by Adib Khan
‘Did he have family here?’
‘His parents.’ She hesitates. ‘Two sisters and a brother.’
‘Did you know them?’
‘I met them once. It wasn’t particularly pleasant.’ She looks at me as if expecting the sequential questions.
I remain silent.
‘Shabir’s family had a younger woman in mind for him to marry.’ Alya scowls as though recoiling from the memory of the family meeting. ‘To be seen with a widow wasn’t reputable for the family. He didn’t have children from his first marriage. His mother didn’t think I’d be capable of adding to her brood of grandchildren.’
How difficult it is to participate in someone else’s sorrow. I admire Alya’s acceptance, and imagine this mask of fortitude will slip into place whenever she goes into the outside world. Silence is the most sincere form of consolation I can offer.
She accompanies me outside. I tell her I’m going away for a few days.
‘Where?’
‘Chittagong and beyond. Into the wilderness of the Hill Tracts.’
‘Why?’ She frowns. ‘Who with?’
‘My nephew, Omar. He runs a textile factory somewhere near Chittagong. You’ve met him?’
‘Once, in your brother’s house. Be careful.’
‘It should be fun,’ I say enthusiastically. ‘I’m looking forward to exploring the undeveloped areas of the Hill Tracts. Passing through remote villages and hiking. Breathing unpolluted air.’
‘Don’t get too curious and go wandering off into the wilderness on your own,’ Alya warns. ‘Khuda Hafiz!’
I turn to look at her. She hurries back inside.
I think that if Mills and Nichols do come here, to question her about Shabir’s investigation, about what she knows, Alya will manage them tactfully and without being agitated. And if she thinks my visit today is odd—well, it need not matter. I’ve done what I thought was proper.
NASREEN HAS LEFT a cardboard box and an explanatory note. There must be at least twenty keys of different sizes and shapes. Most of them are rusty and grouped together on souvenir key rings. A miniature Eiffel Tower. An emblematic Empire State Building. An African woman with a pot on her head. The Taj Mahal. Others are tied in bunches with dirt-crusted strings.
I leave the box in my room till this afternoon. Downstairs, Ma is trying to feed Abba. Today he’s decided not to have his lunch.
‘Why won’t you eat?’ I ask.
‘Eat?’ He looks blankly at me.
‘Food,’ Ma says, picking up a spoonful of rice and fish and holding it near his mouth. ‘Will you have some of this? It’s nice!’
He presses his lips together and turns his head away. ‘No!’
‘Why?’ I ask.
‘I…slim and…and…handsome,’ he says impatiently, as though the motive for his lack of cooperation should be obvious to us.
‘I’ll try again later,’ Ma sighs. She takes the tray back to the kitchen.
Ma and I sit down to lunch. She tells me how on most days she eats alone. ‘I only have these chairs for company. There was a time when the dining table was always crowded,’ she reminisces. ‘An hour or two of food and talk and laughter. It brought us all together. We cared for each other then. There was never any hurry.’
‘It’s not that people don’t care.’ Strangely, I too feel the emptiness. ‘It’s the lack of time which makes things the way they are. We all try to do too much, to achieve as much as we can.’ Finite lives and infinite possibilities.
She’s astounded when I tell her about the park bench where I usually have my sandwich or salad roll. Read the newspapers. Watch the pedestrians and the traffic. This is a precious hour, to escape from human contact, to shed work problems. It’s a sliver of the day away from a world that grinds on relentlessly, pursuing efficiency and success.
‘Don’t you get lonely?’
‘No. I want to be on my own.’
‘I don’t understand that.’ She looks away at the vacant chairs. ‘This is an early lunch for me. Today I didn’t bathe your father. He resists so much! It tires me.’ She is crestfallen. ‘By the time I’ve changed and fed him, it’s past two o’clock. Then I shower and say my prayers before eating. By then it’s nearly time for afternoon tea. Today’s an exception. I shall pray after lunch.’
I ask about Ma’s friends, and the marriages of distant cousins. I’m now officially a nana, she informs me. The daughters of two of my cousins, living in the tea gardens of Sylhet, have recently had babies.
Ma calls Latif to clear the table. I say I’ll be in the loft of the garage, looking for my university cricket blazer. ‘I’m certain it’s in one of the trunks. I’d like to take it back with me.’
‘I don’t know what’s in the loft. One day, when I have time, I’ll open the trunks and have a look.’
She shuffles off for the pre-prayer ablution.
It’s a hot afternoon. Mirza has disappeared for a smoke and a chat at the local tea shop.
With a torch and the box of keys, I make my way to the garage. The loft is solidly built and the ladder is sturdy timber. I turn on the light switches and climb up, tearing through the cobwebs that hang in space like films of mist.
A dust storm seems to have swept across the loft. It looks like no one’s been up here since the boxes and trunks were stored. I count nineteen trunks scattered across the floor, some stacked on top of others. Cardboard boxes and tea chests lean precariously against the walls, piled to the ceiling.
I don’t know where to begin.
The single light is dim, so I focus the torch on each trunk. There are three that look much older than the others. They are rusty, and buckled on the sides and fastened with padlocks. I begin with these. Randomly I take a bunch of keys and try them in the largest of the trunks. Two of the keys fit, but I’m unable to turn them.
One after another, the trunks refuse the keys. It’s muggy and airless. I sweat profusely and my irritability grows. I’m almost ready to leave Sumita and Rani wrapped in the mystery of my father’s past, buried in Abba’s flaws and youthful invincibility.
Exasperated, I think of throwing the keys back in the box. But maybe I should try and break the locks? Force my way into my father’s secrets, into neglected documents, photographs, revealing letters perhaps. But I’m nagged by the doubt that the trunks will yield anything significant.
Then I spot three keys strung together on a rusty chain.
The hinges of the first trunk creak as I open it. There’s a pile of old newspapers—limp and yellowed editions of The Statesman rejoicing in India’s independence. There are bundles of receipts. Letters between my grandfather and Abba. I skim read half a dozen of these, and find the stillfamiliar themes.
One gives an account of a hunting expedition where Uncle Musa strayed into a neighbouring zamindar’s property and randomly shot wild pigeons and fowls. When a caretaker protested, he angrily fired a bullet over the man’s head. ‘His obsession with shikar does not take into account the cost that it incurs. He insists on taking a brood of friends with him and paying for their expenses. There’s no moderation in my oldest son’s life,’ my grandfather complains.
The other trunks are filled with official correspondence from various hospitals. Medical journals and reports, editions of the Lancet, more newspapers and inconsequential documents detailing the transactions in properties, stocks and shares.
At the bottom of the last trunk I find several photograph albums and three frayed, leather-bound diaries. Eagerly I turn the pages of the first album. The pictures are faded. Some are torn. Abba is easily recognisable. In one striking image, he’s dressed in hunting gear—a pith helmet, khaki shirt and trousers—with a double-barrelled shotgun under his left arm, an imitation of the stereotypical image of the white sahib. His left foot rests on top of a tiger’s head. Even in death, the big cat looks formidable. But it’s Abba’s posture that shows a side to him I didn’t know. He’s gazing into the camera, a smug look on his face. It exudes arroganc
e and smugness. And…secrecy. I can’t help thinking that this is the conceit of a seasoned, colonial conqueror.
I don’t recognise the landscape. The hunting parties are notable for the absence of close family members. At the bottom of one of the pages, there’s a date: April 24th, 1950. The year I was born.
The second album opens with the photo of a passenger ship. The caption reads, ‘Celicia. Karachi. Just before embarkation.’ Then there’s an enlarged photograph of Abba sitting on deck. He’s in a white suit and his charcoal hair is slicked back. He looks boldly at the camera, as though daring the world to know him better than it does. There are pictures of the life of hedonism on board. Party hats, streamers and dances.
And pressed between two middle pages are folded receipts, the butts of two chequebooks and a slim notebook.
I hesitate momentarily.
In the notebook is a meticulous record of sums of money, with dates and the name Sumita scrawled next to each entry. I recognise Abba’s handwriting. The receipts are for clothing, perfume and jewellery.
I pause. Sumita. I’d forgotten that it’s a Hindu name.
There’s a letterhead slipped into the notebook, with only two handwritten words on it: Dearest Sumita. Why didn’t he complete the letter? Did someone interrupt him? Did guilt stop a love letter?
Why did he keep the almost blank sheet of paper?
I return to the album. Abba is photographed with a striking-looking woman, with long black hair and fearless dark eyes. She’s wearing a light-coloured sari spotted with paisleys.
Sumita?
I study the photograph and draw unfavourable conclusions about the woman. I contemplate tearing it up. Then I see my anger; it’s masochism.
Other pictures. Abba has his arm around her shoulders. She holds an ice-cream cone in her right hand. Her left arm is coiled around his neck. They’re laughing as they stand in front of Pisa’s most recognisable landmark. On the steps of the British Museum…Somewhere in the Alps…In front of the Parthenon. Their gazes are clear, almost as if they’re aware that their shared time is limited.
The diaries may say more about Sumita. And then? How would I react if someone probed my past and made discoveries that I did not wish to be revealed? What right have I to judge someone’s private life, even my father’s? I know nothing about the circumstances that led to these pictures with Sumita. Was he dissatisfied with his family life, or a victim of that inexplicable restlessness of midlife?
I leaf through the album again. I search my parents’ matrimonial life, looking for a period when they seemed discontented in each other’s company. I see only a blank and dutiful relationship. Ma was garrulous and Abba was a patient listener. They talked of domestic matters, affairs of their children and financial dealings. None of my memories, none of their own photographs, exudes the warmth and exuberance of the ones I’m holding in my hands.
I open one of the diaries. It’s been written in with a fountain pen. Abba’s handwriting. But by now my curiosity has turned to fear. I close the diary. Sometimes knowledge that can cause anguish isn’t worth possessing. Let Sumita the mistress, and Rani, remain enigmas.
I begin to dump everything back into the trunks. But then, again, I change my mind—and grab the diaries.
ZAFAR AND YASMIN are back from school. The house vibrates with their voices. Ma has their undivided attention, as they breathlessly tell her about their day.
In my room I begin at once to read fragments of the diaries, feeling both dread and anticipation. For the first time I see how much help Abba gave the less fortunate members of the family. He gave away land to his cousins, paid for the education of their children and built a house in the village for his widowed sister. In some of his entries he despairs at the unfairness of the zamandari system, and its tenacity in perpetrating social injustice.
The third volume is thicker, and covers the years 1961 to 1963. The tone has changed. Where he was accepting earlier, Abba sounds forlorn now as he writes about his incompatibility with Ma. I’m saddened by his stark admission of entrapment. Then, on April 5th, 1963, he writes,
Sumita! After years of silence, I have unexpectedly received a letter from her. I am overjoyed at the prospect of seeing her again. She says that she has a surprise for me. I must make plans…I shall arrange to meet her in Calcutta. What I am doing is wrong to my family but my desire to be with her subdues guilt. I am as excited as a college student about to see his girlfriend. And Rabeyah? I know this is wrong! It is so unfair to her. How will I go on pretending that everything is normal? Sometimes I think she is extremely astute. But if she has ever been suspicious, then she has hidden it well. She has played the role of an ignorant wife quite superbly. Guilt and excitement. It is a potent mixture. There is a darkness in me that is beginning to emerge. The other side. I cannot say I understand it, but I am fearful. There is a lot to lose if I am not careful. Careful? That is a joke! For Sumita I am prepared to be as reckless as necessary…
I skim read other similar entries, until I get to May 27th. This is what I’ve been looking for.
I am the father of a girl of four! The meeting with Sumita was an anticlimax. She was aloof and curt. But Rani! She is a gorgeous child. Full of laughter and life. She kept calling me ‘That man’. My daughter! My God! What have I done? Why did Sumita not let me know as soon as she found out she was pregnant, I asked. She thought I would not want to know. I wish Sumita had made demands. She kept repeating that she wanted me to see our child. She has accepted my offer of assistance. My greatest disappointment was the lack of warmth between us. Meeting her was like holding a handful of cold ashes. I only have memory to remind me of what it was like in Europe. Her father is now posted in Germany. Sumita is working as a translator at the United Nations. I could visit her in New York, I suggested. She did not think that was a good idea. We walked along the bank of the Hooghly River. Rani held my hand but Sumita kept a distance from us. I can only think of how things were. I must do what is right. I must—
Someone’s at the door.
I hide the diaries in a drawer. I didn’t expect Ma. Zia had told me that she rarely comes upstairs. She has breathing difficulties and the varicose veins in her legs hurt if she climbs steps.
She sits on the bed. ‘Did you find what you were after?’ she asks, and I see that she’s tearful.
‘Ah, no. I couldn’t find the blazer.’
‘You gave it away to your cousin, Shomu, before you left for Australia. Don’t you remember?’
I don’t wish to lie to her any more. ‘Ma, what was Abba like as a husband?’ I blurt hoarsely.
She becomes rigid and doesn’t answer immediately. Then she says, ‘Kind and gentle. He always took care not to hurt me. Even if it meant not telling me everything as it was.’
‘He was often away from home,’ I observe carefully. ‘What do you know about his travels?’
‘Whatever I was supposed to know.’ She considers me. ‘I was married on the understanding that I would be an obedient wife. Someone who would train her eyesight not to see beyond the domestic life.’
‘Do you know who Rani was?’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes! Now I do.’
‘And what can be done with that information now? In the last six months your father has said things that he shouldn’t have. He didn’t realise what he was revealing. It’s almost as if there’s another man speaking with his voice.’ She sits with her hands on her lap, staring out of the window.
‘So…you wouldn’t know what happened to Rani?’
‘I’ve never had the desire to know,’ she whispers.
I move to sit close to her.
The hurt and pain she has borne all these years have never been exposed to her children. Ma has looked after us with an efficiency that has not been affected by her own trials. She has been the dutiful wife and the loving mother. I’ve never known her to criticise Abba to us, or show him hostility. She always said what a caring father he was, and Abba played his part too, of c
ourse. I couldn’t accuse him of neglecting us. He found time for family activities and was the sort of person who extracted more than twenty-four hours of living from a day.
Until now I haven’t appreciated Ma’s resilience. She gave herself selflessly to us and, in return, she only longed for our company and attention. Zia and Nasreen have been generous to her in many ways. But I’ve been aloof, removed from her needs. I’ve allowed self-pity and guilt from another segment of my life to fester inside me, when I could have done so much more. Absorption in my own well-being was a vehicle of escape, my way of keeping people at an emotional distance.
The truth is I’m still afraid of engaging intimately with anyone.
Latif runs up to inform us that Abba has woken suddenly from his afternoon nap and is lashing himself with a belt. I have to caution Ma against rushing down the stairs.
Abba is sitting on his bed, covered in sweat. He’s trembling. There are red welts on his left arm. As he sees Ma, he begins to cry. Ma puts her arm around him and lets him rest his head on her shoulder. She massages the back of his neck and calms him.
I stand helplessly next to them.
‘I’ll look after him,’ she whispers confidently.
‘Will you be all right?’ I ask, removing the belt from my father’s reach.
She nods. I retreat to the door.
Abba hears me and raises his head. ‘Nothing!’ he sobs. ‘Nothing!’
I’VE WITNESSED THE ebb and flow of a long relationship that has needed constant corrections and adjustments. It has been strained and deceitful, and yet with a strength of will that has managed to contain the problems, if not eradicate them. I feel as if I’m an emotional simpleton, my limitations cruelly exposed by the entanglement of what I’ve seen, read and heard in the last few hours. It’s as though I’ve been made to see, in others, those dimensions of life—the gashes, the bruises and bleeding, with parenthesised periods of sublimity and unexpected turns—that I’ve been gripped by, but never thought that others, too, experienced.