Authors: Monica Ali
Eventually, one way or another – and learning a great deal in the meantime – you would have your information. For in this great establishment every topic under the sun and several which lay above, in heaven, was discussed not once, not twice but many, many times. Men came for shaving and haircutting but most of all they came for talk. As a result Tamizuddin Mizra Haque was the greatest repository of information in the entire village.
Typically, two or more men would dispute something, anything. If there was nothing really to dispute, at least one man would take issue just out of politeness.
'Abdul Ali has bought his land, finally. Three and one-half hectares.'
'I heard it was only two.'
'Three and one-half hectares.'
'That is what he was planning. But in the end he only bought two.'
'As God is my witness, I swear—'
'May God strike me deaf, dumb and blind if I lie, and shrivel my manhood like a dead woodlouse.'
This would go on for some time while the scissors flashed like miniature lightning against dark heads. Detached and ineffably impressive, the barber took no part in debate. He bided his time.
Eventually, someone would say, 'Tamizuddin Mizra Haque, settle this affair. How many hectares?'
And without hesitation the barber made his pronouncement.
'Three and one-half hectares.'
Or, 'Two hectares only.'
Whatever the verdict, the opposing side immediately caved in. A man could be yellow and purple from his exhortations; he might have sworn on his honour, his children's lives, or even his testicles; he might have ranted in every emotional key, oozing sincerity, spitting with frustration or weeping with anger, but when Tamizuddin Mizra Haque pronounced, he would cave.
'Is it so, Tamizuddin Mizra Haque? Well, you know best.'
Nazneen and Hasina delighted in this moment of transformation. Squeezing each other's hands, they squatted with their hems in the dirt and stared at the man who settled everything with a word or two. They were proud that a man like this, who knew all that there was to know, actually lived in Gouripur. That he should choose to live among them was a wondrous thing.
The girls said to each other, 'What do you want to know? Let's go and ask Tamizuddin Mizra Haque.'
Nazneen thought hard. Hasina said, 'How high is the tallest mountain in the world? No, that's too easy. If a python swallowed a baby whole, could you cut open its tummy and take the baby out still alive? Who killed Auntie's mynah bird? That's what I'd ask him. No, what I really want to know is, who are we going to marry?' They often played this game but they never went to ask the barber anything. To actually ask him would spoil the anything-at-all-ness, which is what they liked.
Some of the children were not quite as enraptured. They shouted from a safe distance, 'Tamizuddin Mizra Haque, what the President having for breakfast today, eh?'
Anyway, thought Nazneen, I should write to Hasina soon. Running a hand along the eggshell cracks of the pale green sewing machine, she realized she had scarcely begun on her work. And it would be better if Karim left soon. Another few minutes and the salaat alert would come on his mobile phone, and then he would stay for his prayer. She let the thought wash over her. It saturated her so heavily that she was unable to act on it.
From the set of his neck, Karim was intent on his work at the computer. Magazines, he had explained, could be radical. But the internet was where things got
really
radical.
Nazneen knew she would never write about him to Hasina. Her next letter, when she got round to it, would follow in the footsteps of the others.
We are all well. Shahana is getting top marks in her class, and Bibi has grown at least one inch. I tried again to make dhoie but it never comes out quite right, too much sugar I think, or not the right kind. I pray for your friend Monju and her boy.
What a poor answer it would make. Hasina's letter had arrived yesterday:
I tell you about friend Monju. Acid melt cheekbone and nose and one eye. Other eye damage only with pain and very hate. Difficult thing how I make you describe? Is worse see this good eye. Is where hope should be but no hope is there.
Monju sister has take Khurshed in village. Boy has not see the mother. She will not allow. 'Promise me.' She say every time I go. Promise me the boy get his operation. What can I say? What to do?
Nazneen stood up and walked about the room. Perhaps she would mention Tamizuddin Mizra Haque to Hasina, ask how she remembered him. Of course, she thought, the barber did not know everything. That was only how it seemed to us as children. But about village affairs he knew a great deal, and everyone deferred to his knowledge. He could settle such matters very easily. Or perhaps it was just a way of ending the conversation. Maybe they were mocking him, and he knew so little that he did not know even when he was being mocked.
'Who benefits?' Karim got up so fast he kicked over his chair. 'That's the key question, man. Who benefits?'
'From what?' It was obvious she should know what he was talking about.
But he didn't hear her. 'I can tell you – no Arab nation benefits. No Muslim, anywhere in the world. We are the ones who're going to suffer. You got to ask, who benefits?'
Nazneen looked behind her and back again.
'Not that difficult to work it out,' said Karim.
Nazneen thought, what a lot of rubbish I have in my mind about barbers and pipal trees, as if there is nothing important to think about. At the same time she thought, only my husband and this boy are thinking all the time about New York and terrorists and bombs. Everybody else just living their lives.
Karim picked up the chair. 'A devout Muslim, right, willing to sacrifice himself for his religion. Does he go to bars and watch naked girls and drink alcohol? What kind of Muslim takes his Qur'an into a bar? And
leaves
it there? These stories are made up by idiots. People who don't know nothing about Islam. Maybe a Christian carries his Bible round like a pack of cigarettes. He don't know how a Qur'an is treated.'
Glancing up at the specially built high shelf, Nazneen regarded her own Qur'an in its cloth case.
'They're saying
another
Qur'an got left behind in a rental car by these so-called Islamic terrorists.' He laughed without mirth. 'All these devout men throwing away the Word of God like sweet papers.'
'And a Muslim cannot commit suicide,' said Nazneen. No matter how many times he explained about martyrs, it seemed to her incontrovertible.
He who kills himself with sword, or poison, or throws himself off a mountain will be tormented on the Day of Resurrection with that very thing.
'It's not as simple as that.' Karim talked over her. 'There's other stuff too. It don't add up. Listen. All four black boxes from the aeroplanes – that's where everything that went on is recorded – were destroyed. But have you heard about the magic passport? One of the hijackers' passports survived the fire – heat of over one thousand degrees Fahrenheit. Found in the rubble of the World Trade Centre. What kind of fools does the FBI take us for?'
'Who did it then?'
He touched his skullcap briefly, as a woman might touch the hair coiled on her head to make sure it was still in place. 'Ask the right question. Who benefits?'
It seemed to Nazneen that no one benefited.
She would not let him pray at her home again. Maybe it was not, officially, a sin. But it was not right. It was something she could stop, and if she could stop that then maybe she could end the rest of it too.
But she had tried and she had failed.
'It isn't right,' she said, with his breath hot in her ear.
'I know,' he moaned. 'I'll fix it. Don't worry.' And the weight of his body was all that she needed.
How could she tell him not to come any more? What would it mean? That she had taken her pleasure and had enough? That what was between them was within her power to stop? That, controlling it, she need never have begun it?