by Arif Anwar
Shar stops, turns back. He climbs onto the stage. Manik’s bodyguards crowd around him, glowering. But Manik laughs. “That’s alright. Let’s see what the young man has to say.”
The men make space, forming a semi-circle around the two. Shar stands no more than an arm’s length away from Manik, and when he speaks, only those closest to them can hear what is said.
“You’re right that the zamindar raised me, Manik,” Shar says. “And he taught me a thing or two about honesty, hard work and being just, but that’s not the only man I learned from. Do you remember an illiterate fisherman, whose wife was born a Hindu? You and your father tried to kill him on a boat thirty-four years ago.”
Abbas’s son blanches, jaw hanging open on his pockmarked face. “You, how . . . how did you . . . ”
“A group of fishermen rescued him. He told them everything. And they told me.”
Manik recovers quickly, turning to his security contingent, he says, “Lies. Nothing but lies. All of it.”
“See you at the polling booth,” Shar says.
HE walks to the zamindar’s mansion. A few months before, at Sunil Das’s behest, the government set aside a section of the building for Rahim, Zahira and Rina to use as their living quarters. The three moved in with mixed feelings, but quickly reacclimatized to their former home. Shar declined to join them, worrying, among other reasons, about the optics of a community organizer living in grand accommodations.
His parents greet their son warmly and usher him to the dining room, where Zahira and Rina have prepared lunch. Over crisp fried fish, daal and braised greens, Shar tells them of his decision to contest the election against Manik.
They are supportive but concerned, all too aware of his opponent’s reputation.
“Are you sure this is wise, my son?” Zahira asks.
“Evil wins when good men do nothing,” Shar replies. “And until they find a good man, I’m the closest thing to it.”
“Then we will do everything we can to help you.”
FOLLOWING dinner, he opens his laptop and logs on to Skype. In a few minutes he would call Anna. He sits and watches the gray circle next to her name on his list of contacts, waiting for it to blink and turn green.
Beside his desk, through an open window that looks out to a bay swarmed by rain clouds, a gust of cold wind bursts into the room and sprays the papers on his desk to the floor. Walking over to close the shutters, he stops. A storm gathers strength outside. There are flashes over rain-swept waves. The soft thrum of thunder.
He does not flinch when the first cold drops strike his face, his hands. He has shelter once again. He is safe.
He closes the window. From a cloth bag stored in the wardrobe, he removes and places on his desk the objects that at once broke apart and rebuilt his past all those years ago, that brought together his mother and father.
“Hi, Baba,” Anna says when she calls, her voice warbling from the weight of the distance now between them.
“Hi, Anna.”
She sees the flask and the sash. “What’re those?”
“I’m going to tell you,” Shar says. “Got time for a story?”
“I do, Baba.”
He smiles.
Epilogue
Rahim & Zahira
Chittagong, East Pakistan (Bangladesh)
NOVEMBER 1970
Sometime during the night, as the storm showed no signs of abating, Rahim fell asleep on the large leather chair in his study, exhausted. Zahira, who draped a shawl over her husband to keep him warm, shakes him awake at dawn.
He blinks—his eyes bloodshot—looking older than his fifty-one years. “Is it over?”
“Just about,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
“How is it?”
“Come and see.”
They walk out to the balcony, the same one they first sat in years ago, eating chicken curry and rice and watching the sunset.
“My god,” he gasps as he surveys the damage. Little of the beach can be seen under the pile of debris now swept onto it—bamboo, palm trees, kelp and kindling from boats and homes smashed to pieces. The land is flooded for miles around, the water opaque and turgid under gray skies.
He sees the bodies.
They are everywhere—entwined around trees, floating in shallow water, buried under detritus so that only the odd limb shows. Broken, bloated, twisted and crushed. Every age, shape and gender. Often lying side by side with the animals. Evidence of the storm’s cruel equity.
Zahira holds his hand, closes her eyes. They weep in wordless despair. Calcutta, and now Chittagong. Death on a grand scale has followed and found them again after so many years.
“Where’s the boy?” he asks.
“In the spare room, with Rina. They’re resting. But he was asking for his mother throughout the night.”
“Let him be. We have to find his parents.”
They walk out to the hellscape. The families that sought shelter in their home follow, stunned. They cry when they find their dead livestock, wail when they find friends or family. But many appear stoic—the scale of the devastation carrying them to a place beyond emotion.
Rahim and Zahira walk on, two figures leaning on each other, against the backdrop of the ocean, the lone specks of life and movement on the scarred shores. Their progress slow, they do not arrive at the remains of Honufa and Jamir’s hut until midday.
THEY return home at sunset, exhausted from a day of fruitless and heartbreaking search, their minds seared by the images they have witnessed. Standing before the door of the room where Rina rests with the boy, there are tears in Rahim’s eyes, his face wracked with doubts.
“What will I tell him?”
“For now we must comfort him. His mother and father might be found yet. We can’t give up hope.”
“This is my fault. They might have been here if I hadn’t abandoned her all those years ago.”
Zahira takes his hand. “We can’t take back what has been done. But by the grace of God, we have a lifetime to make amends.”
“Right,” Rahim says, wiping his eyes. “You’re right.”
They open the door. The boy sits on the bed, attended to by Rina, who is cooing words of comfort in his ear. He turns to them when they enter together. There is no recognition in his eyes, nor is there fear or mistrust.
Rahim squeezes his wife’s hand, a gesture of reassurance, of promise—No matter what happens, we will keep him safe. No matter what happens, we will love him.
“Hello, Shahryar,” they say.
Acknowledgments
SULTANA NAHAR is my mother and an author herself, who for years demonstrated to me the art and craft of writing.
Shalon (Asha) Anwar is my daughter, an inspiration for the book and so, so excited about it!
Ayesha Pande is my wonderful agent, a relentless champion who believed in this book so much for so long.
Anjali Singh is my indefatigable co-agent, who whipped a promising but unwieldy manuscript into incredible shape.
Iris Tupholme, my Canadian publisher and editor, gave me indescribably good editorial advice, midwifed this novel into the world and is a tireless advocate on its behalf.
Rakesh Satyal, an accomplished author and my American editor, saw something in this novel from the very beginning.
Shuofu Lian and Jens Laurson provided keen eyes, respectively with Mandarin and German translations.
Members of the First Page Writing Group in Toronto read more versions of this novel than they will admit. They are Michelle Alfano, Michelle Boone, Justine Mazin, Josée Sigouin, Elizabeth Torlée and Tina Tzatzanis.
Many others read early versions of the book and offered valuable feedback. They include David Booth, Cresencia Fong, Michelle Josette, Ranya Khan, Shelly Nixon, Aaron Paul, Greta Perris, Carmen Ruf and Mike Tissenbaum.
Emiko Ohnuki-Tierney’s Kamikaze Diaries: Reflections of Japanese Student Soldiers was an invaluable resource while writing this book, as was Louis Allen’s Burma: The Lon
gest War, 1941–1945.
Si (Sandra) Lian is the love of my life, the woman who helped make this book happen and the wind beneath my wings.
About the Author
ARIF ANWAR was born in Chittagong, Bangladesh, just miles from the Bay of Bengal. He has worked on issues of poverty alleviation for BRAC, one of the world’s largest non-governmental organizations, and on public health for UNICEF Myanmar. Arif has a PhD in education from the University of Toronto. He lives in Toronto with his wife, Si (Sandra) Lian. The Storm is his first novel.
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Copyright
The Storm
Copyright © 2018 by Arif Anwar.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
FIRST EDITION
Cover design by Laura Klynstra
Cover photograph by Getty Images, Offset and Shutterstock
© Lightwood 1/Dreamstime.com. Reproduced with permission.
EPub Edition: March 2018 EPub ISBN: 978-1-44345-423-0
Print ISBN: 978-1-44345-421-6
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