by Tahmima Anam
‘Stop talking nonsense.’
‘I don’t want to go back to that camp.’
‘Fine. Stay here.’ Maya turned her back and folded her hands under her cheek. Just like her father slept, Rehana thought. As though she were praying.
The stifling heat in the shed woke Rehana. The bed was empty; Maya’s clothes were strewn across the floor. Rehana started picking up the clothes and folding them. There was a smell coming from Maya’s kameez. It needed a wash. The rest of her clothes were no better: the hems of all her saris and petticoats were streaked with mud.
Rehana stepped out of the shed to see if there was a tap. She circled the perimeter of the roof, holding a hand against the sun. She followed a copper pipe, and in a far corner she found what she was looking for, fastened to the wall. Below it was a hole where the water would run off.
There wasn’t any laundry soap. She took out the cream-coloured bar of soap she had brought to wash her face. She turned the tap, and a weak trickle made its way out. The water was warm and comfortable; she soon felt herself relax as she kneaded Maya’s salwaar-kameez in a familiar double beat: clap-clap, clap-clap, clap-clap.
She hung the clothes over the railing, pleased with the sight of them sizzling under the sun. The fat woman from the other day was on the next-door roof again, pinning up the same yellow sari. She waved. Rehana waved back.
Downstairs, Maya was attacking the typewriter with a pen in her mouth. The pen had leaked a little; on one corner of her lip was a growing patch of indigo.
‘Ma, where’ve you been?’
‘Just tidying a little upstairs.’ Rehana pointed to her mouth. ‘You have a little—’
Maya had already turned back to her typewriter. ‘Isn’t it hot up there?’ she said distractedly.
‘I’ll go out and see if I can get us a few things,’ Rehana said. ‘We need soap, and maybe a few snacks.’
‘All right,’ Maya said, her eyes on her punching fingers. ‘You go ahead.’
On her way out, Rehana passed Mukul pasting a flyer on to the wall. He wore a blue cap that was pulled down to hide his eyes.
‘Auntie, hello,’ he said, raising his chin so he could see her. ‘You going out in this heat?’
‘Just down the road for a few things.’
‘It’s burning up!’
‘I’ll only be gone a few minutes.’
‘Here, why don’t you take my cap?’ he said, peeling it off his head. His hair was plastered wetly to his forehead. She saw the ring of sweat around the rim.
‘No, really.’
‘Please, I insist.’
‘No, no, don’t worry, I’ll just be back.’
It was furiously hot outside. Within seconds Rehana’s cheeks began to burn. She considered turning back, but the thought of Mukul in his sweaty cap kept her moving ahead; she continued down the street until she came to a junction. Tram tracks bisected the road, and on either side there were shops with open doors and loud, clashing hoardings. Rehana didn’t remember this part of Calcutta, but the tonga-wallahs, skipping barefoot through the traffic with their elbows pointed up and out, and the shapes of the buildings, the wide avenues, the trams–she recognized all of these, despite the years of wilful forgetting.
Now everything was louder and more crowded. People choked the streets and tilted the tram carriages. They perched on the edge of the sidewalk and left barely a sliver of pavement through which Rehana could push her way. She ducked into the nearest shop, blinking against the change in light. It was a dark, narrow room with a row of shelves lining one wall, a counter running alongside. The shelves held a confused and mismatched assortment of things–chocolates, baby formula, shampoo, pomade, pickles. A man stood in front of the display with his palms on the countertop.
Rehana pointed to a blue bar of washing soap. ‘That one please, how much?’
‘Six annas,’ the man said, chewing his gums.
‘Give me one. And a pao of moori. And a–do you have scissors?’
‘Scissors?’
‘Yes, I need a pair of scissors.’
The man pulled out a drawer and showed Rehana several samples. After inspecting the blade and putting her thumb through the handle of each one, she chose the smallest pair.
‘Total comes to three rupees, twelve annas.’
Rehana was about to pay the man when he said, ‘Have I seen you before?’
She took a closer look at him. He was old; her father’s age. Could she know him? Trust me to find the one person in Calcutta who remembers me. But no, she hadn’t seen him before. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I’m sure I know you,’ he insisted.
‘But I don’t live here.’
‘Where are you from–are you Joy Bangla?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Are you from Dhaka? Bangladesh? Joy Bangla?’
No, actually, she thought, I’m from Calcutta. But she said, ‘Yes, I’m Joy Bangla.’
‘Ten per cent discount,’ he said, smiling. ‘Ten per cent refugee discount.’ He passed her the shopping bag with a freckled hand. ‘I was a refugee also, in ’47. That’s why I recognize you.’ And then he looked at her with such fatherly tenderness. ‘You come back here when you need anything. Anything at all.’
Suddenly the man was a blur. He waved his hand at her. ‘Please, don’t cry! You want a choc bar? Milon, get my daughter here a choc bar. Don’t cry, Ma, don’t cry.’
Rehana tugged at the paper with wet fingers. Her teeth broke into the chocolate and through the ice-cream.
‘Go on, Ma. You go on.’
She stepped back into the noon heat with the ice-cream turning to milk on her tongue. She walked a little further, passing a tobacco shop and a Chinese restaurant. On the corner of the next street she found a bench, shaded by the shadow of a three-storeyed State Bank of India. The two women who had already collapsed on the bench wriggled together to make room for Rehana. There was a tram stop across the road, and Rehana watched the passengers emptying and filling the compartments.
She saw that they were the same as the people from the train station, and from Shona’s garden, and from the camps, refugees now trawling through the streets.
There were some that seemed less desperate, almost ordinary. But, despite their attempts to blend in, she could tell they were also refugees. They kept their hands in their pockets and a grateful smile stitched to their lips. They had unwashed hair and dirty shoes. Clothes that looked decent, but, looking closely she could see the ragged hems, the worn pleats. And everywhere they went their memories argued for space, so that they forgot to cross the road when the lights were red, or over-milked their tea, or whispered into their newspapers as they scanned hungrily for news of home. Rehana found she could not bear to look at them; she was afraid she would see herself; she was afraid she wouldn’t see herself; she wanted to be different and the same as them all at once, neither option offering relief from the rasping feeling of loss, and the swallowing, hungry love.
‘I’m going to cut your hair, Maya,’ Rehana said. It was night again, and they were getting ready for bed. Rehana had tidied and swept the shed. Maya’s clothes, smelling of afternoon sun, were folded and stacked on the desk. The window was open, and there was just the hint of a breeze.
‘There’s nothing wrong with my hair,’ Maya said. Her first instinct was always to say no to everything. ‘What’s wrong with my hair?’
‘Nothing. I just want to trim the edges. Look at this,’ Rehana said, showing Maya the tatty end of her braid. ‘I’ll just make it straight.’
‘How do you know how to cut hair?’
‘I’ve always known. My sisters made me cut theirs.’ Right here, in Calcutta. And she used to cut her father’s, when they were poor and there was no more credit at the barber’s.
‘Really? How is it you never cut mine?’
‘You never let me get near your hair! I used to cut Sohail’s.’
Maya smiled wryly. ‘Yes, I think I remember now. I always thought it was be
cause he was your favourite.’
‘Na, it was because you were so stubborn.’
‘Go ahead, then, let’s see what you can do.’
Rehana was ready with the scissors and a small mug of water. She dipped the end of Maya’s raggedy braid into the water, then she undid it and began to comb.
‘Full of knots!’ she said. ‘It’s a mess.’
‘No commentary from the haircutter, please.’
Rehana pushed Maya’s head forward and started to work the scissors. ‘Stop moving,’ she said, ‘or it’ll be uneven.’
The curling half-moons fell to the ground. ‘Maya, I was thinking about what the doctor said–perhaps it is a good idea.’
‘Really, Ma, you don’t have to.’ She twisted around to face Rehana.
‘Hold still.’ Rehana pushed Maya’s head back into position. ‘There’s really nothing much for me to do here.’
‘I’m sorry, I know I’ve been busy.’
‘You have your work. It’ll be good for me to have something to do. There must be some reason why I came here.’ Rehana pulled two ends of Maya’s hair together to see if she’d cut a straight line. ‘All right,’ she said, patting Maya’s shoulder, ‘all done.’
‘The war will be over soon,’ Maya said; ‘we won’t be here for ever.’
It wasn’t until September that Rehana got her reason. She was trailing Dr Rao through the ward, taking notes on the new patients, writing down their medications and prescriptions. They came to the end of the row of cots, and on the last bed was a woman Rehana hadn’t seen before. A blanket covered most of her face, but her forehead and her long hair were visible, and one arm, on which she wore a red-and-gold glass bangle.
‘Who’s this?’ Rehana asked. There was something about her, lying there on the cot, that made Rehana want to see her face.
‘I’m not sure,’ Dr Rao said. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen her before.’
Rehana peeled back the katha and saw a pair of closed eyes, framed by long, ropy strands of hair. She looked closer. She knew this woman. ‘Supriya.’ It couldn’t be her. Could it? She looked again. Of course, of course it was her. It was the kind of thing that happened so easily these days. ‘This is my friend, Mrs Sengupta,’ Rehana said, ‘from Dhaka.’
Dr Rao lifted the bangled arm with his thumb and forefinger, his eyes on his wristwatch. ‘Why don’t you stay here, Chachi? I’ll see if I can find out who’s been treating her.’
‘Her husband must have brought her. See if you can find him. Mr Sengupta.’
Rehana pulled off the katha. Mrs Sengupta’s sari was bunched around her knees. Her calves were grey and papery. Rehana dragged the sari down and covered her legs. She looked like a felled tree.
‘What happened to you?’ Rehana whispered. She lifted Mrs Sengupta’s head and pulled the soggy hair away from her neck. She saw her friend’s eyelids shift, as though she were dreaming, and then she opened them slowly, turning first to the ceiling and then slowly focusing on Rehana.
‘Supriya?’
Mrs Sengupta stared emptily at Rehana. She opened her mouth. Her lips were black.
‘What happened to you? Where’s Mithun?’ But she had already turned away, her face shut.
The doctor returned a few minutes later. He carried a blood-pressure cuff and a bag of saline. ‘I’m afraid she’s here alone, Mrs Haque. No one has seen any family.’
‘That can’t be right. She has a husband, and a son. She wouldn’t have come without them.’
When Rehana went to the ward the next day, Mrs Sengupta was exactly as she had left her, smeared across the cot with the sari around her knees. But she was awake. Rehana stroked her forehead. There was no fiery teep, no sindoor.
Rehana began to make a habit of spending her afternoons at Mrs Sengupta’s bedside. She poured coconut oil into her hair and picked out the dirt. Then she washed it with a small square of soap she had bought from the old man on Theatre Road. She cut Mrs Sengupta’s nails and creamed her elbows. Her friend followed her with her eyes, but still she said nothing. Aside from a small bamboo pipe she kept under her pillow, she appeared to have no possessions.
It was not unlike sitting at Iqbal’s grave. There was never any answer, but she imagined somehow Mrs Sengupta could hear her.
‘After you left a lot of other people left also. The club shut down and the markets were mostly deserted. And a lot of boys ran off to join the army. Sohail wanted to go but I said no.’
Sometimes, as with Iqbal, she was tempted to lie, or exaggerate.
‘But he went anyway. You would not believe the change in him. And Silvi. She looks nothing like the girl we knew. We should never have let her marry that boy. I met him again, you know, but under very different circumstances.’
She kept certain things from Mrs Sengupta. The details of Sabeer’s capture, for instance. She didn’t want to upset her. And she didn’t talk about the Major. She didn’t know how she could put it. I fell in love with a stranger. Having to explain would mean giving some reason. Which it did not have. It was an unreasonable thing. She hardly even knew him. Sometimes it occurred to her how very little she did know. For instance, if he had any brothers or sisters. Or what he planned to do once the war was over. She had never even asked him when, or if, she would see him again.
In the afternoons, when Mrs Sengupta slept, Rehana walked around the hospital with Dr Rao. She befriended a few other women, stopping beside their cots and holding their hands while they told her how they had come to be there. They started to recognize her. They called her apa. Every day they told her new stories about the war. She waited for a letter from Sohail. She waited for a letter from the Major. Neither came.
Rehana got used to the rides in the truck with Mukul, and by October the rooftop was almost pleasant. She kept the doors of the shed open and sat on the threshold, watching the evening descend and the city slide easily into dusk. The fat woman was there every few days, flapping and pinning her yellow sari.
Every day it was the same. Mrs Sengupta had still not uttered a word. ‘Won’t you say anything, Supriya? Tell me what happened? Maybe I can help.’
One night on the roof Rehana was patching up the torn hem of her white petticoat. She hadn’t brought enough clothes for such a long stay, and the ones she had brought were starting to wear out. She was threading a needle when the thought suddenly occurred to her that, even though Mrs Sengupta didn’t want to speak, perhaps she would agree to write. She remembered the day Mrs Sengupta had asked her about Sultana’s Dream. She put down her petticoat and went downstairs to ask Maya for a notebook or a few scraps of paper. The next day at the camp Rehana presented these to Mrs Sengupta, along with a sharpened pencil.
Mrs Sengupta lifted her head. She shook it.
Rehana pointed to the notebook. ‘That’s for you.’
A few days before this, Rehana had said, ‘Did you know the story of how I lost the children?’ She told Mrs Sengupta about the courthouse and the judge, and how she had allowed her grief to betray her. ‘But I got them back. You can find Mithun too. And Mr Sengupta.’
Rehana was convinced it was just a matter of being lost. Maybe they were rushing to get somewhere and Mrs Sengupta got separated from the others. Mr Sengupta must be looking for her right now; that’s why Rehana kept checking the register to see who had arrived at the camp. Rehana had visions of Mr Sengupta hunting through every refugee camp, every train station, every hospital, for news of his wife. Surely if they were patient, they would find each other again.
The next morning, when Rehana went back, Mrs Sengupta held up the notebook. She had written a few lines. I went into the reeds, it said. In the pond. She pulled the bamboo pipe from under her pillow and put it to her mouth. I left him, she wrote.
‘I don’t know what you mean, Mrs Sengupta,’ Rehana said. An image came, unbidden, of Mrs Sengupta sinking into a grey-brown silt.
Mrs Sengupta’s hand moved slowly over the page. She finished a sentence, crossed it out, then wrote again.
After what felt like a long time, she handed the notebook back to Rehana. I left him and ran into the pond.
It couldn’t be right. It couldn’t have happened that way.
‘You got separated?’
Again she began her slow scrawl, her fingers knotting together. I didn’t think about him, I just ran.
‘Mr Sengupta?’ Rehana asked. She had already written something down and was pointing to it now. They shot him.
She couldn’t bear to see any more. ‘Supriya, get some rest now, I’ll be back with some lunch.’
Mrs Sengupta gripped her notebook.
True, she wrote, true true true. She closed her eyes.
Rehana left her that way, black-lipped and shaking her head back and forth.
Rehana didn’t know what to say. She was afraid some accusation might slip from her lips, even if she said it was all right, that she understood. No matter how she tried to picture it, she still could not help feeling disgusted by the thought of Mrs Sengupta aban-doning her son. There must have been some other way. There was always another way. She could have taken him with her. Or stood between him and those soldiers. And how could she bear to be alive, not knowing, imagining he might be somewhere, lost, with strangers, or worse?
The next day Rehana avoided Mrs Sengupta. She did not visit her the day after that. A week passed, and she tried to put it out of her mind. Then she found the telegram. It was early in the morning, and she was looking for a safety pin among Maya’s things when she found it, dated 16 October 1971. Two days ago.
SABEER DEAD STOP TRIED OUR BEST STOP
COULDN’T SAVE STOP GOD BLESS MRS C
Rehana folded the telegram, neatly, making sure the edges lined up. She felt weak and shaky and her fingers trembled, but she continued to fold, until it was a tiny sliver of paper that she could tuck into her blouse, like loose change. All the way to Salt Lake she felt her heart beating against it. She remembered that terrible night, lashing herself to Sabeer as they travelled through the dark, his chipped hands hugged to his breast. Then her thoughts lingered on Silvi, and Mrs Chowdhury, and Romeo turning to dust under a coconut tree, and her whole body burned with the need to go home, back to the neighbourhood, to the bungalow, and to Shona.