A Golden Age (15 page)

Tikka Khan, the Butcher of Bengal!

M

rs Rahman and Mrs Akram took to the sewing with the same enthusiasm they’d displayed for cards. They gathered

at the bungalow every week, ready with their sewing kits. Mrs Rahman managed to get a steady supply of old saris from her various acquaintances and relations. She enlisted everyone she knew – her distant cousins, in-laws, her tailor – to make a con- tribution to the war effort. Of course, she was quick to point out, no one had been foolish enough to give away their best clothes.

Mrs Akram, whom they had always considered a little spoiled, surprised them by turning out the fastest stitches. And it was her idea to put sackcloths between the saris to make them more sturdy. ‘Let’s call ourselves the sewing sisters,’ Mrs Akram said. ‘Or,

I know, Project Rooftop!’

‘Arre, now you want to give it a name – aren’t you the one who said we weren’t good for anything but cards?’

‘I never said that,’ Mrs Akram protested, a needle between her lips. ‘That is not the kind of faltu thing I would say.’

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It was true, Rehana thought. It was not the sort of thing she would say any more. Already two months ago felt like the distant past. It was May. They had been at war since March. What was strange had become unstrange. They were used to seeing the green uniforms wherever they went; they were used to returning obediently to their homes at the peal of the curfew siren; and they were used to the dusty, empty streets, the closed shops, the hospitals with locked gates, the half-full baskets of the fruit vendors. The landscape of war was becoming familiar, and they had all found their ways to live with it.

Maya was still angry at Rehana. The silence banged around between them. They batted it back and forth. Sometimes, while she waited for Maya to return from the university, Rehana would resolve to say something, to make up; she could feel the tender words bubbling in her mouth.
I’m sorry I hit you
. But she couldn’t utter them; as soon as the girl came home, as soon as Rehana saw her scowling face, the way she slammed the bolt through the door, the irritation flooded back. Why couldn’t she smile, give a hint she might relent? But she didn’t, and Rehana too was frozen, the words stuck somewhere between her heart and her mouth.

The more time went by, the harder it became. Rehana organized the house; she packaged the supplies the boys had left at the bun- galow; she sewed her kathas. It was a lonely, stretched-out time. The only thing she and Maya did together now was listen to the radio. In the morning they would listen to BBC Bangla, and in the afternoon Voice of America. But the programme they waited for with most anticipation was the Free Bangla Radio transmission, every day at 4.30, broadcast from a secret, undisclosed location in the liberated zone.

The number of refugees flowing into West Bengal has reached one million. The International Red Cross has stated that the refugee camps along the border between India and Bangladesh are overcrowded and suffer from a lack of clean water, sanitation and proper medical facilities. Indian Prime Minister Indira Gandhi has pledged her support for the people of Bangladesh,

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stating that the freedom-loving Bengalis would soon triumph over the fascistic regime of the Pakistani dictators.

So by the time Sohail returned to Dhaka, the city had settled back into a sort of routine. He came in the middle of the night and stood at the foot of Rehana’s bed. Later she would say she had known all along that he was there, that she’d deliberately kept her eyes closed, savouring the relief of having him back, and alive, but really she’d slept through the whole thing – his entrance through the gate, his stealthy sidestepping of the furniture and the medicine boxes, the deep breath he took before uttering her very favourite word.

‘Ma.’

She pressed her cheek against his cheek. He smelled of petrol and cigarettes. At the touch of his shirt against her hand she felt a deep, piercing loneliness.

‘Have you eaten?’ she said, then laughed at herself. Still, she got up and darted into the kitchen while he went to wake Maya. She’d had only a moment to scrutinize him. He wore a grey shirt and a pair of blue trousers; they were both dirty and looked too big. His eyes were ringed dark brown, and he was growing a beard. There was something unmistakably foreign about him now, as though some other hands had begun to shape him, hands not as loving or as tender as hers. She couldn’t help thinking back to the years he had been with Parveen.
My children have not always been my children
. The old wound pulsed inside her.

As she deliberated over what to cook, she heard him wake his sister. ‘Bhaiya!’ Maya cried out. It was the most cheerful thing she’d said in months. ‘Tell me everything,’ Rehana heard her say. ‘Have you been to the battlefront?’

The food – egg curry, a few strips of fried eggplant, leftover dal – was soon on the table. Sohail rolled up his sleeves eagerly and between mouthfuls began to tell them about the freedom- fighter army.

‘Joy drove us to the river and then we took the ferry. It was full of refugees. We heard the most terrible stories about that night. Lot of Hindus especially.’

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‘The Senguptas haven’t come back,’ Maya said.

Sohail nodded, paused for a moment as he took another bite and smiled gratefully at his mother. Then he glanced at the door, and she knew what he was thinking.

‘She’s fine. But we hardly see her.’

Sohail nodded and continued the story. ‘We didn’t know where to go, we just heard the Bengali regiments had crossed the border and were setting up camp. Raju’s uncle is in the military. We thought we’d look for him. Three days later we found the camp. All the Bengali regiments in the east had mutinied. They were regrouping when we found them. It was just a temporary settle- ment at first, then we moved to Agartala, about fifteen miles further from the border. Now it’s become like a small town – there’s even a hospital, and barracks for the officers. And there are others, in Chittagong, Sylhet, Rajshahi. Seven sectors in all.’

‘We’ve been listening on the radio,’ Maya said.

‘Where do you sleep?’ Rehana asked. She could tell he wanted to talk about more important things, but she couldn’t help herself. ‘Tents, Ammoo. Not very comfortable. When I go back, you will have to give me some blankets, and a plate. I’ve been eating

from banana leaves!’

So he was going back. Rehana tried not to show her disap- pointment. Here was her son, living such a strange life. He used to love Elvis Presley, she suddenly remembered. She leaned over the table and piled more rice on to his plate.

‘Everyone has joined. Everyone.’ And his eyes shone. ‘All the young men, fighting side by side. No one cares who anyone is. They’ve all joined, the peasant and the soldier, together, just as we’ve been dreaming.’ And then his face changed. ‘But things are bad, you know.’

‘And what will you do?’ Maya asked.

He took a deep breath. ‘I’m being trained. As a guerrilla.’ ‘Guerrilla?’ She had a vague image of an outlaw. ‘Is it dan-

gerous?’

‘Of course it’s dangerous, Ammoo!’ Maya exclaimed. ‘War!

What do you think?’

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‘I know what war is, Maya.’

‘Aren’t you even a little excited? A whole nation, coming together.’

‘Excited? I’m not excited, I’m sick. I’m sick with worry. This is my
child
.’ Rehana left the table and moved towards the kitchen, muttering something about sweets. She could hear her daughter sighing and Sohail whispering something, trying to make peace.

It began to occur to Rehana that any doubts Sohail once had about becoming a soldier had completely disappeared. As with everything else, he had taken it on with a kind of brutal devo- tion. He was a guerrilla. A man for his country. He would die, if he had to. Rehana wondered if she should begin to prepare herself, imagine a life without her son, carve out a hole where he used to be, familiarize herself with the shock of his absence. And as soon as she had this thought, she realized she had no choice. She could not give him up, not to fate or to nation, and if he chose to leave her anyway, there would be no way to prepare.

It was almost dawn by the time they finished eating. ‘Get some rest, Sohail.’

He looked around, as though deciding whether to speak. ‘Ammoo, Maya, I need to ask you something.’

He waved his hand and drew them closer. He dragged a chair towards himself and faced them, moving to close the curtains before sitting down. He switched off the lights and allowed the small flame of the kerosene lamp to trace shadows across his face. He brought his palms together. ‘Some of the guerrilla oper- ations will take place here, in Dhaka,’ he began. ‘And we need a place in the city. To store arms. A safe place to hide out before and after the operations.’ As he looked at his mother, there was no hesitation. ‘Our mission is to disrupt the normal functioning of the city. Make sure the world knows what is going on. People will not just stand by and witness the rape of Bangladesh.’ He took a deep breath, then continued, ‘I’ve come here to find

shelter and to recruit more men for the guerrilla regiment.’

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Rehana imagined the journey Sohail had taken to come here, eluding the barricades around the city, the powerful searchlights that scanned the docks of the river, the green trucks with gun- toting soldiers. She imagined someone in charge, a military man, taking one look at her son and knowing he would be the right one to send back to Dhaka. She wanted to be more angry and less proud, but she found herself wanting to say yes, not just so that she would have Sohail’s confidence, but because she could not blame anyone but herself for making him so fine, so ready to take charge. This was who she had hoped he would become, even if she had never imagined that her son, or the world, would come to this. And she knew what he was asking her.

‘You want to use Shona.’ ‘Yes.’

Shona with her back to the sun. Shona that had given her the children. Proud, vacant Shona of the many dreams.

‘The house is yours, Sohail. Your birthright.’