The Storm

by Arif Anwar

  Mintu takes a step forward at the insult, but Rahim restrains him. “That’s alright. This gentleman is correct. There’s enough room here for all of us.”

  “But sir—”

  “Go to your seat, Mintu,” Zahira says. “We can manage.”

  WHILE they wait in the sweltering cabin for the train to depart, their cabinmates utilize the delay for a family nap, the father laying out blankets across the benches and floor. Rahim and Zahira sit stiffly, resisting calls of nature in fear of stepping on an errant limb on their way to the toilet. Only after two hours, when the train suddenly awakens and lurches eastward, leaving behind a sun that dissolves in a glob of orange and red over the city, does the family rise and stretch in unison.

  “We are wise to leave early, before the rest,” their cabinmate proclaims. “The true nightmares will come when they actually divide the country, whether it’s now or the next year.”

  “How are you so sure?” Irritated by the man’s smugness, Zahira feels the need to dispute his dark prediction. The children look out the window, their excitement rising as the train saws through the quick-falling gloom. She looks away from them. Below the blue-black sky, a strip of yellow lines the horizon. The jaundiced skin of a sick world.

  The lights switch off.

  “Perhaps it’s the conductor’s doing,” the man nods sagely. “You know, so we’re not attacked.”

  Pale moonlight slices in through the window, makes his eyes shine like, like . . . like a crow’s, the thought comes unbidden to Zahira.

  The man lights a cigarette after begging Zahira’s leave and solicitously offering one to Rahim, who refuses. The man’s wife, curled up on a bench with her back to them, is yet to speak a word.

  “Has either brother or sister ever lived across the river before? On the other side?”

  “I’m from there,” Zahira says. “Mymensingh District.”

  “Near the capital then. Dhaka isn’t as big or grand as Calcutta, but if you prefer the city life, you’ll like it there. It’s a neat and quiet place.”

  “We won’t be living there,” Rahim blurts out, earning a warning pinch from Zahira. “We exchanged homes with a man living in Chittagong, near the coast.”

  “A cousin of mine lived there, when the country was still whole and not broken into pieces. Right by the ocean, it was. The British had a garrison there during the war, until there was a big to-do after a British officer shot a boatman.”

  “Really?” Zahira is intrigued. She vaguely recalls reading about the incident in the Statesman.

  “Yes. In 1942 a local boatman took a Japanese pilot, a prisoner of war, over to Burma in his boat. There were many rumors about what happened—how he seduced an English lady doctor into abetting his escape, killed three British soldiers with his Japanese sword when they got in his way. Supposedly the local commander discovered what happened and went out to the beach to wait for the boatman to return. When he did, thhash! An execution. The locals say the man’s ghost haunts the shores now. When lightning flashes on stormy nights, some can spy a boat sailing south, the silhouette of a lone figure standing below black sails.”

  Rahim smiles. “Is the darkness inspiring you to tell us ghost stories, brother?”

  The man flings the stub of his cigarette into the murk outside in a shower of orange sparks. “I’m telling you what they say. I don’t believe in ghosts. If the dead could return, none of us would fear death.”

  “Or fear it more than ever.”

  “You don’t have children?” The man asks after a while.

  “No.” Rahim does not elaborate. Zahira says nothing. There was a time when this question used to bother her, now it just evokes a bland emptiness.

  “Good for you, brother! I love my girls, even as much as I would if they were boys. But let me tell you something. You start dying as soon as they are born. If you want to live forever, don’t have children.”

  THEY spend a week in Zahira’s childhood home in Mymensingh before making the trip south. Her father, Abu Bakar—more skeptical of their decision to relocate to East Bengal than his daughter—is nonetheless overjoyed to see them.

  He poses a question to Rahim over tea and biscuits one morning: “What exactly will you be doing there? In Chittagong?”

  “I don’t know, Abba,” Rahim says. “I suppose fisheries is an option. The home swap includes the estate of the old zamindar that I’m replacing. That means hundreds of bighas of sharecropped land, the boats the man would lease to the local fishermen. All that requires management. It’s not glamorous, but it’s honest work.”

  Abu Bakar is inscrutable behind his gray whiskers and glasses. “Honest work is done by the farmer sweating under the hot sun, the fisherman knee-deep in the mud. You’ll be living off the fat of the land and sea. Also, you’re a city boy. With little experience in such matters.”

  Rahim takes a sip of his tea to gather his thoughts. “I made some inquiries before the swap. The zamindar I will replace was not well-loved among his people. Not necessarily cruel, but ruthless with the bargadars who didn’t meet his crop quotas, or fishermen who returned with lean catches. I can try and undo some of the harm he’s done to the community. If nothing else, I have time. I’ve set up a meeting with a fellow named Abbas as soon as I reach there. He’s been managing the fishing fleets that are to be mine. He inherited the job after his father passed a few years before.”

  Rahim’s father-in-law sits forward. “Don’t misunderstand, my son. I question only because I want what’s best for the two of you. I am grateful to have my daughter close to me again. And God knows you’re a good man. When I think of what could have happened . . .” He stops, overcome with emotion.

  The allusion clear, Rahim is embarrassed by the naked gratitude on display, even though he knows that following three childless years, no one would have blamed him had he remarried.

  “You don’t have to thank me,” he manages.

  Abu Bakar shakes his head. “I do. Forgive an old man his emotions, but some debts can’t be repaid with words. But perhaps we should discuss matters more urgent. Mainly, what do you know of the house where you will spend the remainder of your lives?”

  THEY stand before it the following week. At the gateway to their new home, they gape in awe. Rahim is accustomed to impressive accommodations, but their home-to-be takes even his privileged breath away.

  Their seaside mansion’s acres of courtyard are enclosed by twelve-foot-high walls of poured cement, meeting at front-gates composed of two massive wings of wrought iron rising to a graceful peak at the middle, with finials of japanned bronze that gleams in the late morning light. Hundreds of yards beyond the gates, the mansion’s sandstone bulk shoulders into the sky, with sharp geometries and wide-ramped stairs that recall a Dutch fort.

  Zahira points at the pale-yellow circles that dot the lush grass in the yard. “There was something there important enough to take back with them.”

  “Holy basil plants.” Rahim says. The disparity of wealth he was always aware of in Calcutta is heightened here, where this is the only home for miles not made of bamboo or earth. Calcutta, where a fog of noise, smells and activities always permeated. He once found it exasperating, but now he realizes how alive it made him feel. He swings around. A gravel path leads out from the gate, giving way to grass and sand as it approaches the shore. In the pale stretch of beach that divides green from blue, there is not a soul to be seen.

  “Who is to let us in?”

  The iron gates swing open with a push from his hand. “No one goes into the zamindar’s house without permission, and he hasn’t left behind anything worth stealing.”

  THEIR furnishings (arriving from Mymensingh on cow carts) will not be here for another week, when Mintu will also rejoin them following a visit with his relatives. In the meantime, a cantankerous old caretaker visits them with a basket full of fresh vegetables, rice, fish and live chickens with their wings tied back that he slaughters in their backyard, grumbling all the while for havi
ng to come in on his off day. That night—in an echoing, barren kitchen—Zahira cooks for her husband. Rahim assists. The scent of spicy chicken curry fills the house.

  On the wide, cantilevered balcony that adjoins their bedroom, they light hurricane lanterns and burn a coil to keep the mosquitos at bay. They eat their supper and watch the sun immolate into the sea.

  “It feels so different here,” she says. “When I knew we’d go back, I could only think of Mymensingh—all flatlands and forests. Here my heart wants to fly across the surface of the ocean like a bird and never return.”

  “Does that scare you?”

  “I think the scary part is over.”

  She takes his hand. “Let’s stay up all night and watch the sun come up like when we were children.”

  “We didn’t know each other then.”

  “Then we will know each other now.”

  He smiles. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  THEIR resolve to await the sunrise proves too ambitious, as they wake the next day in bed, clinging to each other, following a night of lovemaking that had an urgency it never did in the city.

  “I can’t believe there’s not a sound in the house,” she says, her head on his chest.

  “In a few days, there will be. We will need people.”

  Following a simple breakfast of bhaji and parathas he ventures out for his meeting with Abbas, who recently sent him a detailed overview of his estate in Chittagong, along with a rudimentary map of the area.

  He walks out of the main gate and heads in the general direction of Abbas’s house as indicated by the map. Earlier, he debated taking a walking cane with him, but Zahira advised against it. “It would seem too imperious. You’re a landholder, not a ruler.”

  The beach is deserted, a gray curve stretching to the end of his vision, lined by green-topped hills to the north. The sunlight is scrubbed clean, the air perfumed with palm, salt and kelp. He follows a stand of short firs on the far side of the beach where clumps of grass cling to the ground. Long runnels of shivering water separate him from the south half of the shore. There, fishing boats sit like black crescent moons.

  In a half hour, he reaches Abbas’s house, a two-story brick-and-tin affair in the shade of the foothills, a stark contrast to the thatch huts that dot the shore. Rahim pauses at the entrance to consider. It is apparent that Abbas is doing quite well.

  The door to the courtyard is open, as is the one to the house proper, across which a heavyset male body moves in a flash of white lungi. Rahim hears the sounds of domesticity seep out—breathes in the scent of a cooking fire.

  He steps in.

  “Who are you?”

  The voice comes from behind him, the tone chill and insolent. Rahim turns to find a boy of about ten standing under an areca nut tree.

  “A neighbor of yours. I’ve come to see your father, I think. Is he home?”

  The boy gives him an appraising look. Despite the child’s outward unfriendliness, Rahim feels a surge of sympathy seeing the thin face marked by deep craters from what must have been a serious and recent bout of smallpox.

  “Manik, is that any way to treat an honored guest?” A broad-shouldered, big-bellied man steps out, hurriedly donning a shirt over his bare torso, his shoulder-length hair swaying as he proffers a quick bow and takes Rahim’s hand in his larger rougher ones.

  “I am humbled, sahib, to meet my new master, yet ashamed that you were the one to step into my hovel. You only needed to give me the word and I would have to come pay my respects at your new home.” He turns to the house and shouts. “Jamila, prepare tea and sweets right away. We are most blessed to host the new zamindar today.”

  “Just some tea, thank you,” Rahim says, repelled by Abbas’s unctuous manner. He casts around for a place to sit.

  Abbas’s son had veered close to his father while he spoke. He receives a smack on his forehead as a reward. “What’re you standing around for, you donkey? Go get a kedara for our guest. The big one made of wood. Not the cane one.”

  “When did your son contract smallpox?” Rahim inquires as the boy beats a sullen retreat to obey.

  “Ah, sahib is so kind to ask!” Abbas exclaims. “A few years ago. He was only seven. Thank goodness he escaped with his eyes intact. He likely caught it from some villager’s child. You know how dirty they are. Always crawling with disease.”

  The boy soon returns with a large wooden chair with armrests, his spindly legs wavering under its weight. Rahim walks over to help him, but Abbas intervenes by seizing the chair before he can. “A, a, a, what are you doing, sahib? There will be such a curse on my family if I let you lift a finger in my house.”

  He takes the chair and sets it in the center of the courtyard, bids Rahim to sit while he squats on his haunches on the dirt. A woman—her face hidden behind the long cowl of her sari—ventures out bearing a tray of sweets, winter pittha snacks, a pot of steaming tea and two cups. She sets it before him on a wicker stool and returns inside without a word. Abbas’s son stands under the shade of the porch, watching the proceedings with big eyes.

  Rahim takes a sip of the overly sweet tea.

  “I’ve come to better understand the business—starting with the boats,” he says. “I need the numbers—leased, hired, owned or otherwise. I need the haulage of the fish caught, broken down by each kind if possible, and how much it brings in for the estate every month. Can this be done?”

  Abbas throws his head back and laughs. “O-ho. I’ve heard that sahib is a numbers man. I can get you some of what you require, but I am not as educated as you. I can do simple math, read and write—as you saw from my letter. With my old master, I just handed him the money from our leased boats at the end of the month and showed him how it added up and he was happy. But I can see that that won’t be enough for you. I will do my best to get you what you need.”

  “Thank you.” Rahim smiles. Perhaps he was being judgmental earlier about this Abbas fellow. This reflexive cynicism is something he should abandon now that he is no longer in Calcutta, he tells himself.

  They chat some more, and Abbas is happy to brief him on the history of the village, important information such as the timing of the tides, the types of fish that proliferate the bay, even the lineage of the mansion that Rahim now occupies, originally built by the former zamindar’s great-grandfather, who made his money in indigo until that all ended with the revolt of 1859.

  Abbas’s knowledge of the locale, Rahim realizes, is encyclopedic.

  At this point, Abbas pauses to carefully confirm that they are alone, his son having vanished inside. He leans forward and lowers his voice. “The word has reached us, sahib, of the terrible ordeals you and your family went through before the riots. I am glad to see that you are unharmed. I trust begum sahiba also emerged unscathed.”

  Rahim is unable to help a grimace as he recalls that day, the bloody week that followed. “How did you hear of it?”

  “Oh, the former zamindar, my master, mentioned reading about it in the newspaper,” Abbas says quickly. “But there was not much detail, just something about a Hindu gang that was involved.”

  “I’d rather not get into it.”

  “Of course. Of course. Please forgive my trespass. I’m sure you have no love lost for that lot.”

  Now Rahim is puzzled. “And what lot is that?”

  “Why, the Hindus, of course.”

  He is about to rebuke Abbas when a sixth sense tells him to wait. Careful to keep his tone and expression neutral, he says instead, “I suppose you can say that . . .”

  Abbas appears encouraged. “In that case, there actually is a related matter that I’ve longed to discuss with you.”

  “Please proceed.”

  “As you know, sahib, nine out of ten in this village are Hindus, most poor fisherfolk—Namasudra—the lowest of the low. Being distant cousins all—they possess the same last names—Jaladas. They’re tight-knit simple folk, superstitious, stubborn and thick. While the old zamindar was here, they had an
element of protection and safety, but now that the old man has fled to India, abandoning his brothers and sisters in faith, they are concerned about their future.”

  Abbas pauses to make eye contact with Rahim to underline the importance of what he is about to say.

  “Go on,” Rahim says.

  “Even as so many Muslims are arriving to our new country from India, almost as many Hindus are crossing over to the other side. But of course this is easier done if you have the capital to make the journey. The fishermen of this village can’t afford to leave even if they wish to.”

  “And what is it that you’re proposing?”

  The avarice is clear on Abbas’s face. “Simple, sahib. Many Hindu fishermen in the area have proposed to sell me their boats—often all they have in the world. All so that they can flee to India. I’ve been able to buy one or two with my limited means, but with your capital, sahib, we could own a great fleet.”

  “And if all the fishermen leave, who would man the boats to fish?”

  Abbas gives an impatient wave. “There are many of our fellow Muslims for that. They’ve been waiting ages to have a go at this part of the bay, but never had a chance due to the domination of the Hindu fishermen here. We can hire them for a fraction of what we now pay.”

  Rahim smiles. “It seems you’ve thought this through, Abbas.”

  “So sahib will consider it?” Abbas rises to his feet from excitement. Rahim follows.

  “I already have,” Rahim says, his voice cold with fury. “This is the first time we’ve met, and that is the only reason you still have a job. Approach me with such a vile proposal again and I’ll make sure you hunt long and hard to make a living. In case it wasn’t clear, I didn’t come here to take advantage of poor, fearful Hindus. They will receive from me the same protections and benefactions they did from my predecessor, if not more, given this new climate of fear that has descended after the riots. The same goes for Muslims, Christians, Buddhists and anyone else.”

  Abbas shrinks during Rahim’s tirade like a fish left drying in the sun. “It was just a mad thought that occurred to me one day, sahib, set off by the hot sun beating on my head. Please forgive me and forget we ever spoke of this.”