by Adib Khan
He gawks at the sheet of paper.
‘So, I’m not invited!’ he observes between gritted teeth. ‘I suppose even his children haven’t been asked. What did you say to him to be the recipient of this honour?’
‘I just didn’t get stroppy and force decisions on him.’
‘I thought that was the idea behind your visit.’
‘He’s a lonely, insecure old man! That cynicism and bravado is a shield. The only decent thing is to let him enjoy the years left to him.’
‘And what about us?’ Zia demands. ‘We’ll be a laughing stock! But I don’t suppose you give a damn. Why should you? Another forty-eight hours and you’ll be on a plane.’
‘That’s unfair!’
‘Well, you can tell Ma!’ Zia huffs and walks out.
Did Zia simply lash out in a moment of frustration, or was it his intention to make me feel mean and miserable? It’s impossible to judge. But I refuse to condemn the old man. He’s an outcast in so many ways. Only sometimes foolishly, he’s allowed his instincts to guide him through the long years.
Ma joins me in the veranda. We speak about Nasreen’s children. Ma tells me how well they’re doing at school. It seems that the superiority of the Alams is still divinely inspired. I recognise here a homespun mixture of ideas on natural selection and Allah’s will in blessing our family.
‘We’ve had our share of problems,’ Ma admits, ‘but wouldn’t you say that we’re a chosen family?’
Chosen for what and by whom?
Ma beams contentedly.
This is the opportune moment.
‘Ma, I’ve been invited to Uncle Musa’s wedding.’ I hold out the sheet of paper.
‘I don’t want to read his letter!’ Her voice is defiant. ‘I didn’t even know that a date had been set. Where’s the invitation?’
‘There’s no letter. This is the invitation.’
‘This?’ she says incredulously, grabbing it from me. ‘But it’s on an ordinary piece of paper! Handwritten! Has Musa Bhai lost all his senses?’
‘It’s a waste of money to have expensively printed invitations.’
She scrutinises the writing. ‘This cheapness is shameful! If he was that hard up, why couldn’t he take a loan? He could have asked Zia. Or you. What has happened to us? Why have we become so mean-spirited?’
‘I’ve written to him offering congratulations. I know Uncle Musa would be happy to receive something similar from you,’ I suggest.
‘So I’m expected to give way to a seventeen-year-old village girl?’
I remain quiet. I hadn’t thought through the implications of the ranking system, the hierarchical positions in the family. After the death of each of Uncle Musa’s wives, Ma commanded obeisant treatment for a short period of time as the female head of the family. But the patriarch is to wed again. Ma’s pride must suffer a serious blow.
‘Will you write to him?’ I persist.
‘No!’ She remains adamant. ‘There was a time when marriage was a serious matter of family pedigree, honour, careful selection and months of planning. But now? Anyone can be a member of this family! Had he been well, your father would never have approved!’
‘He wouldn’t have had a choice!’
Taking the invitation, she heads off purposefully to Abba’s room.
A few minutes later I follow her.
‘Your father doesn’t remember his own brother!’ she tells me despairingly.
‘Ma, you know what his condition is.’
My mind drifts to the sound of a modulated voice over the public announcement system at the International Airport, inviting us to board the flight to Dubai. I’m the first passenger on the aircraft.
Abba cranes his neck forward and peers at me suspiciously. ‘I know!’ He points an index finger at me. ‘You’re…you are…Su…Su…Uncle!’
Ma’s shocked. ‘What? That’s Masud.’
‘Masud?’ He looks confused. ‘Is he getting married?’
‘No, Musa Bhai is.’
‘Abba, don’t you remember Pochah?’ Perhaps Uncle Musa’s rarely used nickname, Rotten, might spark some recognition.
Abba frowns and then begins to giggle. ‘He went with the maidservant. I was guard!’
With an air of resignation, Ma hands the invitation back to me. ‘How did you get this?’ she asks.
‘It came by post.’
As I leave the room I can feel the start of a smile on my face. Uncle Musa was always a troubled, rebellious being, and he still refuses to submit to conventions, to what the Alams have designated as acceptable behaviour.
I find Mirza and ask him when Nur left.
‘He doesn’t want to be seen by Ma Begum,’ Mirza says cautiously.
‘You mean he’s still here?’ I ask incredulously.
‘He had to do some work for your uncle.’
‘At the internet shop?’
NUR IS SMOKING a bidi when I find him behind the garage.
‘Ah, Choto Babu!’ He drops the bidi behind his feet. ‘You received the invitation.’
‘Nur, can you tell me why Uncle is doing this, at his age?’
‘Choto Babu, nothing is as it seems. Your uncle is a kind man.’ He looks as though daring me to contradict him. ‘Yes, the girl he is marrying is very young. But did you know that no other man will have her?’
‘Why?’
‘There are reasons. I’m not allowed to tell.’
My look doesn’t intimidate Nur. ‘Will there be many people at the wedding?’
He shakes his head sadly. ‘Other than her close family members, no one else will come. They’re too embarrassed.’
I give Nur the bus fare for his trip home.
‘It’s best for you to leave before Ma sees you,’ I advise.
Nur nods grudgingly, but doesn’t budge.
‘What?’
‘My stay here has not been easy.’ Nur wipes his face with a ghamcha. ‘Your mother’s anger…’
I hand Nur additional money.
‘Don’t think badly of him, Choto Babu. Your uncle’s a generous man. He could have employed a younger servant, but he didn’t get rid of me. He built me a small house on the edge of the village and gave me land and money.’
I’M NERVOUS ABOUT leaving the house, but the bright day, the crowds and the armed soldiers everywhere all lift my fears.
It takes me much longer than I had anticipated to choose the saris for Mehrun-Nessa. Chachi Mehrun-Nessa. It’s difficult to choose from the shimmering array of colours laid out in layers of soft, flowing material. Finally I settle for a rich aquamarine Banarsi threaded with gold, and a maroon Mysori silk sari with a broad olive-green border. The shopkeeper is delighted and giftwraps the saris.
Then, in one of the sweetmeat shops, I arrange to pick up sweet yoghurt, ladoos, shondesh and chomchoms the next morning.
Back at the house, an hour later, I call Zia at work.
‘The tiles look brilliant in the bathroom!’ he gushes with enthusiasm. ‘The builders are making a big push to finish. They were at work at dawn!’
Silently I bless them for their diligence, for making my brother happy.
Zia’s nonplussed by my request. ‘Of course, I can arrange for you to borrow a car. But why do you need a four-wheel-drive?’
I make no attempt to hide my intention of returning to the village. There must be a firm stubbornness in my voice that chokes questions and prevents comments which Zia might have otherwise made.
When Nasreen comes home from work, she and Ma huddle together in the dining room and whisper.
I get the silent treatment.
I’m disappointed with Nasreen. Perhaps she has sided
with Ma to placate her, but I hadn’t expected my sister to be so disapproving of Uncle Musa.
I stay in the lounge and play ludo with Nasreen’s children. When the phone rings, Yasmin runs to get it. She listens and then giggles. ‘Yes,’ she repeats several times, and then points the receiver towards me. ‘It’s for you,�
�� she says shyly. ‘It’s Omar Bhai.’
Omar sounds remote and formal. He brushes aside my concerns for his safety. He doesn’t say where he is. I listen carefully. There’s no factory noise in the background. ‘Are you still leaving the day after tomorrow? In the morning?’
‘Yes, but I’m now taking an evening flight.’
‘Why?’ he asks suspiciously.
‘They’d overbooked the earlier flight.’
‘Who made the change?’ He demands aggressively.
‘I didn’t get his name.’
‘Wasn’t he wearing a name tag?’
‘Not that I can recall. But, anyway, it was a young man. He was very obliging. Why can’t you tell me where you are?’
There’s a click and the phone goes dead.
The rest of the day passes slowly. I write a note for
Zia and stay in my room, reading and thinking of the future, without any great conviction that I can change things, or the way I am. I even consider coming back here permanently. Anything is possible in the safety of my imaginings. Then I think of Steven Mills and his family. Unwillingly, I drift to Flinders Street station. Tullamarine airport. The Bourke Street mall. Crowded streets in the suburbs of Melbourne…
MORNING BRINGS A heavy downpour. The clouds hang low like masses of grey cotton balls and float slowly across the sky towards the west. Within minutes the road is flooded. I come downstairs and watch the rain from the dining room window.
‘It will clear up soon,’ Mirza predicts confidently. ‘Your car’s here. I’ve prepared some lunch for you.’
By half-past seven, summer returns. The clouds disappear and the day already threatens to be scorchingly hot. As I grab the gift package and my backpack, Abba begins to call Ma. I leave the house and Mirza runs out to the car with a tiffin-carrier.
I pick up the sweetmeats before taking the road to Manikpur. Along the way, I’m overtaken by buses and vans which honk and swerve past, forcing me close to the edge of the road.
I see a truck loaded with armed soldiers ahead of me. I speed up to stay close behind the vehicle.
After three hours I arrive at the spot where Alya had parked her car. Almost magically Anis and a friend rise from the thicket of wild grass. I negotiate for the boys to carry the boxes of sweetmeats to Uncle Musa’s house. Smilingly they extract from me three times the sum I’d thought generous. We then haggle about the amount I should pay in advance. I make the grave mistake of checking the time on my watch. Anis folds his arms across his chest and waits for me to give in. Either I pay them everything now or I can find help elsewhere. I cave in.
The two kids splash through the puddles and race each other towards Alamvilla, growling like beastly predators. I think of the stories that might circulate later today—variations on how two young villagers outsmarted a city sahib and made him agree to their demands. Ah well, at least a couple of families will be eating well tonight.
Nur must have been in the village and spotted us as we moved through. I hear him calling me from behind. He rushes up to my side and grabs my arm. ‘Choto Babu! Where are you going?’ His voice is panic-stricken.
‘I want to see Uncle Musa and congratulate him. I won’t be here for the wedding.’
‘You could’ve informed us beforehand! We might have been better prepared.’
‘What’s there to prepare?’
He walks alongside, clearly distressed by my unexpected appearance. Anis and his friend are waiting in the shadow of one of the tigers, which look even more bizarre than I can remember.
The boys refuse to go beyond the walls into the yard. Anis points to the big cats and backs away. Nur assures me that he can carry the boxes to the house. ‘Your uncle has a visitor,’ he informs me as I stride across the damp turf.
‘Why does that matter?’
‘Your uncle is talking to his future wife.’
‘I shall be very happy to meet her.’
‘You don’t understand, Choto Babu!’ Nur is exasperated and steps in front of me. ‘She doesn’t appear in front of strangers.’
‘Nur, I understand that village girls are shy and not accustomed to making appearances before male strangers. But she is to be my aunt.’
‘Even in front of your uncle she keeps her face covered!’
‘Please take the boxes inside. Make sure he gets the card as well,’ I instruct. ‘Are they in the backyard?’
‘Yes,’ he replies reluctantly. Nur has been trained to give priority to etiquette. Regardless of how long he’s been with us, we’re always master and servant. He can contradict and argue with the Alams, as long as he is subtle and not blunt and disrespectful. I can see that he’s upset now and contrite about a rare transgression in his behaviour.
‘I won’t stay long, Nur,’ I reassure him.
Unhappily, he trudges off to the front door.
I walk along the side of the house. I don’t want to burst in on them. But then I hear voices. Uncle Musa wants to extend the house. Mehrun-Nessa asks him about a holiday in the city. She’s never been to Dhaka before.
I peek around the wall. He’s sitting on a straw mat with his back towards me. A few long strands of white hair on the sides of his head, like the tentacles of a jellyfish, flutter in the breeze. He has an arm around the shoulders of a slim sari-clad figure.
‘Allah willing, I have a few years left. I cannot give you children, but I will look after you while I’m here,’ he says to her. ‘You must try and forget what your first husband did to you.’
I’ve never heard Uncle Musa speak so gently.
Mehrun-Nessa’s silence expresses her misgivings about the future. I imagine her thinking cautiously about the years in front of her, living her life as a widow, ostracised by her family and shunned by the Alams. She’s probably astute enough to perceive the burden of loneliness.
Uncle Musa looks at her as though he’s able to read her mind. ‘I’ve told you, I’ll provide for you. You will have money and land.’
‘You’re a generous man,’ she says guardedly. ‘But your children won’t like what you plan to do.’
‘My decisions won’t be affected by their greed!’ he says fiercely. ‘You took away an old man’s loneliness and gave him company. At my age that’s the ultimate gift a man can have. I wake up in the morning and I don’t think of death. There’s now a purpose in my life.’
‘But how can you bear to look at me? Even an old turtle’s face looks better than mine.’
He draws her close to him. ‘What I see in you now is not what I would have seen as a young man. My eyesight is nearly gone. I have to see with my mind and heart. It’s a peculiar gift of old age.’
The ensuing silence is the perfect cue for me to enter. Yet the moment is fragile, so intimate and tender, as though the most intricate of feelings have been created in a mesh of harmony. I want to tell Uncle Musa that I admire his guts and that he has the right to live as he pleases. And to hell with izzat, propriety and what others may say about his marriage. Yet I feel like a bungling gatecrasher. I cannot disturb them. They’re entitled to sit there, dream and talk about their problems. I shall cherish the sight.
Nur has crept up on me. I turn to leave.
‘Why didn’t you tell me, Nur?’
‘Sometimes there are things that cannot be said.’
‘Can you do me a favour?’
Nur nods.
‘Don’t tell them I was here. Say that Mirza brought the things.’
I LUNCH ON the crumbling front stairs of the ruins of our old house. I think of old Walnuts and my father. Today the universe has opened up to me just that little bit more.
Later, I walk through Manikpur, stopping to talk to villagers. They are respectful in their conversation. Nothing is said about Uncle Musa’s marriage or Mehrun-Nessa.
IT’S DUSK BY the time I reach home.
Zia’s relieved to see me. ‘I was wondering what happened! What did the old fellow say?’
‘I didn’t get to see him.’
> ‘Huh? Where could he have gone?’
‘He didn’t go anywhere.’
Zia doesn’t know what to ask next.
‘I just decided that there are some things best left alone.’
I derive no satisfaction from my brother’s confusion. But I don’t intend to say anything else.
Tonight my brother is quiet and accepting. We talk about my travels, his new house. Then Zia tells me that he has arranged for me to be driven to the airport tomorrow evening. ‘I’ll go there straight from work,’ he says. He checks the departure time with me. ‘The weeks have gone quickly.’
I look around the room and think how familiar I am with the house. ‘It almost seems as if I’m leaving the country for the first time.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Almost Goodbye
Abba is disoriented after a long afternoon’s sleep. He slurps milk from a stainless-steel mug and slouches in his rocking chair.
Ma wipes his face and neck with a damp towel.
I’ve been sitting with him for more than half an hour in the hope of some miraculous happening. But his phrases still curl up and die before they can be fully articulated.
I gently rub his hand. It’s a gesture of many meanings for me. Above everything else, it’s an apology for not knowing how to say goodbye. I dread the finality of this parting. His inability to understand the poignancy of these moments compounds my sadness.
He turns towards me and a grin spreads across his face.
‘I’m leaving in a few minutes.’
Ma takes the empty mug from Abba’s hand and slips out of the room.
‘I’m leaving…’ he repeats slowly after me, forgetting the rest of the sentence.
‘Abba, I don’t live here. I live in another country.’
He frowns. ‘To room? Stay. You can…you can…’ He points to the bed.
‘Abba, there’s something I want you to know…’
The blank stare once again.
I lean forward until my lips almost brush his right ear. I don’t believe I’m a worse liar than the average person. And I’m utterly convinced of the justification of what I’m about to say.
‘Your daughter Rani…’