by Arif Anwar
“If I may speak freely, sir—this package seems like something a potential purchaser might request as part of their due diligence efforts.”
Drake nods, impassive. He is not yet thirty-five, with the first shards of gray peeking through the brown at his temples.
“It could also be part of an annual audit requested by the board.”
“Which I’d be informed of. And an audit can always be requested by an external buyer.”
This time Drake laughs. “Will we continue sparring or is there a question in there somewhere?”
“How long do we have?”
“There’s no need to sound so fatalistic about it. This is simply a precautionary measure that the board has requested that I take.”
“Is there an interested buyer?”
“We’ve had approaches. The strongest interest is from a group of local investors, which—given what’s on the horizon—is entirely expected. British companies all over India are divesting, fleeing back to England. It’s just Britannia’s turn.”
“Not all of them are leaving.”
“No, but it’s coming. It’s the first crack in the cup. The one you know will spread before the whole things breaks. Independence seemed far off when I joined last year—fresh off the war—but it’s a matter of months now, not years. I half-believe that’s why the board hired me in the first place. To ease the transition.”
Rahim absorbs the news, the implications roiling his stomach. It is not news that management in the larger companies across the country is transferring from British to native hands, even if the speed has caught many off-guard. This departure has been prolonged and bittersweet for not just the occupiers, but the occupied as well. In many ways, the British are like the Mughals that they deposed, the glue that holds this country of many languages, cultures and religions together.
“We employ more than a thousand people. What happens to them in case of a sale?”
“I won’t make empty promises. You of all people know that it’s exceedingly rare that there aren’t redundancies after a sale. I’ll be the first one, actually.” Drake laughs. “But your job should be safe, at least for the time being.”
“I don’t follow, sir.”
“What I mean, Mr. Choudhury, is that I’m done with Asia, with the colonies, with the dust and flyblown romance of the Orient. I’m looking forward to returning to England. In fact, I can’t wait.”
“I see.”
“I mean no offense.”
“I took none.”
“What about you? If your country is to be divided along the lines of religion—as it seems likely—will you stay here, or move to East Bengal? I understand that that’s where the Muslims are expected to transfer should your leaders get their way.”
This is a question that Rahim has asked himself nearly every day for the past year. Is he first a Muslim, owing his allegiance to a nation carved out from India for other adherents of his religion, or an Indian, with his heart sworn to a flag rather than a God?
He answers truthfully. “I still don’t know, but I’m hoping to have an answer if it becomes a reality. My wife would prefer that we move back to East Bengal, whether it becomes a separate nation or a Muslim-only province. She is from there. For her, it will just be going home.”
“If you need an incentive to remain, I’ll recommend to the board that you be promoted to the position of managing director upon my departure.” Drake shrugs. “You’ll be a young MD, but it’s nothing more than you deserve. And the new board is likely to be all Indian, more open to, say”—he hunts for the right words—“seeing a different face at the helm of the company.”
Rahim can hardly trust himself to speak. “Thank you, sir.”
He has been at Britannia for five years, more than half of that time as chief accountant. When the previous MD, Waddingham, died from a heart attack last year, he thought there would be a reasonable chance of him being named as the replacement. But Drake was named instead.
Do your job, Zahira told him in the wake of his disappointment. Your time will come. I know it.
So he did. He worked closely with Drake, guiding the novice MD as the two led a large-scale restructuring of the company’s public debts that saved it a considerable amount of money, strategizing together on the company’s direction should independence come, developing a detailed plan that laid out risks and contingencies. Over the course of the past year, he has come to respect Drake’s incisive intellect, his occasional bursts of dry English humor.
“Is that sufficient incentive?” Drake asks.
Rahim smiles. “You’ve certainly given me much to think about.”
“I should hope so. And I expect an answer soon. Opportunities like this don’t come knocking every day, Mr. Choudhury. Don’t let it pass you by.”
An orderly enters and hands Drake what appears to be a telegram. He reads it quickly, crumples it and throws it in the dustbin.
“It seems your co-religionists are stirring up trouble around the city. I’ve been advised to go home for the day. I will suggest the same for all other employees as well.”
“But this Direct Action Day is supposed to be tomorrow.”
“The thing about trouble is that it gives little notice. The word has gotten out that the Moslems will be mobilizing around the city tomorrow, so now the militant Hindoos are preparing to do the same. Force will meet force.”
He rises from his chair and holds out a hand for Rahim to shake, which he does. “I do hope you will give this serious thought. But I think that whatever country ends up gaining you will be the true winner. Go home and have a chat with your wife.”
“But what if I’m not able to persuade her to remain?”
“Then you make her happy. Be a good husband, Mr. Choudhury. Fight for your family. Unfortunately, they don’t give out medals for that.”
RAHIM’S driver is ready for him at the main door. At the gates, a stream of employees make their way out, their faces stamped with worry.
“We’re going back to the house, Motaleb,” Rahim says as he climbs into the back of the vehicle. “Take the same shortcut through the alley. I think the main roads might be jammed with people trying to get home.”
“Yes, sir.” Motaleb hunches close to the wheel, as has been his style since he first began to drive for the family, back when Edward VII sat on the throne. In his years of driving stately tourers, first for Rahim’s father and now for him, Motaleb has accrued the gravitas of a sea captain, helming the steering wheel with confidence.
Rahim sits back, wondering how he can broach this new development with his wife. For the past few months, he has vacillated over what to do should the country be divided, and only in the last year has Zahira persuaded him to consider a move should it come to pass.
Unbeknownst to her, and with a fair amount of misgivings, he has taken preliminary steps to making this a reality; at the prospect of geopolitical schism, Hindus who wish to move out of what will become East Bengal, and Muslims who plan to move there have agreed to house swaps, easing the emigration process considerably for both sides, even if in most cases the scarcity of willing partners means that one side often ends up with far superior accommodations, as well as the reverse.
He has been in contact with a rich Hindu landholder in the south of East Bengal willing to swap his seaside mansion for Rahim’s. For months, the two men have exchanged letters describing their respective homes and amenities, developing the details of an agreement. All that remains is for Rahim to send a check to complete the deal.
But he has been reconsidering of late, calling two months ago for a halt in negotiations to think things through, not entirely cured of his doubts about the prospect of leaving Calcutta. Creating nations by excising them out of larger ones never made sense to him, much like severing a leg and expecting it to grow into a person. And now with Drake’s offer the pendulum has swung even more toward staying.
He solicits his driver for advice. “What do you think, Motaleb? Can Hindus and M
uslims live together once the English leave?”
The driver’s rheumy eyes meet his in the rear-view mirror. “We’ve been living together for a thousand years already, sir. Hindus and Muslims are like my wife and me. We’ve been fighting for so long that we’d miss it if we stopped.”
Rahim laughs. “I marvel, Motaleb, that two people so different can share a land, live together and die. We Muslims believe in the One God, unseen and unquestionable—whose appearance we’re not even permitted to imagine, much less draw; the Hindus believe in millions, all shapes and sizes and colors. We can’t go a day without meat, while their Brahmins won’t touch even onions and garlic. Our God gives us dominion over all life on Earth, while they hold cows and monkeys as sacred.”
They turn into the same alley they traversed earlier in the morning. Motaleb slows the car to match the speed of traffic. “If you’ll indulge an old man, sir, I wish to tell you a story.”
“Please do.”
The chauffeur clears his throat.
“Thank you, sir. When I was little, my father, having failed at being an apprentice cobbler, an apprentice goldsmith, and an apprentice sweet-maker, decided to try his hand at carpentry.
“We were six brothers and sisters, of whom I was the youngest, so one day, when my mother fell sick, my father took me with him to the place of his work—to the home of the master carpenter.
“His home was a simple one of earth and thatch, but the courtyard was spacious, broom-swept clean and polished with cow dung until sparkling. Sit there and do not move, Father said, pointing to the hog plum tree in the corner, handing me a carafe of water, bread and jaggery. I was five, and out of fear I sat in the spot, ate and drank, and did as told.
“Eventually, curiosity got the better of me and I wandered into the kitchen, where the embers of the morning’s fire still glowed. I then visited the smaller room adjacent to it.
“Standing at the threshold, it took a while to make out what stood at the far end.
“I walked in, hesitating—feeling perhaps this was not a place I was meant to be. But the object at the other end of the room drew me on strongly—a clay statue, standing no taller than my knee. It was of a boy, the handsomest one I’d ever seen. Intricately carved, so detailed and lifelike that if a breeze blew in, his clothes could flutter in response. Bare-chested and blue-skinned, he wore a saffron stole around his neck, his arms raising a flute to ruby-red lips on which a small smile played, as though the child was amused by some secret that only he knew.
“The room smelled of earth and wood. The eyes were locked on mine. We stood staring at each other like this for a while.
“I reached out toward his cheek.
“It was a piercing shriek that stopped me, and to this day I’m unsure whether I made contact or not.
“‘What are you doing?’ The carpenter’s wife rushed in with a sweep of sari and the scent of coconut hair oil. She grabbed my hand in a vice-like grip and dragged me out to the sunshine as one does an insect from beneath a rock.
“‘Are you there? Oh, are you there, husband?’ The old woman wailed until the man in question emerged from the workshop behind the house. He was tall, bearded and bare-chested. My father followed.
“‘What has happened, wife?’
“‘Right in front of the thakur, this brat was about to . . . to . . .’
“Overcome by the heinousness of my crime, the carpenter’s wife broke down before she could finish her report.
“The carpenter looked at me, sternly, but not angrily. ‘Where else have you been, child? Tell me quick.’
“Bawling, I pointed to the hearth.
“The old carpenter calmly and methodically began to take all wares—save the statue—out of the rooms I’d visited, smashing the clay pots and pans against the ground until it was littered with shards.
“‘Please understand,’ he explained to my father, who led me away with gritted teeth. ‘This must be done if a non-Hindu visits our kitchen or place of worship. It is not a question of whether I believe in these things, but I am bound to them, as I am to the happiness of my wife.’
“Thus ended my father’s brief foray into carpentry. But as silent as he was on the way back home, he never hit, rebuked, or even blamed me for what had happened, accepting the incident as fate. But the boy-god’s radiant blue beauty would stay with me. His name, I would later learn, was Krishna. And to this day, even though I take out my prayer mat five times a day and bow toward Mecca as a good Muslim should, I still have a picture of him in my room.”
ENTRANCED by the story, Rahim is about to speak when the car comes to a shuddering halt. He looks up. Their way is blocked by three young men who wear dhotis and hold thick bamboo staffs in their hands. On their foreheads are three white slashes centered by a red dot of vermillion.
Motaleb and Rahim exchange worried looks. The driver whispers, “The symbol of Shiva—the god of Destruction.”
“But also Creation and Preservation,” Rahim says, and Motaleb looks surprised. “Let’s hope that these gentlemen agree.”
When the man at the center of the group, tall and lean, gestures for Motaleb to exit the car, he looks to his employer with fear. Rahim puts a restraining hand on his chauffeur’s shoulder and rolls down the window.
“Is anything the matter?”
“Get out of the car,” the tall man says. He caresses the bonnet with his staff. The other two young men observe with arms crossed over their chests.
Rahim climbs out of the car and stands ramrod straight. He towers over most people, but he can see that the tall man tops him by a few inches.
A crowd gathers to watch the spectacle.
Rahim addresses the tall man. “What is the matter, bhai?” he asks, the Muslim term for brother in Bangla slipping from his mouth by mistake.
“I’m not your brother.”
“Forgive me. What is your name, dada?”
The malevolence emanating from the three infects the crowd; men and women mutter obscenities and egg them on.
One of the toughs comes up to Rahim, his breath a sour waft. “You don’t need his name. This is a Hindu neighborhood. What are you doing here?”
“No need to be rude,” the tall man admonishes. “I’m sure he was about to explain himself.”
He walks over and faces Rahim. He is no more than twenty-five. A knife scar marks his right cheek. “Who are you? Speak truly and quickly. We don’t take well to Muslim League goons here. We know of the riots you all are planning.”
Aware that an ill-chosen word can spell his end, Rahim’s hand on the roof of his car is nonetheless rock steady, as is his voice. “We’re just passing through. I don’t want trouble with you or anyone else. I’m not political. I’ve nothing to do with the League. But in any case, they’re not planning violence against anyone. They’re just speaking out so that the British treat the Muslims fairly when our country—our Hindustan—is liberated of their rule.”
Rahim knows that this is not the entire truth; spoiling for a fight, the League has been agitating Muslims into a frenzy for months now. But these facts are inconvenient with one’s life at stake.
Sour Breath circles Rahim’s car and orates to the crowd. “Are you listening? Our Hindustan! He’s talking about our Hindustan while his League thugs plan to go out tomorrow to try and take our lands and create their own nation, where we won’t be allowed.”
The crowd responds with an ugly cheer, shouting kill him, and fucking nera. Sour Breath turns to face Rahim and says, “Maybe we’ll send you to the land of the pure right now.”
“Easy.” Knife Scar smiles at Rahim. “My apologies. As you can see, my colleagues are very upset by this Direct Action Day. Emotion appeals to them. Not reason. So trying to have a political debate with them while at the center of a mob is not advisable, janab?”
Rahim does not offer his name despite the invitation. Names have power and he must retain the little he has in this situation.
Knife Scar leans close and whispers. �
��Your bravado will prove nothing. I’m all that stands between you and the mob. One word from me and they will be on you.”
“And what word is that?”
“One sent home through your driver—if your family wishes to see you again, they’ll have to fetch us a very large sum of money.”
Shahryar & Anna
Washington, DC
SEPTEMBER 2004
HE stands outside Anna’s school, where tanned, attractive mothers wait to pick up their children. There are a handful of men as well. They wear sunglasses, shorts, sport bellies grown either through indolence or unemployment, he is unsure.
Thurgood Marshall Elementary is brick and white limestone, wearing on its face the late afternoon shadows of the trees on its front lawn. Shar stands under a paper birch off to the side. Other than an occasional smile or nod to appear non-threatening, he does not engage the other parents, who give him curious looks.
Anna is among the stream of children that spills out of the doors at 2:55. She offers a somber wave when she sees him, whispers a quick good-bye to her friends and trots over. He wonders if she is embarrassed by his presence, if she was secretly hoping to see Jeremy.
“Hey, shona,” he says to her and gives her an embrace that he hopes is permissible in the presence of her friends. A woman approaches them. A petite brunette. Young and pretty in an anodyne way. A large diamond ring glitters on her left hand.
“Hi, is everything okay?” She looks to Anna.
He smiles. “I’m her dad.”
“Oh, uh. I don’t think I’ve ever . . .”
“That’s alright, Mrs. Stein,” Anna says. “He’s my dad. He usually doesn’t pick me up.”
She appears embarrassed. “Of course. I didn’t . . .” She extends a hand. “Hi, I’m Lisa. I was her third-grade teacher.”
He shakes it and tells her his name.
Her eyes swing from Anna’s face to his. “I should have known. Anna looks just like you. Except for her eyes.”
“Yes,” he says. “Except for her eyes.”
THEY walk in silence toward the main road afterward, leaving behind the school buses, the Audis and Infinitis in repose by the sidewalk.