by Tahmima Anam
‘I don’t care.’
Rehana paused for a moment, exasperated. ‘OK, I give up. I’m going to Shona. You decide what to do with your friends.’
Rehana and Maya were at Shona, packing up the last of Mrs Sengupta’s things, when Sohail entered. He hung in the doorway of the dining room, watching Rehana wrap Mrs Sengupta’s plates in sheets of newspaper. The newspaper was mostly blank, giant banner advertisements for Tibet Soap and Brylcreem framing empty spaces.
Maya was helping Rehana put the wrapped plates into a crate, but as soon as she saw Sohail she abandoned the crate and put up her hands.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked.
‘Nothing. Aref and Joy came to see if we were all right. We’re waiting to see how things will evolve.’
‘Waiting for what?’
‘The foreign journalists at the InterContinental Hotel saw everything. Can you believe those bastards? They didn’t even try to cover their tracks. It’ll be all over the international news.’
‘Your friends. What did they want?’
‘We need support from the UN.’
‘Don’t change the subject,’ Maya needled. ‘You’re planning something.’
‘Nothing–what would we be planning?’
‘They had something–a package–Ammoo told me. Were they asking you to hide something?’ She pressed him. Rehana knew he hated lying.
He looked straight at Maya, as though daring her to ask again.
‘You’re going, aren’t you?’
Going? Where would he be going? Wait, Rehana wanted to say. I thought you were arguing about something small. Something insignificant. Not about going. If only they’d told me it was something to do with going, I would have stood at the door myself and refused to let them in.
Sohail pushed the hair from his eyes. Rehana fought the wave of panic crawling through her arms.
‘Just tell me, bhaiya, please, I just want to know,’ Maya said. She pointed her face to the box of plates, as though to say, You owe me.
‘Ammoo,’ Sohail said the next day, ‘there’s something I have to tell you.’ The full moon was hammocked over Dhaka; it shone through the windows of the bungalow, revealing the dark, speckled shadow on Sohail’s chin, on his fist tightening and loosening.
‘Don’t tell me.’
He looked very sorry. ‘I have to go.’
‘Go? Where? Where will you go?’
‘We heard there’s a resistance across the border. All the Bengali regiments have mutinied. Didn’t you hear Zia?’
‘This is a thing between soldiers. What does it have to do with you?’
‘They need volunteers. Aref and Joy and Partho are going too.’
‘I thought you were a pacifist.’ She clung to the word. Pacifist. Someone who does not rush off to join a war. Someone who stays behind and doesn’t break his mother’s heart.
‘I really struggled, Ammoo, but I realized I don’t have a choice.’
‘Of course you have a choice. You always have a choice.’ Rehana held her head in her hands and tried not to sound desperate. ‘What if something happens to you?’ She choked a little at the words. He had missed a button on his shirt. It was his favourite, a red-and-blue check, and as she leaned over to tuck the stray button through its loop he put his hand on her head, as though he were giving her his blessing. ‘I thought you hated war,’ Rehana said weakly.
‘This isn’t war. It’s genocide.’
‘Is it Silvi?’
‘No, of course not.’ He paused, seemed to hold his breath, then said, ‘I can’t sit back and do nothing, Ma. Everyone is fighting. Even people who weren’t sure, people who wanted to stay with Pakistan.’
‘How will you go?’
‘Aref’s cousin Raju has a car. He’ll drive us to the border.’
He didn’t say when. Maybe if she delayed him it wouldn’t happen at all. She wanted so much for it to depend on her. ‘I can’t decide now. Can I decide later? Can I decide tomorrow? We’ll go to the graveyard.’
‘It won’t be for a few days,’ he said. ‘Let’s go to sleep now.’
Rehana nodded. And then she had a sudden thought: what if he left in the middle of the night, like the other boys, without telling her? It might be better. No. No, it wouldn’t be better. ‘Don’t go without telling me.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Promise.’
‘I promise.’
‘Promise on my life.’
‘I promise on your life, Ammoo.’
The next day Rehana and Sohail took a rickshaw to the graveyard. Rehana was silent all the way, though in her head there was a shout. Don’t go, the shout said. Please, don’t go.
They passed a group of schoolboys on the street. Rehana wondered if their thoughts, like Sohail’s, were full of war. If they turned the idea over in their mouths like sugar-candy. If they were waiting for the right moment to tell their mothers and disappear.
The graveyard was pristine, a crisp open sky above it.
Here is your son, she said to Iqbal. Surely you would not have wanted this. Your son wants to fight for his country. He says he has no choice. I want to, but cannot be angry with him. So I leave it to you.
The quiet rumbled in her ears; the brief rustle of the drying graveyard grasses, the tinkle of a passing rickshaw, the burning tip of the caretaker’s biri as he lit it through the open glass of his kerosene lamp. The sounds roared; they screeched; they pierced. Please don’t go.
‘Don’t go,’ she finally said aloud. ‘There must be another way you can help.’
Sohail looked at her as though to say, Let’s not do this in front of Abboo. But Rehana was strengthened by Iqbal’s presence. Of the two of them, he would have been the one to protest. He would have forbidden it–yes, forbidden. I forbid you to go, he would have said. I forbid it! She should try to utter that word; it had such an unyielding quality.
But of course she could forbid nothing. She was seized with a sudden, gripping exhaustion. ‘I just keep hoping you’ll change your mind.’
He was still wearing the red-and-blue check; the collar pointed to his shoes. She saw him arguing with himself, calculating the most noble thing to do. The thing that would require the most sacrifice. Weighing his guilt against his desire to go. He must be picturing her alone in the house, with only Maya as her silent companion. And then himself in an army uniform. Which would be worse? He would choose that.
Rehana realized that she too would have made the same calculation. She would have moved through the world in that same way, trying find the thing that denied her most. She suddenly saw how much like her he was in this. The knowledge was an open window.
Sohail was still battling. His hand was hovering over the pocket of his shirt. Iqbal’s gravestone gleamed like the side of a ship.
‘It’s all right, baba,’ was all she could think to say. ‘Say goodbye to your father.’
Sohail cupped his hands and raised them to his face.
I cannot stop him. Perhaps if you were here, you would have done it. But I cannot. It is too great a thing.
In the afternoon Rehana watched as he packed his bags. Her fingers itched to help him so she tried to focus on something else. The books on his shelf. The posters hanging on the wall. Mao Tse-Tung. Che Guevara. Karl Marx. He wouldn’t tell her when he was leaving, or how he was planning to get out of the city.
‘It’s better if you don’t know,’ he said.
She unearthed an irritated, argumentative version of herself. ‘Why? Why is it better if I don’t know?’
‘Because that way if anyone asks, you can say you don’t know.’
She was tired. She wanted to be stubborn. It reassured her to dictate the terms of his leaving. ‘No. I have to be here when you go. Tell Aref and Joy to pick you up. There’s no need for secrecy,’ she said; ‘just tell them to come here. I want to know the moment you step out of that door, the moment you cross that gate. I want to say Aytul Kursi and Surah Yahseen.’
‘All right,’ he sighed.
He was folding his shirts.
All this time Maya was standing under the doorframe, her feet on the raised threshold.
‘I have something for you,’ she said. It was a package wrapped in delicate red paper. It looked soft.
‘What is it?’ Rehana asked.
‘Open it later,’ Maya said.
Rehana wanted a brother. Someone to give going-away presents to. Someone to love without worry.
Rehana went to see Mrs Chowdhury. She thought she might tell her the news: about Sohail, and the boys leaving their stolen supplies in her corridors, and Sharmeen disappearing. She imagined Mrs Chowdhury holding her hands and telling her it would all be put right, like she used to.
Mrs Chowdhury was sitting on her veranda, facing the coconut trees in her garden. When Rehana leaned over to kiss her cheek, she found henna paste smeared into Mrs Chowdhury’s hair.
‘Any news of the Senguptas?’ Her breath was eggy.
‘Nothing. I thought they might write. Where is Silvi?’ She hadn’t seen Silvi since that night.
‘In her room. Praying, probably. All she does these days.’ Mrs Chowdhury waved away the plate of sliced papaya the cook had brought her. ‘What’s this? Bring me the samosas!’
‘No fried things, khalamma. Silvi apa’s orders.’
‘I don’t care. I’ll eat samosas if I want to. Go!’ And she snapped her fingers, which were heavy with generations of gold rings.
Rehana smiled indulgently at Mrs Chowdhury and realized that, in some quarters of the city, life was going on as before. Women were arguing for samosas. People were taking briefcases to work and frowning over their typewriters.
Mrs Chowdhury misunderstood Rehana’s silence. ‘Don’t worry, darling. The Senguptas will soon return.’
‘Times are bad, Mrs Chowdhury.’
‘Nonsense. Things will soon return to normal. It will all be done in no time.’
The words, when they came, did not comfort Rehana. She wondered if Mrs Chowdhury had been out of the house since the massacre, if she’d seen the death-coated city. Her dog had died, that appeared to be the extent of it. Rehana felt waves of hot and cold pummel her; she gripped the seat and swayed.
‘Oh, my dear, you’re about to faint!’ Mrs Chowdhury clapped again. ‘Ei, get over here, you goodfornothings, bring some ice water. Hurry!’
Rehana closed her eyes and waited; the ice water was put to her lips; she drank, pressed her back against the sofa. I’ll just lie here for a few minutes, she told herself. Just a few minutes.
‘Tomorrow,’ Sohail whispered. ‘We’re leaving tomorrow.’
Even though she had left him alone to pack his bag, she could not help unzipping it to see what he’d taken. She counted a few shirts. A lungi. She felt the plastic of his toothbrush. It was like combing her hands through his hair. Satisfied, she left for the kitchen.
She had prepared a feast. It had kept her calm throughout the day. So much to do.
There was shrimp malai curry.
Polao.
Chitol fish, which she’d had to debone and shape into balls. Chicken roast. Shami kabab. Dal, extra thick.
This is my duty, she said to herself. Sending my son to war with a full stomach.
They ate.
Maya, whose clothes suddenly hung over her frame in limp, deflated folds, nudged her rice with a spoon. Rehana realized how much she had neglected her daughter. The food turned grainy and sour in her mouth. Sohail was the only one eating, smacking his fingers together and smiling into his plate.
They said nothing of what was about to happen.
After the sweets and the halwa, Sohail rubbed his hands together and prepared to go.
‘They’re going to meet me in Sadarghat.’
‘Should I get you a rickshaw?’
‘Na.’
Just let me go, she heard him say. He turned to Maya, who had set her mouth into a thin line. He gripped her shoulders. She looked brittle between his hands. When he pulled her towards himself, she crumpled.
‘Get the bastards,’ she whispered. Then she turned and left them.
The light flickered.
‘I hate to let you go,’ Rehana said. She saw him looking at the creases on her forehead, the ones she had named 1959 and 1960. And she saw the scar under his chin, the one he had named Silvi.
‘Go,’ she said finally. ‘God goes with you.’
And then he was gone, his room tidied, the sheets tucked neatly into the mattress, his books lined up straight on the shelf, a small gap where Ghazals of Mirza Ghalib and Collected Poems of Dylan Thomas had sat beside each other, their frayed, loved, monsoon-waved pages pressed into line. She smiled at the choice. He had already memorized the poems and worn out the spines, but he would surely recite the verses to his soldier friends, who, despite being fierce and gun-wielding, would listen in rapt attention.
After Sohail left, Rehana resolved to confront her daughter. But Maya was evanescent; somehow even when she was sitting right in front of her it was as if she wasn’t there. She behaved as though no one had told her that once the war began there would be nothing for her to do but wait. No one had told her that she would only be allowed to imagine it from a distance. No one had told her how lonely, how hot, how tiresome, the days would be. And no one had told her that her friend would be the first to go.
She began spending all her time at the university, leaving as soon as the morning curfew was lifted, ignoring the breakfast Rehana offered, bolting through the door with only a few rushed words, and every evening returning just before the siren, looking exhausted and tense. When Rehana asked her what she did all day she said she had work to do.
In truth, it was a relief when she left the house every morning. Even the trees seemed to relax. Rehana tried not to let her imagination run loose around the empty house. She spent the days in stunned efficiency, counting and recounting the supplies, listening to the radio and discovering the violence that had been wrought upon the country. The deaths. The arrests. The children with no parents. The mothers with empty laps. The ones who simply vanished, leaving behind a comb or a pair of shoes.
Mrs Akram and Mrs Rahman came to visit. ‘Mrs Chowdhury said you’ve been upset,’ Mrs Rahman began.
Sohail had instructed her not to say anything about his departure. ‘It’s been very difficult. Everyone’s gone–the Senguptas–and you remember that girl, Sharmeen, Maya’s friend? We can’t find her anywhere.’
‘We should all go,’ Mrs Akram said. ‘It’s not safe for our children.’
‘Why should we go?’ Mrs Rahman said. ‘We don’t have to run away like criminals. This is our city. Let them march around and pretend they’ve taken over–I’m not leaving. I passed by those soldiers on my way here–they’re just little boys, younger than my own children. They expect me to be afraid!’
There was something comical about Mrs Rahman’s bravado, but Rehana didn’t feel like smiling.
‘Will you go, Rehana?’ Mrs Akram asked. ‘Don’t you have sisters in Pakistan?’
‘Pakistan?’ Mrs Rahman said. ‘Why on earth should she go to Pakistan? You know what they would do to us over there?’
‘No,’ Rehana said slowly, as though she had given the matter some thought, ‘I don’t think so. The children would never hear of it.’
‘I tell you, we should all stay here and take a stand.’
‘What sort of a stand, exactly?’ Mrs Akram asked.
‘We should do something. I’m not giving up so easily.’
‘Don’t be foolish. You’re just a housewife. What on earth could you possibly do?’
‘You wait and see. I’m not just good for gin-rummy, I’ll have you know.’
A few days later Rehana decided she’d had enough of Maya’s secrecy, so she decided to confront her. She wanted to know what the girl was doing all day at the university. Rehana borrowed Mrs Chowdhury’s car and ordered the driver to take her to the university campus. She didn’t know where to look–in the bombed-out hostels, or the ca
nteen, or the Teacher–Student Centre–but she was sure she would find her, and she couldn’t stop thinking Maya must be doing something wrong. She was upset. She could be in trouble. Rehana would find out and put an end to it, whatever it was. Yes, she was worrying. Maybe for no reason. But better to make sure.
Rehana had only really been inside the university once, when Sohail had invited her to try the famous phuchkas at the canteen. He had bet her the university phuchkas were better than the ones at Horolika Snacks in Dhanmondi. Rehana said that wasn’t possible. She and Iqbal had tried all the phuchkas in Dhaka and no one could beat Horolika Snacks. Sohail said that was over a decade ago and things had changed. Rehana didn’t like to be reminded that things had changed and her husband was dead, but she was carried along by her son’s enthusiasm and agreed to see for herself. They bought a dozen phuchkas at Horolika Snacks and balanced the boxes on their knees as they took a rickshaw to the university campus.
At the canteen Sohail ordered a dozen more. He put the tiny cups of fried dough in a row in front of Rehana. Then he poured a little tamarind water into each one, licking his lips and clapping his hands together and saying, ‘Horolika versus Dhaka University! Which will it be?’ Some of the students stopped talking and looked over. The owner of the canteen stood up over his counter and cheered for himself. Then Sohail told Rehana that, in the interest of fairness, she should close her eyes and taste first one, then the other.
In the end she chose the canteen phuchkas. Things really had changed. And now the canteen, along with most of the other low buildings on the university campus, had been burned down on the night of the massacre.
Rehana didn’t have to search for her daughter. She saw her as soon as the car entered the university gates. There was a line of girls, and Maya was in the front row, raising her knees higher than all the others and shouting louder than all the others. So this was what she’d been doing. She didn’t look timid, or embarrassed that the gun she was holding was just a wooden stick. ‘Hut-two-three-four! Hut! Hut! Hut!’ she shouted.
Rehana told the driver to stop the car. She watched as the girls marched past. Some of them paused and peered through the window at Rehana. One smiled shyly; another waved. Maya, who kept her eyes straight ahead, didn’t notice her mother. The girls stopped a few feet away from the car and moved their hands over the wooden sticks, pretending to load, aim, fire, reload. They wore starched white saris with thin blue borders. They looked like washerwomen. They looked serious. None was as serious as Maya.