Brick Lane (17 page)

It was Sunday morning. They would go out for a walk soon, around Brick Lane, and Chanu would push the pram and she would walk a step behind. When people stopped him in the street to admire Raqib, to give him a kiss or a tickle, Chanu would grow a couple of inches. If people did not stop him, he stopped them. 'See how alert he is. Notice the large size of his head. The bigger the head, the bigger the brain. You think I'm joking? Do you know how big dinosaurs' heads were? And do you wonder why they are extinct?' And the person would smile vaguely and walk away. At the shops, Chanu would buy vegetables. Pumpkin, gourd, spinach, okra, aubergine. Whatever was in season. He would buy spices and rice and lentils and sometimes sweetmeats: a tub of milky roshmolai, sticky brown gulabjam, golden whirls of jelabee. He would not haggle. He would not 'abase' himself, or 'act like a primitive'. He broke off bits of jelabee and fed them to Raqib, and licked his fingers where the liquid sugar spilled out.

Before they went out today, she had to cut his hair. She was always cutting bits off him. The dead skin around his corns. His toenails. The fingernails of his right hand, because his left could not do the job properly. The fingernails of his left hand, because she might as well do that while she had the scissors. The wiry hair that grew from the tops of his ears. And the hair on his head, once every six weeks when Chanu said, 'Better smarten me up a bit.'

She strapped the baby into his seat and gave him a piece of bread to chew. Chanu sat at the table with a book open. He underlined some passages while she trimmed around his nape. The degree course would never be finished. Nazneen wondered if he really had a degree from Dhaka. Perhaps he used to finish things in those days.

'I'm fed up with the Open University,' said Chanu, as if he had read her thoughts. 'They send you so much rubbish to read. I'm returning to my first love.' He held up his book. 'English literature at its finest. You've heard of William Shakespeare. Yes, even a girl from Gouripur has heard of Shakespeare.'

'That is true,' Nazneen responded. No, the degree would never be finished. The promotion would never be won. The job would never be resigned. The furniture would never be restored. The house in Dhaka would never be built. The jute business would never be started. Even the mobile library, the petition for which had taken Chanu from door to door, would be forgotten.

'Have you heard of King Richard II?' Chanu made some preparations at the back of his throat. 'It's not so easy to translate. Give me one minute. This is a wonderful passage.'

'If I went to the college with Razia, you would be able to tell me in English.'

'To understand Shakespeare? Just like that! Is that what Razia is learning?'

'I don't know.' Nazneen brushed some hair from his shoulders and wrapped it in a piece of toilet tissue.

'O! that I were as great As is my grief, or lesser than my name, Or that I could forget what I have been, Or not remember what I must be now.'

No. The library would not be forgotten. It would be remembered, along with the rest. It would go on the list and it would never be forgotten.

'Mine eyes are full of tears, I cannot see: And yet salt water blinds them not so much But they can see a sort of traitors here. Nay, if I turn my eyes upon myself, I find myself a traitor with the rest.'

Chanu closed his eyes. He began to hum. He played the table like a tabla. His head swayed to the tune so that Nazneen had to stop cutting. When he opened his eyes he shook himself like a wet dog. 'So,' he said. 'Well. Let's get on.'

The baby dropped his bread and began to cry.

'See how quickly he is frustrated,' said Chanu.

He can see, thought Nazneen. He can comment. But he cannot act. She went to pick up the bread. The baby chewed and was quiet. Chanu was quiet. The scissors went snit, snit. She heard the air enter and leave her nostrils. Her stomach growled because on Sundays, with Chanu close by, she didn't eat much.

She had missed morning prayers again today. Yesterday she missed both the fajr and zuhr prayers. But Raqib had needed her. The day before that he was napping and she was looking at a magazine. There was no excuse for that day. Except that her mind walked off on its own sometimes. She was looking at a magazine, an English magazine that Chanu had left. There was a picture of a couple: ice-skaters. She stood on one leg. Her body and the other leg were horizontal. Her arms reached out and held on to his hand, but she looked up and smiled directly at Nazneen. Her body was spangled, silver and blue. Her legs were long as the Padma. She was a fairy-tale creature, a Hindu goddess. Nazneen fell, somehow, into that picture and caught hold of the man's hand. She was shocked to find she was travelling across the ice, on one foot, at terrible speed. And the man smiled and said, 'Hold on tight.' Little green gems twinkled in his black suit. Nazneen squeezed his hand. She felt the rush of wind on her cheeks, and the muscles in her thighs flexing. The ice smelled of limes. The cold air made her flush with warmth from deep down. Applause. She could not see the audience but she heard them. And the man let go of her hand but she was not afraid. She lowered her leg and she skated on. Until Raqib woke and looked at her sceptically. 'Yes,' she told him, 'your mother is a foolish woman.' But she went to the mirror and stared hard at her serious face, the wide cheeks and big forehead and the stubby-lashed, close-set eyes, and wondered for a while about what she saw.

Her mind would not be still. It tried to pull her off here and there. Whenever she got a letter from Hasina, for the next couple of days she imagined herself an independent woman too. The letters were long and detailed. Nazneen composed and recomposed her replies until the grammar was satisfactory, all errors expunged along with any vital signs. But Hasina kicked aside all such constraints: her letters were full of mistakes and bursting with life. Nazneen threaded herself between the words, allowed them to spool her across seven seas to Dhaka, where she worked alongside her sister. Raqib came as well. Sometimes, at the end of the day, she was surprised when Chanu arrived home. Then she made vows to herself. Regular prayer, regular housework, no more dreaming. She sent brisk, efficient letters to Hasina. Look, she said to Amma (who was always watching), look how good I am now.

She had completed the haircut. It was, perhaps, a little jagged at one side but Chanu would not check it. 'Blow on the back of my neck,' he said. She blew, and dusted with her fingertips. 'We're not going to fester here any longer,' he said, wagging a finger. She held her breath. 'We're going out for a walk. Go and unfold the pram.'

She still saw Razia. Shefali liked to play with the baby. She gave him a row of dolls' heads, and he pinched at each one in turn. Tariq was more or less mute these days. An eight-year-old version of his father.

'I had to shave his head again,' said Razia. Tariq scratched at his bristles. 'Lice. They pick them up at school.'

'Can I have some money?' said Tariq. He kicked his sister surreptitiously.

'I don't have any money. Leave your sister alone.'

'I want five pounds.'

'What? Go and play. Run away.'

'I want five pounds.'

'Why?' Razia sighed, and pointed to the baby. 'They're much easier at that age.'

'I want a football.'

'You have a football.'

'I want a proper football.' It was the most Nazneen had heard him say in a long while. He always looked so on guard, so tough, that it was almost a surprise to hear his child's voice. 'I want five pounds,' he repeated, whining this time.

'I want five pounds,' mimicked Razia. She caught his voice just right.

'I want five pounds,' Shefali joined in. Tariq kicked her again and she began to squeal.

'Outside, both of you,' yelled Razia. 'Tariq, take your sister and go and play in the corridor. If I hear her crying, I'll whip your backside.'

They went out, and began bickering behind the door. Razia sat on the floor, and lifted Raqib onto her lap. He reached up and pinched her nose. He went cross-eyed looking at it.

'I'm going to strangle those kids,' said Razia. 'I've had enough of them.'

Nazneen knew she would never speak about Raqib like that.

'And I'll do my husband as well. He spends all day at the factory, comes home to eat, sleeps for two or three hours and then he's out again. All night.'

'Why?' said Nazneen. 'Where does he go?'

'He's driving trucks. He delivers meat to the halal butchers all around here. When he comes in, he stinks. Good job he doesn't hang around for long.' She put her hand in her trouser pocket and pulled out a lollipop. The baby was stupefied. All he could do was drool. Razia unwrapped the sweet and put the wrapper back in her pocket. She was wearing a garment she called a tracksuit. She would never, so she said, wear a sari again. She was tired of taking little bird steps.

'It's good for a man to work. I don't mind. Let him work twenty-four hours a day.' Razia waved the lollipop in front of Raqib's face. He watched it devotedly. He became its disciple. For its sake, he would sacrifice everything. 'But we don't see a single extra penny. That's my objection. He sends it all back. He is the biggest miser. The biggest bastard miser. If the children need toothbrushes, I have to beg. I have to get everything second-hand. Does he expect his children to get second-hand toothbrushes? I can't give them anything.' She put the lollipop to the baby's lips. He cooed gently over it. 'All the money goes back home. I don't know who looks after it. His brother, most likely. And most likely his brother is a thieving bastard. I don't think we will ever see that money again.'