by Kai Kazi
The future opened up like an abyss, threatened to swallow me, and I wondered what they would do if I were to get up and run from the house like a madwoman. Let my hair fall free of my sari and return home to the archive and halls of Dhaka University. I imagined how quickly I could be there, in the embrace of the short loan room with the smell of old pages and plaster in my nose, with the certainty that my world was turning as it should. Then I imagined the worry and disappointment on my Ammas face, and thought about all the work, and time, and money that had been poured into this one day. Into the rest of my life.
I owed her no less than an attempt to make it work. He was a good man, she had told me, a good, smart man who would take me far. And when I put down roots he would let me flourish, she was sure, because I would do him, and her, proud.
Rizvi
“I'm sure she's lovely, Nānī, but I don't need a wife to function.” Nānī shook her head, adjusted her sari and sighed,
“Rizvi, Ya Allah, you have lived all your life with me, and before then your mother. Do you think that you can run a house the way I do?” She threw up her hands and scowled when I laughed,
“No, Nānī, but then again no one can.” She smiled and shook her head,
“Don't flatter me, Rizvi.” She pursed her lips, “At least see her. She is a nice girl, very pretty, very smart, a good woman. A good wife.” She tapped her palm on the arm of her chair, “Inshallah, you will like her and give her a chance. If you dislike each other entirely I will not force you.” She held up her hands, “I want you to be well, and happy, and cared for.”
“I know Nānī.” I ran a hand over my face and sighed, “I will meet her, but I promise nothing!” She smiled and nodded, “I have to go now, I'm meeting someone to talk about my new job. I'll be back for dinner.”
“Adra and her mother will be here when you get back.” She said and inclined her head with a small, sly smile when I raised my eyebrows.
“What would you have done if I said no, hm?” I asked as I leaned down to kiss her cheek. She gripped my face with both hands and smiled,
“You're a good boy, Rizvi, you wouldn't say no.” She clicked her tongue and squeezed my fingers tight in her cool, strong hands, “I'm very proud of you, my sweet boy, you're going to do so well. Don't forget your Nānī, eh?” I shook my head and kissed both her cheeks again,
“Never.”
I would miss Dhaka; I would miss the University and the people. The life and the colour, but Canada was beautiful in its own way. Luit said that the winters were hard and cold, but that in summer the air was balmy, and everything became green and lush. I could live with the difference, I realised, but would miss the hot summers and the festivals. Those I would miss most of all; to be in a land where the religious customs followed are not your own, and where the intricacies of your own culture are as alien as...well, as alien as the intricacies of the new one are to you.
I would be alone in a strange land, but our ignorance would be mutual. And I would learn while I taught. The crush of the bus gave way to the bustle of streets and I kept my eyes on the discreet, understated sign that had been transposed onto the shining glass doors ahead. These doors were the start; they were a gateway not just into that wide, cool foyer with its plush leather seats and pretty, intelligent receptionist. They were a portal through which I could see my future. That man at the desk, his suit immaculately pressed, in a few years I would be him. I would chat as easily with my co-workers before starting work, and nod to them on my way to some as of yet unseen home.
The future was stretching out in front of me in all it's glory, and I wanted to grasp it with both hands, though I had to settle for a firm handshake with an older woman in a tailored suit.
“Rizvi Khan?” She smiled,
“Yes.” I nodded,
“I'm very pleased to meet you. My name is Ina.” She gripped my hand lightly, “Follow me please.” She tapped away with her head held high, and a proud set to her shoulders that told me she was used to being in charge. Funny really, the things you can learn about people just by looking around you.
Ina's office told me that she was tidy, liked order, but was busy; in certain areas the tight, controlled layout would give way to glorious, but tiny, pockets of chaos. She had dark circles under her eyes and glossed nails.
“You will be working with our colleagues in Toronto, yes?” She leaned back in her chair,
“That is the job I was offered, yes.” I nodded, “Is there somewhere I would be of more use?” Her dark eyes bore down on me. I hung in agony and anticipation. She shook her head, and I let out a breath,
“Not if you are happy to go to there. If you ever wish to be closer to family, however,” she motioned vaguely. I smiled; she was offering me a way home. I inclined my head,
“That's very kind of you, but I have heard Canada is a wonderful place to work. And I would very much like to see the world.” I said. She nodded and smiled back,
“Very well. In that case we're going to need some documentation.” Ina slid paperwork across the table, and twined her fingers together, “Sign these, provide the necessary certificates and you'll be ready to go.” She leaned back, “We are looking forward to seeing what you can do, Mr Khan.”
I was dismissed.
Funny, isn't it, how life changing events can be carried into your life by the most normal people, and the most mundane things. A newspaper, for example, with a job advertised that you were sure you would never get. Or a middle aged woman with old eyes and a warm smile.
Funny.
Ritu
When I was a young girl I said to my Amma,
“I will not go away when I marry. I'll stay with you, Amma, and one day I'll know more about Dhaka than Babu.”
I was right about one thing; I know more about my home town now than I ever did while I was living there. I know that under Mughal rule in the seventeenth century Dhaka was called Jahangir Nagar. I know that in 1970 the Bhola cyclone devastated my city and killed five hundred thousand people. Five hundred thousand souls scattered to the wind, and yet I feel envious of them; they are still at home with people they understand. They have spread themselves over the streets and fields of their home, and their families can see these places. They can know that there it began and ended; among these people. Their people.
It's hard to love the Scots. Not because they are rude, or suspicious, or because they snigger when I talk, though this is true of some of them. It’s not even because they are as cold and hard as their strange accents. It's because Jalil loves them and their country so much, that even though he promises me we will visit my parents I know, without looking at his mother, that he is lying. I will not see my Amma again, unless she comes to me. I will be here far from her and my beloved Dhaka.
I wish often that Babu had not ripped up Aunt Noors card.
The black sheep, as the British say, of my Mothers family she had slid into the wedding quietly, and approached me as the party began to liven up. Pressed a gift into my hand, and a small envelope into my sari,
“Your man,” she whispered, “he seems like a nice one. But keep this just for you. Just in case.”
She had been divorced twice. Amma loved her in the way that one can only love an older sibling, but disapproved of her choices. Babu hated her. His eyes were all fire when he stormed up,
“This is my card,” she had said quickly, “you can call me if you ever need anything, Ritu. Or just for a chat.” She smiled and adjusted her sari as he pushed between us, “Hello, Kohi my congratulations on-”
“You were not invited.” Babu spat and pointed to the door, “How dare you intrude on this festive day. Leave now for I won't let you disgrace my daughter with your presence. Not today, not ever.”
The last I saw of her was a shining mop of free hair, elegantly curled, slipping out the door with pride and dignity.
Rizvi
Nānī had been right; Adra was very pretty. Beautiful was not too strong a word, and she let out tinkling peals
of delicate laughter readily. I thought an angel had slipped into my home,
“You are so funny, Rizvi.” Adra pressed her fingers to her mouth, “I hear you work with computers?”
“Yes! Ah, well no. Not yet, but I will be. You see I got offered a job with a Canadian company; Hi-Tek solutions they provide-” I stopped, Nānī had widened her eyes and raised her brows, “forgive me.” I said, “You don't want to be bored with the details.” I was sure I had blown it all out of the water, but she leaned forward as if I was the most interesting man she had ever met and said softly,
“No, please, tell me what they do.” She clasped her delicate hands lightly and tilted her head to the side,
“Well...” I drew the word out and looked to Nānī. She nodded and turned to Adras mother, “they keep data and private information safe by creating programs to repel hackers...” she nodded and watched me so intently that I felt like I was on stage.
All through dinner, and all through the evening. When she left it was like losing a part of myself I hadn't known was there. Nānī sat back in her chair and huffed happily,
“Well, do we like her well enough?” She asked with the kind of happy sparkle in her eyes that told me she already knew what I was going to say,
“Yes.” I nodded, “Yes I like her well enough.”
And it passed me by; another life changing moment borne on a single sentence. Nānī would begin to prepare it all with Adras family, and I would be engaged.
All those little moments, those tiny, inconsequential gestures of formality led me up the isle by stages as I flitted back and forth between Canada and Dhaka. We would get married in Canada. That way I could go ahead and begin work, we decided, and we would be able to complete all the traditions properly.
I remember nothing about the day itself but her hands, shaking in my grasp, tinged yellow from the turmeric ceremony, and her footprints on a red sari. Like the ghostly imprints of a future that had yet to pass. She passed from her parents to me over a length of fine silk, with nothing but hope and promises to assure her that I would be a good husband. That faith touched me in a way that I couldn't properly explain to anyone who asked why I was so silent and wide eyed.
She had transformed before my eyes from a beautiful girl, a stunning woman, into a Goddess of patience and purity. I think I loved her even before we checked in for our flights; a honeymoon in Dubai was arranged to let us get to know each other without interference. I didn't need it, not really, but I looked forward to it anyway, and my boss was happy to give me the time off. When we took off she gripped my hand so tightly that the blood stopped running to my fingertips. She was afraid of flying, you see, and so many other things that I didn't know about then. For just a moment while the plane climbed her façade cracked, and she looked at me like I was a stranger.
I was too enchanted to see it, though, and too hopeful for a perfect, shining future halfway between traditions and modernity.
**
“It will be so strange to be away from my Amma,” Adra said when we shut the door to our hotel suite behind us,
“Yes.” I nodded, “But she can come and stay with us whenever you want.”
“Really?” She whispered,
“Really.” I sat beside her, and wondered how to start, “When I was a little boy I thought it was stupid to let other people choose who you would be with forever, but... my Nānī knows me better than anyone. And your Amma knows you. Who's to say that when they tell us we will be good for each other that we should not believe them?”
“Rizvi.” She whispered, eyes flicking over my face, her lip caught between her teeth,
“I think we will be very happy. I want to make you happy.” I gripped her fingers, “It worked for our parents. Why not us?” The worry washed away as quickly as it had come, and her face smoothed into a flawless smile,
“You are right.” She nodded, “anyway, we're wasting so much time up here in this room. Let’s go and look around.” We pushed our luggage under the huge bed and walked tentatively down the hallway, hand in hand, towards the reception. A woman in a green sari and her husband were at the desk; she, like Adra, still wore the signs of a recent marriage. Her husband raised his eyes and smiled at me, but there was no warmth in it. I nodded before we passed them and slipped into the heat of the city. I looked back, caught a glimpse of their backs, and it seemed to me that there was no warmth in him at all. His shoulders had been set hard as if he were expecting a fight, his chin raised, and the arrogant glint in his eye was hard as diamond.
But perhaps he was tired.
Maybe I was tired, and he was just fine. The wind picked up, but it was hot and offered no relief.
“We could find a nice restaurant,” I said gently, “it's hot, and you haven't eaten since we landed.” Adra nodded, her eyes squinted against the sun, and adjusted her sari, “What would you like to eat?”
“Whatever you want.” She said with a tired smile,
“Indian?” I teased. She snorted and nodded; my Canadian colleague had asked me if there were Indian takeaways in Dhaka when we went out to dinner with him and his partner. The ridiculousness of the question hadn't escaped Adra, myself, or his girlfriend. She rolled her eyes and bit into the naan bread with an apologetic wince. He meant well.
“It still won't be as good as your Nānī's, you know?” She teased as I flagged a taxi,
“No, but nothing is.” I quipped and opened the door for her,
“Mine is.” She smiled and gripped my fingers as the taxi pulled away.
Ritu
It wasn't exactly right to go on the honeymoon before the bride had even seen her new home, but Jalil was so insistent, and so kind, so willing to oblige, that I felt it would be rude to object. The house would be ready when we returned, and we would go straight there rather than going back to Dhaka. His family would make sure everything arrived and was delivered to our new home safely. A kind gesture from my new family. The enthusiasm of the celebrations faded slowly but surely, like water from a cracked bowl, until it began to occur to me, to both of us I think, that we knew nothing about each other. Nothing but what our parents had told us. We were complete strangers, and now we were tied together for life.
So we threw ourselves into the honeymoon with a frightened gusto that couldn't really be described; we laughed and chattered incessantly on the plane, we flurried through the airport. We rode the buzz for as long as we could, and found ourselves in a vast, hip hotel reception before we could truly say that the smells of Dhaka had left our noses. The porter took our bags up, and we slid from the hotel without even visiting the room. Into the streets, into the markets, into the designer shops until we were weary and weather beaten. We were running from reality; pretending that this was normal. But when we returned to the hotel we were, of course, faced with the monster again.
We had never been alone together, and now we were to sleep in the same room, the same bed.
Jalil sat quietly on the edge of the bed while I busied myself getting ready. He clasped his hands tightly in front of him, and squeezed them into fists while I brushed out my hair. He flinched when I climbed into bed. It was only when I rolled over and turned off my lamp that he moved, and much later when he fell into bed. He prayed for hours, or so it seemed, while he thought I slept.
“Allah please take my burden, Allah please forgive me, Allah take this burden from me.” He whispered into the carpet, the words muffled and thick. Like a foolish girl I thought that if I could find out what his burden was, and lighten the load, then we might grow together like the roots of a great tree and be strong.
In the morning we would talk and then we would move forward, I told myself, and I would phone Amma and Babu to tell them we had arrived safely. But he went for breakfast without me; I prayed alone, and followed. Then we sat by the pool in silence and stillness, broken by bland small talk, as if we were both chained to the loungers.
“Hello.” A woman, my age perhaps, or a little younger, stood over us, “I�
�m sorry to intrude, but are you Bengali?”
“Yes.” I nodded. She was beautiful and smiling, and I was so happy to see a happy face,
“We are too,” she motioned to an awkward, slim man behind her. “We just got here yesterday.” Jalil nodded,
“As did we,” he shifted forward on his lounger, “You are?”
“Adra.” She said and perched on my chair like a pretty little bird, “This is my husband, Rizvi. You just got married?” She motioned to my hands, still slightly stained from the turmeric paste. I nodded and looked at hers, “We did too. Well, a few weeks ago, but we wanted to move into our new home before we left on honeymoon.” I winced; it was a luxury I would have liked.
“My name’s Ritu. Jalil is my husband…we came straight from Dhaka.” I said, “We wanted to have some time together before real life took over.” She laughed, like a little song bird and nodded,
“It was so lovely to meet you.” She said and clasped my arm as if we were the oldest of friends, “We might see you at dinner!” She floated away, and her husband followed. It was easy to smile at him; he was so adoring of her, so gentle. He loped after her in that way that only tall, gangly men can, and hovered like a nervous mother hen.
“They seem nice.” Jalil said with a strange curl to his lip; he looked at the man with a curious intensity that seemed to border on jealousy, or dislike. Adra disappeared in a flurry of colour, and the poolside seemed grey, somehow.
“Yes.” I nodded, “I hope we see them for dinner.”