by Arif Anwar
Vivek Nandi is the inspector assigned to the case. He is tall and heavy-set. A thick, jet-black mustache covers his upper lip. Seeing the circles of sweat in the armpits of his khaki uniform, Zahira asks the servants to turn the ceiling fan on. Along with the telephone, electricity is another newcomer to Choudhury Manzil.
“Have you already paid the ransom?”
“No. But I have the money ready.”
“That’s fine. We’ll handle all matters. It’s best that you don’t get involved in the dirty stuff with these thugs.” Nandi takes a loud slurp from the cup of tea poured for him, followed by a bite of samosa that leaves crumbs speared in his mustache. “Can you tell me more about the symbol your driver drew?”
She describes it and he nods immediately. “Tripundra. The mark of the Shaivites. The three lines represent will, knowledge and action, or Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva, as you will. The red circle is the third eye. They tend to be a bit aggressive, but it’s still odd for them to behave the way your driver describes.”
“What happens now?”
He points to the constables taking notes. “We’ve entered a general diary of the incident. We are now going to look into the local gangs around the neighborhood. There certainly are enough of them—nominal followers of various sadhu babas and other religious ascetics. They claim to be soldiers of faith but are actually thugs recently out of jail. Toss a few hundred takas their way and you can easily put them up to mischief. Thankfully, the mark will help us narrow it down, unless it’s meant to throw us off, of course. We’ll knock a few heads and slap a few faces until we get answers. In the meanwhile, I’d like some time alone with that driver of yours.”
“Why? He’s been working for the family for thirty years.”
Nandi stands, covers his mouth and imparts a polite belch. “More reason to speak to him, madam. Any fruit goes bad if you leave it out long enough.”
“How long is all this going to take, Inspector? Why can’t we go there right now? Every moment we delay increases the danger for my husband. What will the kidnappers do if they don’t get their money on time?”
“Who is the policeman here, madam? You or I? Please let me do my job. I know what I am doing. We’ll begin with that driver of yours to get some answers, and then ascertain our next moves.”
“Fine. But please hurry. As for Motaleb, I ask that you treat him gently. I hope I do not have to explain further.”
“Understood.” Nandi instructs his constables to fetch Motaleb. When they leave the room, he addresses her in a lowered tone. “Madam, there really was no need to consult a gora for this matter. You could have called us directly and we would have come right away.”
“I doubt that.”
“We would, madam. Perhaps not quite as fast—this order came down from the commissioner after all—but quickly enough. There is talk of riots that might take place tomorrow, when the Muslim League marches. Many of our men are tied up bolstering areas in the city where we think there may be trouble.”
He leans forward. “We both know, madam, that the English are on their way out, sooner or later. Hindus and Muslims may as well get in the habit of approaching each other about our problems, and not running to the white man as soon as we scrape a knee.”
Zahira is indignant. “Nandi Babu, I’ve just learned that my husband has been kidnapped. What is this nonsense you’re spouting about going to the English? About scraped knees? Would any other housewife in my position have done things differently? Why shouldn’t I do everything in my power to save my husband? Are we truly going to stand here and pretend that there is no animus toward Muslims these days in light of coming independence? Calling Drake ensured that you’d get here in a hurry. I’d make that choice a hundred more times if I had to.”
“Any other housewife would not have been able to pick up a phone and call the police.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean is that you’re privileged. There are no more than a thousand private phone lines in this city, and your home is one of them. Your husband is from a respected family. You’re connected, rich and well established. Your religion matters little—if at all—in this case. Are the police biased? Do we favor some over others? Certainly. But it’s not about Hindu or Muslim. Our biases are boring. If the man calling us is rich and powerful, it matters little to us whether he heads to a mandir, mosque or church at the end of the day.”
Having taken the measure of the man, Zahira nods. “If wealth and power is what you respect, Inspector Nandi, then it’s even more apparent that I made the right decision in calling Mr. Drake.”
“Perhaps, madam. But this country has outgrown the need for the English. We Hindus and Muslims best learn to work together to trace a future without them. You and your husband plan to leave India, no doubt, should the country shatter?”
The question surprises Zahira, if only for a second. “What business is it of yours?”
“None, Mrs. Choudhury. That’s the tragedy and comedy of it.”
SHE retreats to her bedroom, furious. Nandi’s plan is to interrogate Motaleb and others of the household staff, and then to leave behind a constable for her protection while he investigates the area where Rahim was kidnapped.
She considers calling Drake again. This time to complain, alarmed by Nandi’s insolence. His nonchalance. His unsolicited political hectoring. Her faith in the police, an ankle-deep puddle at the best of times, is fast evaporating. She weighs the bag of gold and cash in her hand. What other options does she have? She hates being a woman at that moment. A bit actor in every scene on the world’s stage.
She goes out to the balcony, the ceremonial throne of so many housewives. Whatever investigation Nandi has conducted so far, it cannot be accused of being lengthy, as she soon spies him lumbering toward the police jeep, along with one of the constables. He senses her regard and looks up. She fashions a cowl from her scarf and pulls it over her head, takes a step back.
“Remember what we discussed, madam,” Nandi says, his tone conversational, the words vague by design. “We have the situation well in hand. We will telephone you once we know more. It may be difficult, but I suggest you get some rest. These matters require a cool head.”
SHE is pacing her room when there is a knock at the door. Nargis again. She composes herself. It will not do to let the servants see her distressed.
“What is it?”
“It’s Motaleb, begum sahiba. He’s asking to see you.”
He is waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, his chauffeur’s hat literally in his hands and being wrung like wet cloth. She does not descend the stairs completely, rather stands near the foot to retain higher ground. Motaleb’s eyes are red, his uniform askew and ill-fitting on his bony frame. On his best days, he looks old; today he looks ancient.
“I will ask you just one question, Motaleb, and on your honor and service to this family, I want the truth. Did you have anything to do with this?”
“I’d lay down my life before I let any harm come to sahib.” Motaleb’s voice is choked. “You must believe me in this.”
She stands for a full minute in silence, observing him. He shrinks further under her gaze.
“Wait here,” she says.
She visits the lavatory and declares to Allah her niyat, the intention to cleanse herself ritually and why. Then she quickly performs a wudhu—washes her face, feet, mouth, ears and arms. In order. She ends with a quick prayer bearing witness to God and his prophet, her right index finger pointed to the sky.
Ritually and spiritually transformed by her ablutions, she visits the library, a long room whose shelf-lined walls hold well over five thousand books in Bangla, English, Farsi, Hindi, Urdu and Arabic—collected across several generations of the Choudhury dynasty. On ordinary days it is her favorite room, and this evening, warmed by a day’s worth of sunlight that has poured in through the large windows that face south, it is redolent with the scent of old pages, leather and mahogany. She stands on a chair to reach one
of the higher shelves, which holds but a solitary tome—the family Koran, more than a hundred years old and wrapped in protective red cloth. On its first pages, inscribed in the careful hands of Choudhury patriarchs, are the birthdates and names of every child born to the family.
Motaleb is waiting where she left him. She thrusts the book before him. “Put your hand on this.”
His eyes flare with recognition.
“Put your hand on this and swear that you speak the truth.”
He reaches for the book tentatively and flinches just before touching it, as though scalded. “I’m not cleansed. I haven’t performed the Maghrib prayers yet.”
“Then do so. I can wait. Don’t bother going to the servant’s lavatories. Use the one here.”
He does. She puts the book on a side table. Motaleb takes a long time to finish, and when he emerges, his rolled-up trouser legs attesting to the thoroughness of his efforts, he approaches the Koran as one would a wild, dangerous animal.
“Place your hand on it and swear to me that all you say is true,” she says when he wavers. “Why do you hesitate?”
“It’s not because I don’t speak the truth, begum sahiba,” he says, impatience entering his voice for the first time. “It’s just that this book belongs to the family. I’ve seen it ever since I began working here.”
“The Koran is the Koran whether in a mansion or a hovel.”
“As you say.” Murmuring a quick prayer, he places his right hand—the palm cupped so that only his fingers and wrist touch the surface—on the holy book.
“I swear on Allah that what I said to you was true—I’d lay down my life before letting any harm come to Rahim Sahib.”
“Very well,” she says. “I believe you.”
“Thank you, begum sahiba.” He looks relieved, then as though he might again cry.
“If I may ask, what did the police say that they’re going to do?”
She sits on a chair by the wall. “They’ll pursue their investigations, but we can’t approach the thugs with the ransom.”
“And what do you make of their advice?”
“I have little faith in the inspector, Nandi,” she says, her exhaustion making her candid.
“Neither do I, begum sahiba.”
“Then what are we to do?”
He looks around to see if they are alone, and once satisfied that they are, lowers his voice. “If you will permit me, I might have a suggestion. Let us go and meet them. We can’t leave sahib’s fate in the hands of this bumbling inspector. These kidnappers seemed a dangerous sort to me. Who knows what they will do if they get wind of the fact that we’ve spoken to the police.”
She sits back. It had occurred to her to defy the police and meet the abductors with the ransom directly. A risky approach, but was it not superior to sitting and waiting?
“But Nandi Babu advises us to wait.”
Forgetting himself, Motaleb leans forward, his voice coaxing, determined. “What policeman wouldn’t, begum sahiba? They’re busy with the Direct Action Day coming up tomorrow, not even thinking about Rahim Sahib’s abduction. Every minute we wait puts him in greater danger.”
“Would the police not be watching the place?”
“Perhaps, but even if they did, they don’t know what to look for. I will give them half the ransom, and promise to reveal the location of the other half should they deposit Rahim Sahib safely in my hands.”
She makes a show of long and thoughtful consideration. Her desperation has not blinded her; she needs to determine if the gleam in Motaleb’s eyes is stoked by the old man’s eagerness to act or by motives more sinister.
“This is not a half-bad plan, Motaleb,” she finally says.
The chauffeur beams with delight. “Then you agree?”
“Yes, but for one thing. You cannot go by yourself.”
“Should I take one of our guards with me, begum sahiba?”
She shakes her head slowly. “No. I have someone else in mind.”
Shahryar & Anna
Washington, DC
SEPTEMBER 2004
FAISAL Ahmed’s chambers are located at the corner of Vermont and K, in a building the same ubiquitous gray-brown granite of downtown DC. Walking up to it from the McPherson Square subway, Shar counts ten stories.
He takes the elevator to the seventh floor. Ahmed’s suite is behind a white door with a gold decal that informs visitors that they have discovered LAW OFFICES, the suite number below on a slightly more impressive brass plaque.
He awoke this morning hopeful, buoyed by the encouraging conversation he had with Ahmed the previous week at the Bangla School, when the lawyer mused that he might be able to help him find a way to remain in America. Ahmed was cautious in the promises he made, but in the intervening days those words of comfort had metastasized into unwarranted hope and optimism. So he came expecting an office behind a glass facade, a head-setted receptionist on the other side. In reality, he confronts rickety wooden dividers that demarcate desks, chairs, tall stacks of files; dingy blue carpeting in a room smelling of stale tobacco smoke.
Along the wall is a row of chairs where other clients wait. He offers a quick nod of greeting and sits down next to a burly Hispanic man in paint-splattered clothing, a hard hat on his lap. There are others, including a young African couple who Shar guesses to be Somalian by the woman’s manner of dress. They are occupied with a child of about a year old. The remaining handful of men and women appear to be South Asian like him.
He sits and picks up a magazine. He reads it for ten minutes before the door opens and a young woman comes and stands before him. She is tall, blond and unsmiling.
“Are you Mr. Choudhury?”
“Yes.” He stands.
There is a Slavic drawl to her words. “Please come with me. Mr. Ahmed is waiting for you.”
“Wait a minute,” the male half of the Somalian couple interrupts. “Excuse me, please. But we come before him.”
‘That’s fine,” Shar says to the woman. “They’re right. They can go first.”
“Just come with me, please.” She turns to the irate man. “I’m sorry, Mr. Magid. This is urgent. It won’t take long. You’re next in line.”
The man retreats, clearly unhappy with the turn of events. The woman ushers Shar to a door at the far end of the suite and knocks.
“Come in!”
Faisal Ahmed is sandwiched between a window that looks out to Vermont Avenue and a desk. He stands and greets Shar in English. “Was just reading your CV!” He waves it around before shaking Shar’s proffered hand.
“I hope you don’t mind if Katerina joins us. She’s my legal clerk.”
“Not at all.” Shar takes a seat and Katerina sits next to him, a notebook and pen in hand. She has a sharp profile and bright blue eyes.
“I’ll make you repeat some of the things you told me at the community center. Katerina wasn’t there and she needs this information for your file. Remind me of your status in America?”
“I came as a doctoral student on scholarship at GW six years ago. I finished my degree last year and am currently working here on an Optional Practical Training visa. That’s only good for three more months. If my current employer doesn’t sponsor me for a green card—and they’ve told me that they won’t—then I have to leave. That’s unless I find another employer willing to hire me.”
“Right,” Ahmed masticates the end of a Bic Cristal. “And who do you work for right now?”
“The Institute for Policy Dialogue. It’s a federally funded—”
“I know it. Your director’s Albert Volcker, right?”
“Um, yes,” Shar says, both surprised and impressed. The briefest of glances is exchanged between Ahmed and Katerina.
“How did you know?”
Ahmed laughs in a disarming manner. His teeth are small and even. “I’m a lawyer in DC. It’s a professional requirement to know people, Shar. By the way, your name. It’s short for something, I’m guessing? Is it Sharif?”
/> It is his turn to laugh. “Sharif would be pretty easy. No, it’s short for Shahryar.”
Ahmed’s half-grimace is meant to convey empathy, he surmises. The concessions we must make to live in this country, eh? it says.
“Hey, you should have heard all the variations on my name I heard when I first came here twenty-five years ago. I took to calling myself ‘Faz.’”
“Mr. Ahmed told me you have a daughter here, Mr. Choudhury,” Katerina interjects. “What is her citizenship?”
“American. So is her mother.”
“And the two of you are not married?”
“No.”
“Were you ever married?”
“. . . No.”
Katerina looks to Ahmed. “I’m asking because we have to consider the obvious.”
“Good point, Katerina,” Ahmed says. “Shar, I have to ask you, and sorry if it’s too personal—is there any chance you could reconcile with the mother of your child? Marry? That would make our job a hell of a lot easier.”
He shakes his head. “She has a boyfriend. They’ve been living together for several years now.”
“That’s a shame.” Ahmed inflates his cheeks with air and releases it slowly, taps the pen against his desk. “I must say, Shar, and maybe you know this already, but I don’t see a lot of options here.”
“I see . . .”
His dejection must have been apparent because the lawyer hurries to reassure. “Now, now, I don’t want you to think that this is hopeless. We’ve closed one avenue. We can consider others.”
He scrutinizes Shar’s CV. “Do you have computer skills? Can you program?”
“Just Microsoft Word, Excel. Things like that.”
“What about engineering?”
“No. If you look at my CV . . .”
“Your PhD. What was the field?”
“Social Anthropology. My dissertation was on the fishermen of the Bangladeshi coast. On their social economy.”
Ahmed looks up, his curiosity aroused. “That’s an interesting choice. Why that particular topic?”