A Golden Age (10 page)

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‘You don’t understand, you’re just a child, but I’ve been through things like this. The thing to do is to make sure all the unmarried girls are safe. You think this gate will keep the hood- lums out?’ Mrs Chowdhury’s voice climbed to a shaky trill.

Rehana saw her whispering something to the Lieutenant. She pointed to Silvi, hung her head, raised it, raised her finger, brought a handkerchief to her eyes. The Lieutenant nodded dis- tractedly, patting Mrs Chowdhury’s shoulder.

By midnight the shelling had slowed to a few staccato beats in the distance. Mrs Chowdhury ushered Sohail and Rehana to the kitchen. ‘Sohail, I need you,’ she said. ‘Silvi needs to get married right away. You have to witness. There have to be two men. Mr Sengupta will be the other witness. It isn’t exactly right, but we’ll have to make do.’

‘Mrs Chowdhury,’ Rehana said, ‘is this really the time?’ Her head spun with the absurdity of it.

‘Of course this is the time. What better time is there? There may be no other time. No time left! What if the Lieutenant doesn’t return for months? What if he
dies
?’ And then: ‘Why don’t you select a few verses, Rehana? You read so well.’

As soon as Mrs Chowdhury left to change Silvi into a fresh sari, Maya muttered, ‘This is ridiculous – you’d think Silvi would have more sense.’

Rehana reached for the shelf where she knew Silvi kept the Holy Book. ‘Help me get it down, Sohail.’

‘I don’t love her any more,’ Sohail said, as if she had asked him a question. And then he said, ‘I stopped loving her the moment I heard about the soldier.’

Rehana kept silent but Maya looked up sharply, a challenge in the set of her mouth.

‘I don’t believe in violence,’ Sohail announced, as though the two women he was addressing were new acquaintances. ‘I can’t support any kind of violence. And anyway it’s her choice. Women must be allowed to choose for themselves.’

‘Don’t be a fool,’ Maya said; ‘you know she just buckled under the pressure. Really, the girl is very weak.’

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‘Shut up,’ Sohail said.

Maya rolled her eyes and returned to the radio. ‘You go. I’m not having anything to do with this charade.’

Rehana opened the Holy Book.

Again Silvi and Sabeer were seated on the double sofa. Again Silvi looked down into her lap. Rehana could see her lip trem- bling, and she wanted to run over to the girl and ask her if she was sure, very sure she wanted to marry the Lieutenant, but just as she was about to cross the room, Silvi, in one of those rare interruptions to her sobriety, flashed a wide, toothy smile. The smile was for her mother, Rehana knew, but it worked to silence the doubts that were circulating around the room.

‘Sohail,’ Silvi said, louder than she needed to, ‘why don’t you take a photograph?’

‘Do you have a camera?’ Sohail asked.

‘I still have yours,’ Silvi replied, opening a drawer next to the sofa; ‘you let me borrow, it, remember, because I wanted to take a photo of Romeo and Juliet?’ She handed him his most prized possession, a Yashica Electro 35G Rehana had bought him for his eighteenth birthday.

‘Of course,’ Sohail said, taking the Yashica out of its case and hiding his face behind the lens. What did he see, Rehana won- dered. Did he see regret on her lips, in the way her hands were arranged, in the brightness of her cheeks, in the ragged quick- ness of her breath? And what about Silvi? Would she miss the long silences between them, the love notes delivered through slats in the shutters?

Sohail pointed the camera at the couple on the sofa. ‘Smile!’ And there was a snap.

Just as Rehana was about to open the Holy Book the lights went out. She had to recite the marriage verses from memory:
He created for you mates from among yourselves, that you may dwell in tranquillity with them, and He has put love and mercy between your hearts.

Silvi and Sabeer exchanged rings. Then Mrs Chowdhury said, ‘Let’s have a poem, Sohail!’

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‘No, khala-moni, really, I couldn’t.’ ‘Come on, not even for an old friend?’

‘Maybe music would be a better idea,’ Rehana said, trying to rescue her son. ‘Why don’t you ask Maya to sing a ghazal?’

But Maya kept her back to them and pretended not to hear. Under the veil, Silvi’s shoulders shook violently.

‘Sweetheart, don’t be afraid,’ Mrs Sengupta soothed. Silvi didn’t look any more or less unhappy than any other bride.

‘We are all family now. We must have a poem,’ Mrs Chowdhury insisted.

Sohail faced the couple, closed his eyes and recited:

When you command me to sing it seems my heart will break with pride.

I look to your face and feel the wet salt of my tears.

My adoration spreads wings like a glad bird on its flight across the sea.

It is only in this, my voice, that I am witness to you.

Drunk with the joy, sublime, of singing, I forget myself and call you friend who are my lord.

You have made me endless; such is your pleasure.

And that was it. They lingered in Mrs Chowdhury’s drawing room, listening to the rat-tat-tat of the machine-guns. The night passed like a dream, no movement, no words passing between them.

With dawn the bullets quietened. The sun was making a slow rise in the east, preceded by blurred sky-stripes of pink and orange. Dust was settling on trees and rooftops. They decided to go home. Mrs Chowdhury was asleep on her chair, her hand under her chin. They slid open the front door and found Juliet pacing around a prone Romeo. Her head was bent; her ears brushed his face as she circled him. She grunted quietly, her nostrils moist and flared. Romeo didn’t stir. Sohail put his hand on the dog’s belly. ‘He’s dead,’ he said; ‘he must have had a heart-attack.’

At home, Rehana told the children they should try to get some sleep, but nobody shifted from the drawing room. In the afternoon

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a truck stopped in the front of the bungalow, its engine grinding. On the silent street, every sound was exaggerated. A megaphone squealed to life.

‘Bengalis, take down your flags. Take down your flags. Take down your flags. Flag-bearing is illegal. You will be arrested. Take down your flags.’ The voice was thin and nasal. And then, as though an afterthought, it added, ‘Take down your flags, you bastard traitors.’

‘Maya – the flag!’

Maya ran to the roof in her bare feet.

A few minutes later she was lying on the floor with the flag wrapped around her shoulders. She raised her finger to the ceiling and counted mosquitoes. They could hear Juliet barking chaotically from Mrs Chowdhury’s driveway.

They sat. They waited for something to happen. Sohail paced the veranda, the garden, the roof. Maya fell asleep in the flag. Rehana checked the fridge and tried to work out how long the food would last. She counted the chickens. She measured the level of the rice. Three days, she said to herself. I can make it last three days. She went back and measured again. She stacked up the onions, the pumpkin, the marrows. Five days.

The truck came back. ‘Curfew will be lifted from 2 p.m. tomorrow afternoon for four hours. Curfew set for 6 p.m. Return to your homes at 6 p.m. Officers will shoot on sight. Repeat, shoot on sight. Curfew will be lifted from 2 p.m. to 6 p.m.’

Juliet howled at the truck as it backed out of Road 5.

As soon as the curfew was lifted, Sohail and Maya left for the university. Rehana watched from the window as Lieutenant Sabeer emerged from the gate with Silvi and said a short farewell. Rehana stayed in the bungalow. She was wondering how many hours had passed since she’d slept, and whether she should be tired, when someone bolted through the door. It was Mrs Sengupta.

‘We just couldn’t turn them away.’ ‘Who?’

‘You haven’t seen? Go to the veranda.’

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Rehana peered over the boundary wall into Shona’s garden.

Something was moving, rustling the grass. ‘What is it?’ ‘People – refugees, Rehana.’

‘How many?’

‘Twenty, thirty, I’m not sure. They just started coming. Can they stay?’

‘Of course. Of course they can stay.’

‘I don’t know any of them. But we’re the only Hindus on the street.’

‘Are there children?’

‘A few. It’s mostly families, a few stray people. They’re not saying much.’

‘I’m going to bring over some food.’

Rehana took her chickens out of the fridge. Two she made into a spicy curry with tomatoes, the third into a korma for the chil- dren. There wasn’t any yoghurt; she used milk. She made cabbage and potato bhaji, fried the okra with onions, made a stew with the spinach and pumpkin. She worried for a moment about using up all the food, but she quickly brushed the thought away. Who knew what had happened to these people, what had led them here?

When she was finished, she took the trays of food to Shona, picking her way through the ragged blankets. There were chil- dren, just as she’d imagined, and women, and old men with wrinkled faces who looked at her and tried to smile in gratitude. But they didn’t speak, not even to each other. They sat in silence, sifting through their loose bundles, calculating the sum of what they had salvaged.

Looking at them, Rehana had the sudden urge to know more. She felt she was only beginning to make sense of the night, the bombings, Mrs Chowdhury’s hysteria. She wanted to know how these people had passed the night, how they had come to be there. A feeling of restlessness overcame her and she had to see it, what- ever it was that was out there, what grief had caused these people to run from their homes and seek shelter on her doorstep.

*

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‘University,’ she said simply.

‘Better not, apa,’ the rickshaw-wallah said.

‘University,’ she repeated, climbing in and pushing back the hood.

He shook his head and set off, turning on to Mirpur Road. There was very little traffic on the street. The few cars on the road had polite, murmuring engines. No one rang the horn. And when the rickshaw cut across Nilkhet, they let it pass with a wave.

Everything seems almost the same, Rehana thought. The New Market gate was shut, and the little shops around its entrance were boarded up, and the vendors selling jackfruit and amra were nowhere to be seen. Still, it could have been Friday afternoon, when everything closed down for the Jumma prayers; or it could have been another strike. They’d had so many strikes lately.

The rickshaw-wallah pedalled past the roundabout before entering the university compound, and here the air began to change: there was a low-lying fog clinging to the pavement – no, it was smoke, whispering through the streets, leaving an ashy, sour taste in the mouth. It got thicker as the rickshaw-wallah brought Rehana closer to the dormitories; he stopped, unrav- elled the gamcha from his head and tied it around his face. He motioned for Rehana to do the same with her sari. She held the sari to her nose and with one hand clung tightly to the rickshaw frame, because the road was uneven here; when she looked down she saw scraps of litter scattered over the street. She thought she saw a prayer cap and a pair of unbroken spectacles. People must have dropped their things as they ran. She wanted to pick up the spectacles and wave them around, see if anybody was looking for them, but the rickshaw had already driven past. Now there was a thin length of red ribbon on the road; she leaned over; she couldn’t be sure. It was glistening wet.

They continued and the rubble grew denser; Rehana became aware of the growing crowd on the street; the rickshaw-wallah strained to get them through the uneven road and the people that were laced around them. Now there were bricks and bits of

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plaster and layers of dust that had settled on the road and turned it grey-white.

They were in front of Curzon Hall. The wet ribbon had fol- lowed them all the way, and now it poured into a gutter, which was also red, and on the side of the gutter was a pair of hands, the fingers clasped together in prayer or begging, and next to the hands was a face. The mouth was tiny, only a pale pink smudge, like the introduction of a bruise.

It was a little girl. Her hair swallowed the top half of her face. Beneath the clumped-together strands Rehana could see an eye squeezed shut.

She wrenched herself away from it; she looked for only a minute, but it felt like so much longer, felt so close she thought she could smell the girl’s breath escaping from her nostrils and from those too-small lips.

‘Move on,’ she said to the rickshaw-wallah. She didn’t see anything after that. Later she would say she had
seen
it all: the corpses piled onto the pavement like cakes in a window; the rickshaw-pullers dead with their heels on rickshaw-pedals; the tank-sized holes in the dormitories, Rokeya Hall and Jagganath Hall and Mohsin Hall. But as they clattered through the compound her eyes had been closed, squeezed shut against the sight of her ruined city.