A Golden Age

by Tahmima Anam

  They went through Mirpur Road and turned on to Kolabagan. They sped past the open fields of Second Capital and approached the airport. Rehana sank further into the inky space and tried not to panic.

  The car took a turn and suddenly she didn’t recognize the street. It was a wide road, like a highway, and it stretched into a foggy, unfamiliar distance. Her thoughts turned to the torture centre Sohail had described. She craned her neck, to see if any of the low-lying buildings looked like places that held dirty secrets.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Not to worry, madam.’ Quasem found Rehana in his rear-view mirror and gave her a small wave. ‘We’ll be there soon.’

  A few minutes later, after crossing a set of railroad tracks, they turned and stopped beside a small booth. A man in an army uniform peered through the blackened window.

  ‘Window down!’ he barked, spraying spit on to the glass.

  Rehana was struggling with the handle when Quasem interrupted.

  ‘Don’t you see the fucking plate!’ he called out from his side.

  The soldier stepped in front of the car and examined the number plates. Then he returned to Rehana’s window and continued to peer in. ‘Who is the passenger?’

  ‘Sister of Barrister Haque.’

  ‘Who? I have to check the register,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t you know our own people, sister-fucker! We pass this checkpoint every day. Suddenly you don’t know the car? You want me to get out and teach you a lesson?’

  The soldier paused for a moment; then he shrugged, as though it hadn’t mattered to him in the first place. ‘OK, go. But we have to report.’ And he rapped on the black windscreen with the wooden handle of his gun.

  ‘Don’t worry, madam,’ Quasem said as they sped away, ‘there’s no problem.’

  Faiz and Parveen lived in Gulshan. It was at the opposite end of town, edging across the northern periphery of the city, past the airport and the army cantonment. Gulshan was newer and even less settled than Dhanmondi; the plots were bigger, the fields between them vast and waterlogged. There was a lake. Faiz’s house was off the main road on a street lined with old trees. The house itself was invisible behind a high gate and solid brick fencing. A darwaan opened the gate, and then they were in the half-circle of the driveway, which led them to the front door, a wide, dark purple teak against a black-and-white chequered patio.

  Rehana rang the doorbell. A tinny, fake-bird sound echoed through the house. Then the clatter of shoes on an expensive floor. A few seconds later the door swung open, and Parveen appeared, presenting Rehana with a warm, open-mouthed smile.

  ‘As-Salaam Alaikum,’ she crooned. She wore a gauzy, canary-yellow chiffon. Around her neck was a string of fat, rolling pearls. Her lips were shiny and parted with lipstick. With a start Rehana realized that she had pulled up the achol of her sari so that it covered her head. The chiffon headdress made her look like Grace Kelly. Has there been some sort of decree, Rehana wondered, no more bare-headed ladies in Dhaka?

  ‘Walaikum As-Salaam,’ she replied.

  ‘Please,’ Parveen said with excessive tenderness, ‘come in. I’m just so happy to see you.’ They began to walk through a brilliant white corridor. ‘It’s been–so busy–I’ve been meaning to call, and when you did I was just thinking of you and wondering why you sent the children to Karachi–they’re perfectly safe, with Faiz’s influence, no one would ever harm them–and anyway, this will blow over in no time–tea? Abdul! Abdul!’

  Abdul, the old servant, wore a pair of smudged gloves and a hand-me-down suit. The trousers were rolled up to reveal the twin twigs of his bare feet.

  ‘My bhabi is here,’ Parveen announced when Abdul appeared. He nodded with his eyes fixed on the floor. ‘Bring some tea–the English tea–and the biscuits in the round tin–not the crackers, the biscuits–he always confuses them.’ She led Rehana into a sunny sitting room and sat her on a large, sinking armchair. At the back of the room a wall of windows overlooked the garden, a tangle of trees and bushes that stretched back into the distance, blocking out the city.

  ‘I knew you’d like the view,’ Parveen said, pleased with her own forethought.

  ‘It’s a beautiful garden,’ Rehana replied.

  ‘I can’t take any credit. The trees must have been here since the British. I didn’t think I’d like living so far from town, but it’s very peaceful here. And lots of new houses going up. This one was just finished.’

  Rehana registered the astringent smell and the bluish tinge of the walls. Aside from the armchair she sat in and its matching sofa, on which Parveen was birdily perched, there was just a round brass-topped table.

  ‘We’re still moving in,’ Parveen said, noting the swivel of Rehana’s gaze, ‘it’s still in such a state.’

  ‘It’s lovely. Very spacious.’

  The empty walls reverberated with Abdul’s scattered footsteps.

  ‘Have you had any news of Sohail?’

  ‘Yes, he’s well mahshallah.’

  ‘Is he staying with one of your sisters?’

  ‘No.’ Rehana had rehearsed this. ‘No, he’s with a schoolfriend. You know how children are–always preferring their friends. A friend from Shaheen School. They haven’t seen each other in years but always exchanged letters.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Parveen said. ‘That Sohail. Such a popular young man. Always surrounded by people. Who would have thought, na, he was such a quiet little boy.’

  It was always a dangerous thing, their shared past, but Rehana wanted to sweeten Parveen. ‘Yes, you’re right. He was very quiet. He’s changed–once he discovered books, suddenly he couldn’t stop talking.’

  ‘I’ve heard he gave some pukkah speeches at the university!’

  Rehana was wary of being baited. Sohail’s speeches had titles like ‘Peking or Moscow? Third World Socialisms’ and ‘Jinnah: Statesman or Imperialist Demagogue?’

  ‘And his poetry!’ Parveen gushed.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he does have a knack for recitation.’

  ‘What was that Ghalib he did for us? Na tha kutch tho Khuda tha…’ she began in broken Urdu. She proceeded with a blundered rendition of the poem.

  ‘Excellent. What a wonderful voice you have.’

  Parveen’s gaze descended from the distance and landed on Rehana. ‘Thank you. People often say that–it was all those years of acting study.’ Rehana was always amazed by people who managed to multiply, rather than deny, compliments to themselves.

  ‘And what about Maya?’ she asked, and again Rehana conjured the speech she had practised.

  ‘Maya is in Calcutta,’ she began.

  ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘I still have some relatives there–my father’s people. And they were eager to see her.’

  ‘I thought you’d sent her to Karachi.’

  ‘No–well, it was closer,’ Rehana grimaced a little to indicate it also had something to do with money, which Parveen pounced upon.

  ‘But you should have told us—’

  ‘I couldn’t impose.’

  ‘We’re always here to help.’

  ‘Actually, there was something—’

  ‘Abdul–the tea, what’s keeping you?’

  Abdul entered the room sleekly and set the tray down on the brass table-top without a rattle, for which he was rewarded with a nod from Parveen.

  ‘Pour,’ she said, handing the biscuits to Rehana. Rehana chose one from the proffered tin and admired, through crumby lips, the buttery crunch.

  ‘Now that your brother is…in a position, we are allowed these small indulgences. And well deserved, wouldn’t you say? In times like these?’

  Rehana realized that in this house, the war would be referred to with phrases such as ‘times like these’ and ‘troubled times’, as though God had sent these times to them without warning and through no fault of their own.

  ‘Yes, difficult times, I know.’

  Footsteps. Rehana’s stomach lurched as Faiz paraded into t
he room with his arms wide, a deep, satisfied smile illuminating the lower half of his face. The top was obscured by a pair of enormous dark glasses.

  ‘Sister!’ he boomed festively. ‘How wonderful to see you!’ Rehana stood up to receive his embrace. He was wearing a stiff white kurta and a matching cap, and he had the faint rosewater and dirty-feet smell of the mosque.

  ‘This is a sight,’ Parveen exclaimed, not getting up from her chair. ‘You don’t know, bhabi, how long it’s been since your brother has been home for lunch. It’s impossible to get him, even on a Friday.’

  ‘I’m grateful,’ Rehana whispered, as Faiz sighed into a chair.

  ‘I wouldn’t miss lunch with my bhabi.’ He pulled off the glasses and pointed them at Rehana. ‘Mahshallah, you’re looking very fresh.’ He rubbed the bridge of his nose, where the glasses had left their indentations.

  Rehana, not sure what to do with the compliment, looked around at Parveen, who had arranged herself on the armrest of the sofa.

  ‘Isn’t she looking lovely?’ Faiz continued.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Parveen said.

  ‘You know what I admire about you, bhabi. You manage to remain so cheerful despite all your hardships. Being a widow–no fate worse for a woman–and yet here you are, two children, almost grown up—’

  ‘Of course,’ Parveen interjected, ‘everyone has their suffering. For instance, I was not blessed with children, but you don’t see me complaining.’

  At once Rehana was reminded of the day she had taken the children from Parveen. Parveen had sobbed and wailed and beaten her chest. She had fallen at Rehana’s feet and begged her to let her keep them. One, she had said, please, let me have one. Sohail, she said, I want a son. I want the boy. And Rehana had left her there, rolling back and forth on the pink marble floor as though putting out a fire, and all Rehana could think was, poor girl, she’ll catch cold. And Abdul was there, and he had opened the door for her and she had marched through it, a child in each hand, holding on for dear life.

  Rehana pulled self-consciously at her grey organza. Faiz combed his moustache with his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘how are my niece and nephew?’

  Rehana repeated the stories, careful to add a few new details. Schoolfriend from Shaheen Secondary. Nice boy, studies accounting in Karachi.

  ‘Mahshallah!’ Faiz said. ‘Thank God the boy has the sense to stay out of trouble. It’s not safe for the young men.’

  Because you kidnap and mutilate them, Rehana thought. ‘Yes, that is why I insisted,’ she said.

  Faiz raised one hand, palm upturned. ‘Bad influences.’ Repeating the gesture with his other hand, he said, ‘Impressionable youth–and you have what we have now.’

  Genocide?

  ‘Gondogol!’ Troubled times. Parveen’s arm snaked into her husband’s kurta pocket and emerged with a square silver case. Faiz ignored her as she pressed a switch and snapped the case open. Then she pulled out a cigarette, holding it up between two loudly manicured fingers.

  As she raised her hand to her lips, Rehana found herself gawking.

  ‘Really, bhabi, don’t look so shocked.’

  Faiz, ignoring Parveen, continued his speech. ‘The integrity of Pakistan is at stake.’ He leaned towards Rehana and the hot steam of his breath passed over her.

  ‘National integrity, religious integrity, this is what we are fighting for. We are the freedom fighters.’

  ‘Lunch, sir,’ Abdul interrupted.

  ‘Ah, lunch. Come, Rehana, let’s eat together.’

  As they moved to the dining room, Faiz gripped Parveen tightly at the elbow. Rehana, walking behind them, pretended not to notice the pink patches Faiz was leaving on his wife’s arm. ‘Put it out,’ he muttered.

  ‘I have nothing better to do,’ she replied, louder than she needed to. Her hollow womb shouted its presence.

  The table, an enormous teak plank, was set for three.

  ‘You shouldn’t have gone to such trouble,’ Rehana said to Parveen, taking in the row of dishes.

  ‘I didn’t make a thing–didn’t even plan the menu. It’s the cook that comes with this place. Making me fat.’ And she patted her slate-like belly.

  ‘Please, sit,’ Faiz said, waving to his left.

  Rehana examined the spread. There was an oily eelish curry and an even oilier rui. There were two preparations of chicken: mussalam and korma. And, stretching to the end of the table, polao, a steaming bowl of dal, several bhortas, salad and a dish of pickles.

  ‘Start with the fish, Rehana, it’s fresh–caught today,’ Faiz said.

  There had been no fish–certainly no eelish–in the market for months. Rehana’s teeth ached.

  ‘These youths,’ Faiz said, after Abdul had served the rice, ‘young Turks–are fighting for what? A useless battle. You think Mujib cares about them? He is just getting fat on his paycheck from India. The point is, Pakistan must not be divided! What do you say, sister?’

  The bite of eelish Rehana had taken stuck drily in her throat. She asked God to forgive her. She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she managed, ‘you’re right.’

  ‘Pakistan Zindabad!’ Parveen proclaimed, the Grace Kelly veil falling to her shoulders.

  While Faiz’s fingers were still dipping into the sludge of dal on his plate, Rehana decided to take her chance.

  She cleared her throat. Her own plate was still crowded with food. She pushed the rice and fish to the side, to make it look as though she had finished eating. ‘Faiz, bhaiya, I’ve actually come to ask you for a favour.’

  ‘Of course!’ Faiz said, pulling the napkin from his collar. ‘What’s mine is yours,’ he said, as though there could be no other reason for her visit. ‘Let’s wash our hands and have some sweets, and you’ll have whatever you wish.’ He waved in the direction of the kitchen. Abdul appeared with a brass bowl of water and a cake of soap.

  As they rearranged themselves in the drawing room, Rehana began again. ‘The thing is, my neighbour has fallen into some trouble.’

  Faiz frowned with his forehead. ‘Your neighbour? The Hindus?’

  ‘No, not the Senguptas. They’ve left.’

  ‘Parveen told me you had Hindu tenants.’ Faiz said. ‘Now they’ve gone and what are you supposed to do? No chance you’ll find tenants in the middle of this mess. I suppose they didn’t even pay you the rent?’

  ‘They were in such a hurry—’

  ‘That is what I always say! Haven’t I said this a thousand times, wife, haven’t I said it? They don’t treat it like their own country. Leaving at the drop of a hat, going off to India—they were never a part of Pakistan. Good riddance to them, I say, let them go back to where they came from. So, you need money, is it?’

  ‘It’s my neighbour Mrs Chowdhury.’

  ‘Oh, the famous Mrs Chowdhury,’ Parveen said. ‘Jaanoo, remember Mrs Chowdhury?’ She didn’t wait for him to remember. ‘You know.’

  ‘Yes,’ Rehana said.

  ‘And how is dear Mrs Chowdhury?’

  It was not going well. ‘Mrs Chowdhury has been extremely kind to me over the years,’ Rehana said.

  ‘Yes, we know all about that, don’t we, jaanoo?’

  Faiz patted his wife’s knee. ‘What’s the problem?’ he asked, already slightly bored.

  ‘It’s her son-in-law.’

  ‘That slip of a girl is married?’ Parveen asked.

  ‘She married an officer,’ Rehana began.

  This elicited a look of mild interest. ‘An officer? Who? Do I know him?’

  Rehana decided to tell the whole story all at once. ‘He was in the Pakistan Army, bhaiya, but he joined the rebellion along with all the other Bengali regiments. He’s been fighting. And he’s been captured. They’ve heard he’s in Dhaka and I’ve come to ask you for his release.’

  Before the words could settle, Parveen draped a protective arm around her husband. ‘You shouldn’t have asked, Rehana. This is not something your bhaiya can do for you. Something for
you, for the children, of course, but not this.’

  ‘She’s right,’ Faiz said tersely. ‘You shouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘This is why you came here? This is why you’ve come to see us after all this time?’ Parveen blew air out of her nose.

  ‘I just–I wanted to help.’

  ‘This woman has been giving you bad advice all these years, and still you prefer to take her side?’

  ‘The poor girl–Silvi–she’s desperate—’

  ‘She shouldn’t have married a Bengali rebel, then, should she?’

  ‘She didn’t know he was going to join the resistance before she met him. Mrs Chowdhury thought she was marrying her daughter to an army officer.’

  Something in Faiz’s face told Rehana to press on. ‘He just got swept up in the thing. What could he do? His entire regiment was rebelling. The boy is weak, actually. He was in the army before the’–she was going to say massacre–‘before March, and then he just got swept up.’

  ‘Swept up?’

  ‘Oh, you know, young boys, they don’t know what they’re doing–you said so yourself, they just go along with whatever everyone else is saying. He’s no leader, that boy, he just follows, and now he’s gone and got himself into this mess; in fact, you’d really be saving him, you know, you’d be saving him from himself. He would come out of it so grateful to you, and he would know that you, I mean, the army, were here to put things right, to restore order, not to punish anyone. You would be doing us–your country–a great service.’ The words were tumbling out of Rehana’s mouth; she didn’t stop to think or even breathe, just read Faiz’s growing interest and mowed forward. ‘Perhaps the boy can be saved,’ she finished breathlessly.