The Love and Lies of Rukhsana Ali

by Sabina Khan

  “Aamir isn’t going,” Mom said, and I stared at her in disbelief.

  “What do you mean he’s not going?”

  “He can’t afford to miss school,” Dad said. “He’s not doing that well and we don’t want him to fall behind. Besides, we will only be gone for a week or two at the most.”

  Aamir was not going to be happy about this.

  “He can stay here on his own. Aunty Meena or Uncle Maruf can check in on him while we’re away.” Mom stood and rearranged the clothes in her suitcase before shutting it.

  I left them to go up to Aamir’s room. He sat at his desk staring at his laptop.

  “Hey,” I said, walking over and sitting down on the edge of his bed. “You heard about Nani?”

  He nodded. “Mom says I can’t go. She’s worried I’ll fall even more behind in school.”

  “Of course she is. God forbid that she should worry about my classes,” I said bitterly. I would have felt a lot better about this if he were coming too, knowing we were all together. It felt weird not going as a family.

  “Listen, Rukhsana, be careful when you’re over there, okay?” Aamir looked at me intently and a strange sensation unfurled in my stomach.

  “What do you mean?” I said. “We’re just going to Nani’s house.”

  “No, I know, but I’m just worried, now that Mom and Dad know about you and Ariana—”

  “Did they say something?” The uneasy feeling grew stronger.

  “Not to me, but it’s just the timing of everything. Don’t you think it’s a little bit suspicious?” Aamir furrowed his brow.

  “They wouldn’t lie about Nani like that, would they? Besides, Aunty Meena was here a couple of weeks ago telling Mom that Nani wasn’t feeling well and really wanted us to visit. That was before they found out about me.” But I couldn’t shake the thought that Aamir might be right. Maybe Nani being sick was just an excuse to get me there. I was sure my parents thought they could guilt me out of being gay, if only they could get me away from all the lesbians.

  I shrugged. “You know what? If they think they’re being so clever, I can play along. At least I get a vacation out of it and I’ll get to see Nani and Shaila.”

  I loved my cousin Shaila and hadn’t seen her since we visited Dhaka when I was fourteen, but we talked pretty regularly. She was only a couple of years older than me, and we were more like sisters than cousins.

  Aamir nodded. “I guess you’re right. But still be careful. It’s not the same over there, you know. For gay people, I mean. It’s dangerous.”

  I hugged him tightly. I hated that he wasn’t coming and that he was worried about me.

  “Don’t worry so much. I can take care of myself.” I kissed the top of his head before returning to my room.

  I sat at my desk and began emailing my teachers to let them know I’d be gone. Halfway through my third email, tears blurred my vision. I grabbed a box of tissues off my nightstand and dabbed my eyes. If anything happened to Nani before we got there, I would be devastated. Just the thought made the tears start again.

  My maternal grandmother lived with my uncle and his family in Bangladesh. Although we tried to visit every few years, it became harder once I started high school. She always lamented the fact that half her family lived so far away. Once, when I was seven and we had just spent a month with her, the day before we left, Nani had taken my hand.

  “Rukhsana, I had a dream about you last night,” she’d said, wrapping a string of jasmine flowers around my small wrist. “Do you want to know?” I nodded and she pulled me onto her lap.

  “In my dream, you were a little spring bird. You only came to visit in the spring, when the new leaves came in and the champa flowers bloomed. And no matter how many fancy seeds I collected or how many sweet treats I got for you, you always flew away.”

  “Did you miss me when I was gone?” I asked, playing with the golden tassel at the end of her braid.

  “Yes, I did. I sang to you, so that you would find your way back to me. And you always did.”

  “Can you sing for me now?”

  And then she sang for me, sweet melodies about birds and flowers while I braided strings of jasmine in her greying hair.

  Now, as I finished up the emails and began to pack, tears ran down my face as memories of her filled my head. I placed the locket from my parents carefully in my purse and packed the half-finished scarf I was knitting for Nani. Taking one last look around, I zipped up my travel bag and placed it by my bed.

  I called Ariana to tell her what was happening.

  “I’m so sorry, Rukhsana,” she said. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, but thank you. I’m just freaking out right now. My parents won’t tell me exactly what’s wrong and I’m really scared that it’s bad.”

  “You can’t think like that. It will all be fine, you’ll see.”

  A day and a half later, we landed in Dhaka. After hours of sitting in the cramped airplane seat, it was a relief to stretch my legs.

  Once we got through customs and immigration, I scanned the arrivals lobby for Tanveer Mama. I spotted him as Dad pulled the last of our suitcases off the carousel. As we finally stepped out of the building to find the driver and car, the humidity and heat hit me like a tsunami.

  Within moments, my blouse stuck to me and sweat ran down my back. Throngs of people milled about everywhere.

  My grandmother’s house was only a half hour’s drive away from the airport, but last time it had taken us over three hours to get there. It was like being stuck in the world’s biggest marathon. Only in slow motion.

  “Tanveer, is the traffic getting worse or was it always like this?” Dad asked my uncle.

  “Ibrahim Bhai, you all have been living abroad for too many years. Things are getting worse every day. Just last month they held a strike. Nobody could go out, no work, nothing.”

  My uncle turned to look at me in the back seat. “Rukhsana, let me tell you one thing. You are lucky that you are not living here. Shaila couldn’t go to her university classes for the last few days, and she is having exams next week. But what to do? I cannot allow her to go with all this going on.”

  “How is Shaila? She must be upset about Nani too. I haven’t spoken to her for a couple of weeks.”

  “She’s doing okay,” said Tanveer Mama. “Very excited to see you again.”

  We moved at a snail’s pace in the heavy traffic, our driver weaving expertly in and out through the dense maze. Rickshaw bells competed with honking cars and bellowing truck horns. People, adults and children, jostled one another as they made their way to whatever destination lay in wait at the end of the long and narrow sidewalks.

  At one street corner a thin little girl came up to my window. A few strands of jasmine were wrapped around her skinny wrist and more hung from her fingers.

  “Flowers, madam?” She stuck a bony arm through the open car window. She couldn’t have been older than seven or eight. “Very nice smell,” she said in Bengali.

  She glanced at our suitcases jammed into the trunk of the car. “Will you buy some? Only three dollars.”

  Mom was already fishing around in her purse for her wad of Bangladeshi takas and handed me a five-hundred-taka bill. When I put it in the little girl’s outstretched hand, her eyes widened. She threw the strand of nearly dead jasmine flowers on my lap and scampered away to the next car with a big smile on her tiny face.

  Outside on the sidewalk a vendor had set up a stand and was deep-frying jalebis. My mouth watered at the thought of the gooey, crunchy sweet treats melting in my mouth.

  Tanveer Mama noticed me staring at the stand and told the driver to stop the car. He jumped out, and minutes later, there was a paper bag full of piping hot jalebis in my hands. The rest of the ride didn’t seem as bad after that.

  My grandmother’s house came into view at the end of a long, winding driveway with betel nut trees standing to attention on either side like sentries. High brick walls surrounded the entire compound,
and a black steel gate granted entry from the street. Hers was the only large detached house on this street. All around her, tall apartment buildings had risen as people from surrounding towns and villages flocked to the capital over the years in search of work. But despite exorbitant offers from real estate developers, my grandmother had staunchly refused to sell her property, and so it stood out prominently among the more modern structures that filled the city blocks.

  When our car pulled up in front of the house, I jumped out. A slender older woman in a dark blue sari and grey hair waited by the main door holding a plate of sweets in her hands. Rokeya. She was my grandmother’s cook and had been with the family since my mom was a young girl. I ran over to embrace her and she held my face in her hands as she simultaneously tried to feed me sweets and scold me for how skinny I’d become.

  “How is your daughter? And her two girls?” I asked her in Bengali. Rokeya’s daughter worked in a garments factory on the outskirts of Dhaka and raised her two daughters alone after her husband kicked her out for giving birth to two girls but no boy.

  “They are growing up,” Rokeya replied, putting another piece of milky sweetness in my mouth.

  “Did they like the dresses I sent for them?”

  “Yes, and the books and school supplies. You are spoiling them.”

  We all went inside and I looked around, taking in all the things I loved about this old house my grandmother had inherited when her husband died. The marble floors in the entry and the stairway were cool under my bare feet as I ran up to my grandmother’s room. I knocked on the door.

  “Nani?” I heard a faint reply and entered. She was propped up on the four-poster bed, looking like a porcelain doll as she smiled and held her arms out. I rushed to her side and enveloped her petite frame, worn by age.

  “You came back, my little spring bird.” She cupped my face in her tiny hands and examined it. “You look too thin,” she admonished. “I have asked Rokeya to make all your favorites. I want to be able to squeeze your cheeks.”

  “Nani, you have to get better quickly now that I’m here.” I hugged her tightly again.

  Mom was right behind me and I left them to spend time together while I washed up. Then I went to find Shaila and saw her walking in the front door.

  “Rukhsana, I can’t believe you’re really here,” she said as we hugged. I stepped back to look at her. We both had the same round faces with high cheekbones, but where my nose was too big for my liking, hers was pert and just the right size for her face. And unlike me with my unruly long curls, she wore her thick hair in a braid.

  “Have you been up to see Dadi yet?”

  “Yes, I have. And my nani is still better than your dadi,” I teased, thinking back to my first visit to Dhaka as a five-year-old.

  Shaila grinned. “Remember how angry you got because I called her Dadi? You wouldn’t stop crying.”

  “Well, I thought you were calling her the wrong name on purpose. I didn’t like you very much,” I said playfully.

  “And I thought you were dumb because you didn’t know the right names of our relatives.” Shaila scooted away from me in mock fear.

  “How was I supposed to know you all have so many different names for everybody? Your mom’s mother is Nani but your dad’s mother is Dadi? It was very confusing.” I tried to look sad, but Shaila was just laughing at me.

  She pulled me into the living room and we sat down on one of the sofas by the French doors that led out onto the spacious lawn. The lace curtains fluttered in the small breeze that blew in from the lake behind the house. I stood up to look outside.

  There used to be a swing that my uncle had hung on a mango tree branch a long time ago. The swing was made of jute rope fashioned into a chair. I would clamber into it in the afternoons while everyone else was asleep except Rokeya, who would sing old Bengali folk songs to me while I swung back and forth in the shade. Is it still there?

  Shaila came to stand beside me. “Do you want to check out the garden?”

  I nodded and followed her out through the French doors.

  Tall jackfruit trees lined the perimeter of the garden, interspersed with tall palm trees and the occasional mango tree. Vines of bougainvillea climbed over the walls, their blooms bursting with purple. We walked to the koi pond at the end of the garden. There, hanging from a low branch of a mango tree, was the swing. I marveled at how I could have ever fit in it. It was so small, yet it held a wealth of happy memories for me.

  Shaila watched me with a bemused expression as I walked over to the trunk and examined the bark. It was still there, my initials carved in my five-year-old scrawl. After I’d done it I couldn’t stop wondering if the tree had felt pain. Nani always said that all living creatures felt love, hunger, and pain. Even trees. So, every time I went outside I would make sure to run my fingers gently across the spot. I did the same now and Shaila shook her head.

  “You were always a weird one, you know?” She smiled at me. “But that’s why I always loved you so much.”

  We walked back inside with our arms around each other’s waists just like when we were little. I was glad some things never changed.

  I woke up groggy but ravenous. Something in the air here made me hungry all the time. Or maybe it was because the food here was so good. I joined Dad, Tanveer Mama, and Shaila for breakfast.

  “Shaila, can we go out and get phoochka?”

  “Thanks for ruining the surprise,” Shaila said, pretending to glare at me. “I have a whole day planned for us tomorrow.”

  “You’re the best, Shaila,” I said, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek.

  Afterward, I went to see my grandmother in her room. I found her there with Mom, just finishing their breakfast.

  “Nani, you look so much better already,” I said, bending to kiss her cheek. “See what happens when I visit?” I snuggled up beside her. Mom frowned at me.

  “Rukhsana, get off the bed,” she said, swatting my behind. Nani glared at her daughter in mock anger and pretended to protect me from her.

  “Zubaida … you are always too strict with her. She can lie down with me whenever she wants. Her place is here, right next to my heart.” She pulled me closer, surprisingly strong all of a sudden. Mom grumbled something about spoiled grandchildren as she shook her head and walked out the door.

  “How are you? Any boyfriend?” Nani asked, her eyes twinkling.

  “No, Nani. No boyfriend. I’m too busy with school and work.” I hated lying to her.

  Maybe it was wishful thinking, but I felt like she would actually understand if I told her about Ariana. Who am I kidding? She’d probably have a heart attack if I told her I was gay. She was from another generation; there was only so much she could handle.

  So, I had to be content lying to her and hoping she would never find out I wasn’t the good Bengali girl she thought I was. At least she was happy to have me here. We talked about the orphanage where she volunteered and how she missed going there these days.

  “I’ve been too tired to go out much, but I am hoping we can go together in a few days. They would love to see you again.”

  “The doctor said you have to rest, Nani. We’ll go when you’re better.”

  “What doctor? I’m fine, I’m just old and old people get tired. You’ll understand when you are my age.”

  She didn’t even remember the doctor. Maybe it was for the best; she seemed happier this way.

  That afternoon a whole bunch of my cousins came over to visit and I was so happy to see them again. We caught up, playing Carom late into the night, and I realized how much I’d missed that.

  The next day was Pohela Boishakh, the Bengali New Year. My past visits had never coincided with the middle of April, so it promised to be an exciting day. This was a huge celebration in Bangladesh. There were going to be marches, art shows, and musical extravaganzas. And food, lots of mouthwatering Bengali street food.

  Mom had given us permission to spend the day enjoying the festivities, so I came down d
ressed in a cream-colored kurta and jeans. I wanted to be comfortable for a whole day out. Traditionally I should have worn a sari, preferably white with a red border, but I knew it would become cumbersome later in the day, since I didn’t really wear saris that often.

  After a breakfast of daal poori and eggs, Shaila and I got into the back of Tanveer Mama’s Honda and were driven to Ramna Park, where the Boishakhi Mela was taking place. The fairgrounds were teeming with people, families with children, all milling about as they checked out the various vendors selling everything from vibrant, colored glass bangles to slippers and toys. Interspersed between those stalls were stands holding a tantalizing array of street food, everything from the ubiquitous jhal moori to young coconut and mango slices dusted with salt, sugar, and chili powder.

  Shaila and I bought two paper cones of jhal moori and I savored the explosion of spice and tartness as I took my first mouthful of the savory puffed rice mixed with green chilies, onions, peanuts, and mustard oil. Even the potential threat of spending the night on the toilet did not dissuade me from enjoying all of it.

  I looked around the fair while we ate and spotted a bangles vendor. I waited impatiently for Shaila to finish her jhal moori before dragging her over to try some on.

  I ended up buying six dozen glass bangles, some in gorgeous hues to match my saris and shalwar suits at home and some to bring back for Ariana, Jen, Rachel, and Sara. I was obsessed with them, even though my dresser at home had no room for more.

  Shaila was amused at my enthusiasm and tried to steer me away from the bangle stalls for the rest of the fair.

  All the food stalls were making me hungry again and I soon got tired of looking around.

  “Shaila, let’s get some phoochka,” I said, pointing to a stall just ahead of us. Hollow spheres of thin, deep-fried dough were arranged in a pyramid. We ordered a plate each and my mouth watered as I watched the man fill the phoochka with spiced potatoes and arrange them on a plate. Then he filled two little bowls, one with spiced tamarind water and the other with a green chili and mint sauce.