Until We Meet Again in Jannah

by Laki Khan

  From that day onwards I observed that every time a woman had given birth to a daughter in our village, there was a celebration as opposed to a sense of mourning. I felt immensely proud that the villagers had stopped following lifelong traditions. That were mostly senseless cultural predispositions based on an extremely backward ideology. The villagers would often comment on and praise the way Abbu treated me – his only child and a daughter at that. Not once did Abbu enforce any choice or decision upon me, he had allowed me to make my own and was there to guide me through the good and bad choices. Vividly I recalled how every time I walked into a room, Abbu would give up his chair for me and would never eat a single meal without me by his side. I missed him dearly.

  I continued to stare at the floating water lily almost like a frozen statue now, oblivious to the fact that Ammu had picked the flower out of the stream and placed it into my hands. The trickling sound of the stream reminded me that my physical being was here, sitting next to Ammu and Sumayah, whilst my mind was with Abbuji, may his soul rest in heavenly peace. The sky was dark now, covered in tiny bright shining stars. I felt Ammu’s arm around my neck as she whispered, ‘It’s all right to miss Abbuji, Saira.’ Even in my daze I was astonished at how Ammu always seemed to know my innermost thoughts, well before they had even entered my mind. I cuddled close to her like a small child, and we sat for a while thinking about Abbu in silence.

  ‘Do you think we’ll ever meet him again?’ I asked.

  ‘I pray that we meet again, in Jannah, and I know in my heart that we will all be together again,’ she replied. Hearing this gave me a sense of hope, and something to strive for. What could be better than dwelling in the astonishing gardens of Jannah, hand in hand with my father. Just then I realised Sumayah had vanished. Ammu informed me that she had to leave in a hurry, but she was unsure of what the emergency had been.

  That evening we shared humorous stories about Abbu over dinner; we could talk about him for hours without fail. I noticed Ammu secretly wipe her face, failing in her attempt to conceal her sadness. A little chilly breeze overtook the night and just like every evening Ammu brewed ginger tea. We sat out in the front courtyard wrapped up in our favourite shawl. Most of the villagers were now in bed, as ploughing the fields was no easy feat. I felt the ginger cut deep into my throat as I told Ammu about my day, and how rapidly the children were adapting to the English language. Pleased to hear this she had even suggested that I start teaching the adults in the village, which I politely declined. The women would most likely attend class chewing betel nut with pan dripping from their mouths. Ammu found this amusing and soon we were giggling at the very thought of this spectacle.

  The next morning I woke to the familiar melodic voice of Mesabji Chacha announcing the early morning call for dawn prayer, followed by the synchronised humming of birds. Ammu and I prayed together, as we did most mornings. I felt content beginning my day in this manner, with a strong sense of balance and direction. It was a chilly morning and we were both preparing to leave for work, ensuring to dress a little more warmly today.

  I helped Ammu with the chores and responsibilities of the running of our house. I wanted to lighten her burden as much as I possibly could. I wiped clean our small patio bench, dusted the thin layers of fabric across the windows, swept the floors and then beat out the fluttering cobwebs that were hanging down the corners of the kitchen. Before she noticed I began to collect water from the pump outside. I managed to complete this task in three rounds using buckets, ensuring we had enough water in the kitchen and our bathroom to suffice for the entire day. Carrying water was strenuous and I disliked Ammu doing this. Almost immediately she noticed me catching my breath, and expressed her annoyance; in response I flashed a very cheeky smile, and soon she was smiling too.

  Chapter 3 – Season of Bashonto

  I commenced my journey towards the school, as the cattle were being prepared for another strenuous day in the fields, while tall roosters began dawdling around in search of food. This time of morning was very colourful; there was so much to see and hear as the villagers prepared for another day of hard graft. It was a chilly morning of the Bashonto season. This was Sumayah’s and my favourite season and the most fun time of year. I could smell the moist jute in the air, so strong and reminiscent of Abbuji. Bashonto brought along the coolest of days and came just before the scorching heat of the monsoon rain. Although early mornings and nights were chilly, the days were golden, filled with light and warmth. Our entire village hummed with fairs, parades, and art festivals, as many villagers set up stalls with handicrafts. They participated in poetry, drama and traditional dance shows almost every evening; there was a feeling of happiness that captivated the air, and it was extremely contagious.

  Sumayah and I loved watching the evening shows wrapped up together in woolly shawls and scarves, drinking Ammu’s ginger tea. I decided to take the scenic route today and walk through the communal field. This was a piece of land that was shared by almost everybody in the village who took it upon themselves to cultivate and grow whatever they pleased, from spring onions to sweet potatoes. The purpose was to enable the poorer families who did not own their own land to be able to self-provide and in turn feed themselves and their families; it was truly a wonderful act of generosity, thought of and implemented by the village council. I was enchanted by the variety of fruit and vegetables in the field; it was beautifully vibrant and so full of colour, and we had everything in our village from juicy hog plums, litchi, pomelo, and jack fruit, to lime and bananas.

  The presence of a lady dressed in a fluorescent yellow sari hand picking fresh lemons startled me at first sight. It was Khala, an aunt who lived close to us, who was also a dear friend to Ammu. Initially she gawped at me before saying, ‘Saira, when will I get the chance to colour your milky skin and rosy lips with turmeric? We would all like to see how dark the henna appears on your hands.’ She giggled. I made brief eye contact, smiled tentatively and continued walking. I knew that this was Khala’s way of sending me a not-so-subtle message in relation to marriage, more specifically my marriage, as I was perceived to be a woman of age who must be married off immediately. Turmeric is applied to the face and hands of the bride to be and henna is applied as intricate patterns all over her hands and feet, according to the traditions of our village. An old wives’ tale is that if the henna turns out to be very dark in colour then she will be loved deeply by her husband. These traditions, derived from village culture, were mainly implemented by the older generation. I was twenty-two years old; marriage was not a priority for me currently. This was typical of my village, always in a hurry to marry off females as if they were a burden so hard to bear, whereas males were granted superiority and power and were allowed to marry when their hearts desired. More importantly, men were encouraged to live, to excel and to think outside the parameters and the confines of their minds, and women were taught to bow down and submit to everyone except themselves. Had my father been alive this was one attitude he would have definitely challenged and changed.

  School had been amazing; it seemed the children never ceased to fascinate me. We tried something different; I decided to walk with them through the communal field so that they could familiarise themselves with the fruits of Bangladesh that we saw on the way. I began to teach them the names of these fruits in English and, as eager as they were, they tried their best to use the correct pronunciation. Although, at times, pomelo became pamelo and litchi became leech, it was very cute. I noticed them suddenly become very excited and to my surprise the commotion had been caused by two ladies milking a cow, which they naturally found amusing. Sumayah and I loved the smell of fresh cow’s milk; I was almost unable to separate her from my thoughts today. Quickly I diverted my attention back to the children and taught them how to say ‘milking a cow’. However, it was apparent that they were still laughing at the entire process of milking. We walked back to the school from the field and I bid them goodbye, individually handing them over to their waiting parents. />
  It was early afternoon and I enjoyed the feel of the warm rays of sunshine beating down onto my bare feet. Sumayah and I were both looking forward to a Mela that was being hosted by our village that evening. At the Mela people would set up intimate stalls selling chutneys made from juicy, tangy, spicy hog plums. Traditional music would be playing in the background, entertaining the children. Most importantly, the older children of the village had planned to recite poetry and exhibit their art paintings, which I had helped to organise. It was a time of celebration, and happiness appeared to be floating in the air.

  When I reached home I was almost unable to contain my excitement for the evening ahead. Ammu was already home, waiting for me and Sumayah so that we could all walk there together as planned. ‘Ammu, where’s Sumayah?’ I asked as my eyes searched for her. We waited a short while prior to walking to the Mela. We arrived at the open courtyard and the food stalls brought an aroma just waiting to be devoured. All the villagers had congregated: men, women, children, and everybody was smiling. Hot tea with the inviting aroma of masala was being distributed, children were darting around and some of the older women were singing traditional Bengali songs while others watched, clapping their hands in encouragement. The ambience was truly heart-warming to the extent that Ammu and I stood in awe for a moment. I felt immensely proud to be a part of this community; more importantly I felt proud to name this as my village, my home and my native land. My peripheral search for Sumayah continued, as Ammu chatted to a group of ladies.

  Just then I heard a deep male voice, which sounded like an attempt to sing the lyrics of a well-known Bengali song, with the hint of an English accent. Immediately I turned and to my surprise it was the sought-after Rahim Khan. He stood, staring in my direction provocatively. ‘So, I hear you’re Saira, the village poster girl,’ he said mockingly.

  I looked at him, smiled, and said, ‘And I hear that you are the village playboy.’ I found it amusing to watch his jaw drop wide open as he looked at his cousin standing next to him, who escorted him away at once, shamefaced. I began giggling to myself thinking about how Sumayah would have been hysterical with laughter, had she been here. Just then I felt the warmth of Sumayah’s hand on my arm. Hugging her immediately, I asked, ‘Where have you been all day? I thought we were coming here together.’ She smiled, closed her eyes and held one ear with her hand, a gesture known as an apology expressed only to our loved ones. We both laughed as she led me to our favourite stall, the hog plum chutney stall. Tiny pieces of hog plum blended into a mixture of cumin seeds, fresh coriander, parsley, fresh red chillies and a little saffron.

  We sat together devouring chutney, listening to the poetry readings, and then proudly admired the paintings as the students spoke a little about what they had created. With the adventures of the evening I almost forgot to tell Sumayah about my little encounter with her beloved, as I liked to refer to him. When I finally told her, just as predicted she was hysterical with laughter, causing Ammu and the other women to stare at us questioningly as if we were hiding a deep, dark secret. She continued laughing and said, ‘Oh, I wish I could have seen his face when he realised you speak English – how funny.’

  It’d been an amazing evening, and I sensed a flow of happiness piercing right through my heart. I looked up into the serene sky and smiled, thanking God. I was grateful to have been surrounded by such inspirational people, especially my mother. Immersed in my flow of happiness I had almost forgotten to enquire why Sumayah had to leave so suddenly last night.

  The Mela had come to an end and all the stalls were being dismantled one by one. Most of the villagers appeared tired and had begun to disperse sporadically, ready to retire to bed. Ammu and I bid goodbye to Sumayah. ‘Come round tomorrow,’ I reminded her as we walked home.

  I watched Ammu fall asleep almost instantly. Subconsciously something about Sumayah was bothering me, something I was unable to identify. To be precise I knew Sumayah all too well. The way she was laughing today, it was almost as if she had not allowed herself to laugh wholeheartedly. Or was my mind just conjuring up stories? Ammu always felt that I was a critical thinker, and that thinking deeply about every situation was not always a good thing – and she was correct. I closed my eyes, gradually drifting to sleep.

  The next morning, Ammu and I left for work together, chatting on the way about the fun and frolics of the night before. I carried her bags into the tiny mud hut that was her office before I continued towards the school. As I watched the children walking in small groups chewing tantalising fresh sugar cane sticks – and looking adorable – I heard a familiar deep male voice call out my name from behind. To my shock it was Rahim Khan, who walked closer looking apologetic. He placed his hands up in the air in a defence gesture as if he were surrendering.

  ‘Look, Saira, about yesterday. I’m sorry if my behaviour was disrespectful – that was not my intention.’

  I smiled half-heartedly and assured him that I did not feel offended at all. In return he complimented the success of the Mela the previous night, mentioning especially how well I had organised it. I thanked him for both the compliments and the apology, and felt slightly guilty for branding him as arrogant and exuberant; after all, changed behaviour was the best form of apology. I smiled – this was now another story for Sumayah.

  At school I decided the theme of learning for the day would be the Mela and my plan was to brainstorm a list of English phrases with the children, based on all the things they had seen, felt and heard there. They were very inquisitive and innovative, naming words such as song, dance, party, drawings; some even mentioned pan, which made me giggle. That evening I told Ammu about my class. She smiled and said she loved my way of teaching, as it emanated creativity and innovation.

  The next few days were vibrant and adventurous. Pankaj, one of my students who lived with his mother Laxmi and father Rajesh, had invited us to join them in their annual celebration of Holi. They resided near the school opposite the river bed in conjoined mud houses with another few families. I adored participating in their fascinating festivals – Holi being my favourite. Holi is known as the ‘festival of colour’, a festival that marks the arrival of spring, fertility, love and the triumph of good over evil. I particularly enjoyed Rajesh’s narration of the enduring love between Lord Krishna and Radha and the triumph of good over evil, right before the raucous chasing of one another with the coloured powder known as Gulal. It was early evening and we had reached Rajesh’s courtyard along with most of the other villagers and the atmosphere was merry and splendid to say the least, and so full of colour as everybody immersed themselves in the joy of spring and celebration. There was a spectacular bonfire in the middle, and Laxmi was engrossed in the task of decorating a rather grand podium where they would place images of their gods. The devotees would then take turns swinging the podium as everybody rejoiced, singing special songs.

  I stood with Khala and Ammu watching in awe. Pankaj sprayed red colour all over my face at which I shrieked with laughter and ran to gather some blue, yellow and red powders, colouring Pankaj in return, and then Laxmi followed by Ammu. Soon everybody was chasing each other with coloured powder, and some even began to throw coloured water over anyone who remained within arm’s length. I watched as Khala scowled after a few children had poured red water over her hair, running away as she ran behind them. The magnificent festivities of the night were now coming to an end as everybody stood, wet, some red, some blue, some green, but still smiling. No matter how much I tried I couldn’t comprehend the absence of Sumayah, as I knew she adored this festival just as much as I did. This only intensified my concern that Sumayah’s avoidance was perhaps more suspicious than met the eye.

  Ammu had been particularly busy with work, which kept her occupied most evenings. She had received a very large quantity of orders, gowns in particular, to be worn by a bridal party in a nearby village. Bashonto was also the season of weddings; it seemed like everybody was waiting for the blossom of spring to commence their new beginning.
That evening, I sat out in our back courtyard, dipping my bare feet into the serene shallows of the running stream. This was the third consecutive day I had waited for Sumayah; however, she was nowhere to be seen. I was perplexed that she would miss a festival such as Holi, which was so unlike her. That night I lay in bed, convinced that Sumayah was concealing something from me and I was determined more than ever to unravel this mystery.

  The next day, after school had ended, I decided to take a detour. Sumayah’s house was very close to ours, but it was slightly smaller in size and built out of mud and burnt clay. I intended to confront her, determined to seek the reason behind her avoidance. I walked straight into the house and took a good look around, only to find an empty space. Just as I turned to leave, I saw Sumayah lying on the floor, silently staring up at the ceiling, completely oblivious to my presence. The first thought that crossed my mind was that she was unwell. Instinctively I ran towards her, and placed my hand on her forehead. She was startled to see me and sat up right away.

  ‘Saira, what are you doing here?’ she asked, not making eye contact with me. She seemed closed in, restless, as if she needed me to leave imminently.

  ‘What am I doing here? I was worried about you. I haven’t seen you for days. Why have you stopped coming round in the evening? Are you not well? Has something happened? You even missed Holi and you never do that,’ I blurted out frantically with an angry undertone to my voice.

  Sumayah became defensive at once, moving away from me and denying that there was anything abnormal about her behaviour. All the while she lurked away from the window, and then asked me to leave. I was even more confused now than before and pleaded with her to tell me what I had done wrong, why she wanted to end our friendship.