no idea what would happen to it. There’d never been word from her or Luna or anyone else since I’d left. The one letter I’d sent – after several agonizing months of waiting for them to contact me – had gone unanswered. I had no idea whether they’d received that letter, or whether they’d just decided not to reply. Just as I had no idea whether the letter announcing my return had reached its address.
But what will happen now when I show up with the box? Hasan will have told everyone that I’m back – Amma, Mr. Chowdhury, Luna, Razzak, maybe even Shaheed. He’ll have instructed Shafiq not to open the door when I knock – no, that would be impossible. If that rickety man is still alive, surely he’s retired. He’d be living comfortably with one of his nephews back in the village. Hasan will have told Shafiq’s replacement: she’s a collaborator. Don’t let her in.
But I have done nothing of such magnitude, and Amma is no fool. She will realize Hasan’s accusations are just that, and welcome me again into her home. Besides, she wants the box back. I promised her, and how can I leave Dhaka again without fulfilling the obligation which has hung over my head for the last thirty years?
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