Authors: Monica Ali
She tidied the flat and tried to make some space in the sitting room by piling furniture. Once she had finished piling she prodded the stacks and watched them wobble. Then she began unpiling. She worked quickly and rehearsed out loud asking the bus conductor for a ticket. Suddenly the thought came to her that she had killed Razia's husband. Raqib was meant to die, but she had forced Death away. Death was forced to choose again. Be gone from me! she shouted. Be gone! Back to hell, where you belong. And with these words, banished the jinn that had danced, briefly, spitefully, through the room and into her head.
By the time she reached the courtyard she had forgotten the jinn. The sun was out and the now familiar but still nameless tree on the corner showed pale green buds. The grass, brave despite the odds, was attempting new growth. A fresh dog turd steamed gently on black tarmac. The concrete had been covered over, and the tarmac smelled of rubber and essence of car fume. It undermined the smell of shit, even when Nazneen stepped over the mess. Sun on her face felt good; she would have liked to feel it on her legs. When she passed a group of young Bangla men on the path, they parted and bowed with mock formality. One remained straight and still and she caught his look, challenging or denying. Another lad fell to his knees. Oh, oh. I'm dying. She's breaking my heart! Nazneen pulled her headscarf over her face to hide her lips that flickered up at the corners and parted and twitched again.
Hospital, hospital, hospital. She had another English word. She caressed it all the way down the corridor. Chanu did not hear her come in, or he heard and did not turn round. She put her hand on his shoulder, and was surprised as always at how thin it was. There was a little spot on the top of his head, an angry little spot among the thin weeds of hair. He did not look up. Then she saw the empty cot. Raqib had been taken for more tests. 'Gone?' said Nazneen.
'He's gone,' said Chanu and looked up at her. His stomach pressed forward beneath his shirt.
'Don't worry. They won't take long. They'll give him back to us soon.'
Chanu blinked. His eyes seemed more beleaguered than ever. 'Will you wash him? I don't think I can wash him.'
'I always give him his bath.' Nazneen went to sit.
The room was quieter than usual, a quietness that rose somehow above the muted din of the hospital. The machines were off, that's what it was.
'Sponge bath,' said Nazneen. 'That's how I've been doing it.'
Chanu's head hung forward. He did not talk. The action man was not talking. Neither was he doing. Nazneen regarded the plastic cups by the sink, the towels and clothes playing havoc on the pull-down bed where she and Chanu took turns sleeping. She sprang up. 'Got to get this straight.'
'God. God,' Chanu moaned. 'Leave it.'
'Action man,' she said, and remembered with a shiver Razia's words: brick man.
'He's not even cold yet! Your son is not even cold. Don't bloody tidy up.'
'My son?' and now, even now, she refused.
Chanu squeezed at his eyes, and some water trickled down his cheeks so that he looked to be wringing out the tears. 'We have to go and get him. They don't bring him back here.'
They don't bring him back here. She was still holding the plastic cups. She picked up another and slotted it into her stack.
'They said they will release the body quickly. They said they know we are Muslim. They know, they said they know, about how quickly we like to bury our dead.'
How quickly we like to bury our dead. She began folding clothes. She picked a stray thread from a vest, pulled fluff off a jumper. Chanu came to her and held her arms. He prised her fingers from Raqib's jacket. To get her to sit he had to push her onto the bed. She let him take her hand in his.
Yes, she would wash him. She brought him in and she would take him out. She had seen babies buried. In the village, babies were buried often. She could remember the funerals, one or two, of cousins who came into the world and left again promptly, as if they had wandered into a room by mistake, apologized and turned back. Little white parcels popped inside a hole and covered with leaves or canes, so that the soil would not stain them, so they left as pristine as they entered. She remembered the burying; of the buried she retained nothing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
D
HAKA
, B
ANGLADESH
May 1988
God give comfort sister in your dark hour. I say Prayer of Light for you.
O God, place light in my heart, light in my tongue, light in my hearing, light on my right hand and on my left, light before me, light behind me, light above me and light below me. O God, who knows the secrets of our hearts, lead me out of the darkness and give me light.
His soul is in Heaven. I pray for you and for your loving husband.
Hasina
September 1988
Sister I have many thing to tell. New address in Narayanganj. fob in new factory I am machinist real woman job now.
Mr Chowdhury tell to pack and not worry. 'Pukka building' he say. 'Bigger room.' He bring in Toyota Land Cruiser. Air conditioning radio ashtray for cigarette and everything. He is father to me. Always he tells 'Anything you need. Any time you in trouble. Come to me.' This is kind of man. Everyone giving him respect.
When we come it is little bit trouble here. Old tenants they have not move. The woman give some abuse. In front of childrens she say foul words. Mr Chowdhurys men help for them to go. Then I clean the room. These people bad tenants never single penny they have pay. Rent is more takas but is big room and it respectable district. Building look like this is long and low a veranda at front and another also at back. My room is at back. Behind is family two sons and three daughter. They have two room. Dawn prayer second I take the mat I hear them begin the happy arguments. Father passing me most days on road on way to work. Tiffin tin tied on his back and the young son sit in handlebars look smart like anything in school uniforms and ringing all the way the bell. Father is clerk at District Court. That is kind of neighbourhood. We have concrete floor very smooth and walls will be plaster inside soon. My room have one wall is already half plaster.
All other room along back full from jute mill mens. Three four in one room. They cooking together at far end the veranda and I keep own area. Mr Chowdhury say if they bother you come to me. I will break hands and legs. No one bothering me. Four five men each room but no mess at all. Half veranda has fence. Other half is stolen. Mr Chowdhury tell to me secretly he thinking the old tenants burn for fuel. Jute men put washings over the top. All is so neat. Lungis vests pyjama one end trousers and shirt keep together.
Railway line pass the building. How easy for the travel! Jute men they hear trains coming jump down from veranda run past coconut trees go down bank sliding and throwing their body onto train. Always stick on somewhere ledge ladder door handle something. This is how they getting to mill.
Today is hartal again. Some mens here sway in hammocks chew pan and spitting. Most gone for rally. Mr Chowdhury say all these strikers lazy like hell and only making holidays. But all and every thing shut down on hartal day so I write everything coming to mind.
He have lot to say about strikers Mr Chowdhury. But he is fair man. He say leaders are same all bad. Managers Judges Politicians Army Trade Unions all gone to bad. When he gets Government contract Mr Chowdhury must do adding twenty-five per cent for cover cost of pay the Minister and Civil Servant. He has supply electric parts for Power Grid. Also he make ceramic toilets and sink. Just think! If he putting the electricity and sink in this building! Maybe when walls finished plastering.
No end of corruption. It make him quite sad in an actual fact. You know he have birthmark over right eye and temple. It go red like fresh cut when he talk of these things. And also as well it itch. Then he begin twirling the cane he only doing when he upset. He has new cane. Ivory on tip and handle look like bird claw and what is made from? Handle if you can believe or if you cannot is gold. He look the gentleman with this cane.
The stories he have tell. One friend has bribe tax collector for receive tax form. Without bribe he will be jail. How to pay the tax without first the form? Mr Chowdhury himself bribing to telephone company for get receipt. Is not enough only pay for telephones this paperwork is cost extra. Even President it seem fall in bad ways. His picture it was on wall in my room. I thinking to keep as picture do pretty up a wall so nice. But Mr Chowdhury shouting like anything. 'Ershad! You goonda!' Then he put on floor and stamp on it break glass. I keep frame maybe I can use later.
University is also close down. All students hold protest. They rallying for right to cheat. In my heart I support. Some who afford pay the professor for tutoring buy exam paper. To be fair all must have mean for equal cheating.
I waiting for your letter. I fill with joy of your husband new job. Already he speak of promotion. Many men this take long time years. I send such love it reach around whole world for you. God take care and give you more sons.