There will be a huge screen at the back of the stage. Ornate but serious lettering will spell out, “Top Thirty Under Thirty 2001.” It will fade, then one by one, slowly, the thirty portraits will appear, proud parents whispering, “There he is,” when their child’s picture is shown. As we wait for the ceremony to begin, there will be no one on stage, but an officious man, single-minded with his business; he will cross it twice, oblivious to the rapidly filling auditorium and the fact that we all have nothing to look at besides the pictures and his ungainly waddle.
The applause that begins the ceremony will, like everything else, be tasteful. Loud enough to exhibit parental pride, but with restraint. The master of ceremonies will be handsome and mild, his suit double-breasted and so excessively expensive-looking, he may as well have left the price tag dangling from the cuff. Although I suppose with such expensive suits, they don’t use price tags.
“Ticket please.” Thump, thump. A woman stamps my ticket. “Take a seat inside, after immigration. We’ll be boarding in groups.” She writes a big three on my boarding card and hands it to me.
Through a Plexiglas window, I see a desk ahead – three burly people, so alike in hair, uniform, manner, even from this relatively short distance, it is impossible to say whether they are men or women. What’s crystal clear is the fact that they are immigration officers. What startles me are the tiny stars and stripes badges on their shirts.
What is American immigration doing on Canadian soil? Why am I apparently the only one disturbed by this? Leave it to the nation of hypocrites of democracy to find a novel way of occupying a foreign territory without anyone raising the slightest objection. Leave it to the nation of somnolent mice to let it happen.
I didn’t expect to have to pass by this officialdom until my journey was almost over. This surprise is more than enough reason to reconsider my trip. I shake while I dig in my bag for my ID. I don’t know what I’m going to say if they start to question me. How does one prepare to be abused in the name of authority? I should leave before I find out, but then, I remember my mission.
What will Surinder say when we are finally face-to-face? I haven’t come that far in my imagining. Fear of a confrontation chokes me. But I know I have no choice but to make this trip. To lay to rest the ghosts that have kept me from the country of my birth, away from my child, absent from much of the past decade of my life. It is the only way ahead.
“Next,” calls the immigration officer. She’s young and businesslike. She doesn’t look up until I am before her desk. “Where you going?” she asks, as she looks over my ID.
“Seattle.”
“Purpose of your visit?”
I hesitate. What would she say if I really told her? Told her what a mess I’ve made of my life, all the doors I thought I’d closed, which in fact were left unlocked and open to the elements. How I let some imaginary internal war distract me from the real business of living, so I’d neglected everything that had meaning. That I have one chance left to stop fighting and re-enter the world, and this tiny crack of an opportunity is it. Told her that today, I am nothing more than an insect hatching from a tiny, viscous egg, into a world I know almost nothing about.
“Tourism,” I say.
“Where were you born?”
“Lansing, Michigan.”
I wait for her to blink, to check a computer screen or clipboard where surely my name has been written under the heading, “Draft Dodger’s Wives.” “Enemies of the State Living in Exile.” Or “Traitors.” But she doesn’t move a muscle. “Where’s home?”
“Saltspring,” I say and nod in the direction of the Strait of Georgia.
Will this trip unmake some of the mess of my life? Ed thinks so. But I don’t know. Sometimes I look back and shudder. Surinder’s only one unfinished chapter. Luna and the Chowdhurys are another, and though I’m thinking about sending the box to Lawrence, in the hopes that he will have greater success with the Chowdhurys, or, at the very least, be able to donate the box to a museum or library. It possesses a meaning beyond my own personal archive and has earned the right to a destiny in Bangladesh. But there remains also the unanswered question of Luna’s whereabouts.
Luna. Lately I’ve begun to picture her resting in an unmarked grave, somewhere in Bangladesh. The image is unsettling – until I remember that it is her own grave, where she lies with her arms around her beloved, and I feel some solace. But I still prefer to see her in another land, still with the man she loves, thriving, remembering her mother, thinking: this time I will pick up the phone; this time I will get a passport and a plane ticket and go. When I see her this way, I urge her on. Don’t wait Luna. Don’t wait until you can’t. Don’t let boundaries, real or imagined, stand in your way.
“Go ahead,” the immigration officer says. “Next.”
The waiting room fills with people like me. We’re definitely late now, and the tension in the room is palpable. I could go back. Feign the onset of a sudden illness, a need to go to the hospital. But the idea of passing back through immigration, facing that woman again, keeps me seated.
In the end, I was no better than Hasan or Amma when it came to Luna. The woman is as much a mystery as is her whereabouts. Though I loved her as much as any of them, the heaviness of her absence rests on me. And Shafiq dead, Hasan’s war wounds. Shaheed a martyr before he even had the chance to have a son of his own. How stubbornly I believed I was the only one serving justice. Can I live with that guilt? Have I any choice?
“Group one,” a bean-pole shaped boy calls out. “Everyone else remain in the waiting area.” There’s relief now that we’re actually boarding, though the jostling of people and luggage has a tinge of nastiness. I’m glad they haven’t yet called my number.
They’ll call the kids – young lawyers – up one at a time, in alphabetical order. The young woman from Mexico will be nearly first. Her last name is Alvarez. I will applaud her too loudly and make some of the audience glance my way, smelling a troublemaker. As if the peasant blouse wasn’t warning enough. Let them stand guard.
Surinder – rather, Susan Livingstone – will be the fourteenth one called up, sharing the exact centre with a boy with the last name Mallory. She will stride across that stage in her own perfect suit, graceful in heels that would make me stumble. But she will move as she always has – with the confidence befitting someone of her accomplishment.
She will take her trophy.
Again, I will applaud too loudly, too long. The VIPs will turn around, people down the row will lean over to see who’s making all the racket and behind me, I will feel the stir I have created.
I smile. “Group three,” I hear. I let the anxious ones stampede over one another to the front of the line. When they’re through, I pick up my suitcase and walk unhindered up the gangplank.
My picture dissolves. I try to conjure up an image of my Surinder looking up startled, then running off the stage, into the audience, into my embrace. But no. That doesn’t work. Then I try to picture a shy smile from her, after which I wait impatiently for the ceremonies to end. But I can’t see that either. I have to accept the truth – I don’t know what will happen.
The high speed catamaran powers up like a child’s toy. It pulls away from the wharf, gathers speed in the Inner Harbour. We are told where to find lifejackets. Life boats. Muster stations. But people are drawn instead to the bustle of the harbour. The float planes landing and taking off. The ferry from Port Angeles thumping against the wharf. Kayakers, sailboats, the tiny harbour ferries that carry passengers from one shore to the other – all the coming and going of a port city.
Once we reach open ocean, the catamaran picks up speed. Soon we roar along, bouncing off the crests of waves. The sea is wild and blue today. I feel myself tossed, inside and out. But for once, I do not mind. I know I will get to where I am going. And when I do, I will be ready for my daughter.
Acknowledgements:
&n
bsp; I am deeply indebted to the late Jahanara Imam, whose book Of Blood and Fire provides a rare look into one Bengali family’s experience of the 1971 Liberation War. Her account fills the gaps left by the more traditional history books and grows more valuable with each passing year.
Warm thanks to editor Ron Smith who worked his way through the entire manuscript with me, providing many thoughtful suggestions and questions that helped the telling of this story blossom. Margaret Slavin Dyment provided editorial comments on an early draft and helped the story grow into what it came to be.
For expertise on subjects as diverse as roof construction, widowhood, life in Lansing, Michigan in the 1960s, war objectors in Canada and the price of airline tickets in 1971, I thank: Anita Deb, Hannan Biswas, Thérèse Blanchet, Guy Breault, Sarah Camblin-Breault, Thrity Cawasji, Judith Graeff, Kathryn Mulders, Carl Tinstman, Kirsten Westergard, Steve Willerton, Heather Wilson, Tahera “Tulie” Yasmin, Anisa Zaman and the staff, past and present, of the Muktijuddho Jadughor (Liberation War Museum) in Dhaka.
I am awed by the love, patience, care and support of my family. Thank you, Michael and Devin, for understanding what “room of one’s own” means.
*
Notes:
“Durmor”, the epigraph, can be found in Bengali in Biplobi Suanto Bhottachryer Rochona Samagro, Dilip Kumar Das and Sheuly Das Sompadito, editors. Published in 1973 (8th Falgun, 1379 Bangla) by Norendro Nath Basu in Barisal, Bangladesh.
The translation is found in English in Of Blood and Fire: The Untold Story of Banladesh’s War of Independence by Jahanara Imam, translated by Mustafizur Rahman, second edition published in 1998 by The University Press Limited, Dhaka, Bangladesh.
Because of differences in transliteration, Sukanto is often referred to as Sukanta Bhattacharya. Both names refer to the same man.
For the sake of authenticity and ease of reading, I have integrated Bangla words into the text, without resorting to the use of italics. I felt the meaning of most words was obvious from the context in which they appear.
The cover photo is by Shehzad Noorani. It was taken in Kurigram district in the north of Bangladesh which was a strategically important part of the country during the 1971 Liberation War.
Photo: Tony Bounsall
Peggy Herring is a writer living in Victoria, BC. Her short fiction appears in literary journals and anthologies in Canada and India. She’s lived in Bangladesh, India, Nepal, England and Japan, working as a journalist, international development consultant and volunteer, and teacher. This Innocent Corner is her first novel.
This Innocent Corner Page 25