Bright Lines (26 page)

Suddenly, Khaled ran toward the Royal Enfield, and miraculously fumbled the motorcycle on. He looped away from the station, toward us, gesturing for his two Tura village men to hop on.

—What are you doing, sister fucker! I shouted.

Our Rajakar target, owner of the stolen motorcycle, stumbled out of the station. He pointed a gun at Khaled and one of the Tura villagers. Two shots, two men down.

Rezwan shot the Rajakar in the kneecap. The man groaned and collapsed in pain.

We hopped onto the Royal Enfield. Me first, and Rezwan behind me, his gun held ready to fire. The last of our Bahini men had fallen, bleeding out from his stomach. I turned away at the sight of his viscera.

—Make it stop, bhaiyya, the boy begged.

I sped away, just as Rezwan delivered the coup de grace to our comrade.

 * * * 

On our way back to Sylhet, to visit Rezwan’s parents, we passed the Dawki border post again. This time, however, our new mode of transport piqued the jawan’s interest.

He narrowed his eyes at the Enfield. —Kaha se? Where’s it from?

—Courtesy of Pakistan, I replied. Bang. I shot a fake gun with my thumb and pointer finger.

The jawan nodded with approval.

I felt his coveting eyes as we rode away. When we arrived at the house, Begum was beyond herself with happiness at our survival, despite yelling at us for being filthy. I took Hashi on a spin on our
new ride. Azim just shook his head, as if to say, I don’t even want to know.

 * * * 

We realized we couldn’t keep going back and forth between the training camp and the comforts of the golden house in the tea gardens. There were rations for petrol, and the forty-kilometer ride to Sylhet was not sustainable. A week after we had won our prized Enfield, we went to meet Hawa at their usual spot—behind an abandoned Christian missionary school in a Khasi village, just across the Piyain River. Hawa often came here to spend time with her aunts, uncles, and cousins. She would sell woven shawls and pinafores that her mother made. This cluster of villages was still on the Bangladesh side, but they had more in common with their cousins in the north.

The Khasi tribe survived callous neglect. Their borders were redrawn and erased every couple of decades. Bengali Muslims grabbed their land after marrying Khasi girls, because the youngest daughter was the one who inherited property. We had never shown respect for their matrilineal, religious, or social customs. So they didn’t trust us Bengalis. For good reason. We’d all but pushed them out of their lands into the river.

This particular village, called Mahapunji, had a Christian church—Our Lady of Grace, I believe it was called. We literally bought the trust of villagers by giving donations to the church. I loved the building. It was painted red with a long white cross as tall as the supari trees in its yard. We left a tip with the minister to watch over our motorcycle while we went to find Hawa.

Hawa fell into Rezwan’s arms. She seemed quite—emotional.

—My mother wants to meet you, Hawa told Rezwan.

—I—I can’t do that, not yet, replied Rezwan. He buried his face in his hands.

—Man, Amma wants to meet you; maybe your parents can meet hers. Her father is a distinguished man, I told him.

—No! My mother will never go for this.

Hawa played with a loose string on her pinafore. —What are you saying?

—Yes, man. What are you saying? I asked.

Rezwan wouldn’t answer.

—Besides, you both can stay at my parents’ house. It’s only 15 kilometers from the camp, said Hawa. You will be safe, fed. Hawa patted her belly, which showed as she unraveled her sarong. Modest dress is a great concealer. But I’d noticed slight appetite and skin changes. But I attributed that to sex.

—Hai, Allah, I muttered.

—How can this be? Rezwan asked.

—You know exactly how it happened. Hawa narrowed her eyes. —Are you happy?

—This is great news, man, I said. Rezwan Lyngdoh has a nice ring to it, na?

Hawa laughed.

Rezwan said nothing. I wondered if he felt shame for having sex, or for being with a Pahari girl. I didn’t see the problem. She had good roots and good genes, and as far as I was concerned, I would marry a girl like that in an instant.

—We will have a roof over our heads, I told him, as Hawa left us to finish selling her shawls. —Focus on that if you don’t realize how lucky you are.

A few hours later, we drove back to the border post, to cross over to Hawa’s forest village. Different BSF jawan this time, an older, bearded man in a turban, who didn’t let us pass as easily as his younger colleague. Suspicious of two Bongs toting around a young Khasi girl, he raised a hand. For all they knew, we were taking the girl back to the training camp to do terrible things to her.

Hawa was quick to answer in broken Hindi:

—My father owns betel leaf gardens in Shillong. We’re going there for a business matter. This one’s our driver, and this is my business partner.

Great. I was happy to play the role of driver, if it meant we could pass.

After a moment’s scrutiny, the BSF jawan let us pass.

—Fantastic bike, he muttered.

 * * * 

We traced the mossy broadleaf and evergreen lip of the Pamshutia Canyon; by charting this lesser-known route toward Shillong, we saved an hour. As we journeyed north, a dank fog settled, muting the jungle with its misty outline. Rezwan, Hawa,
and I wove past trucks loaded with boys and mules and freight, zooming up and down the deadly, cambering ten-kilometer stretch. Again, I drove, while Rezwan straddled me, and Hawa sat sidesaddle, behind him. From my side-view mirror, I could see that Rezwan held her tight, perhaps protectively, around her belly. The closer we rode to Shillong, the less we had to worry about Pakis, but the more Khasi and other tribesmen posed trouble, as they were pissed about the Bangali refugees.

It was around noon. We had only about a half-hour drive left, until we were stopped in a traffic jam. Flares marked the road. Members of the Tribal Youth Welfare Association had stationed themselves at the helm of the route. Police hovered lamely at the scene. The students, armed with the fearlessness of youth, carried signs protesting the entrance of Bangladeshis to Shillong. Hidden from sight: rifles, unlit barrels of gasoline. The danger was not lost upon the policemen. Or us. There would be no rest until the sun rose and the students scattered homeward, more afraid of their parents than of the police.

—Where are you headed? asked a policeman.

—Shillong, sir, said Rezwan.

—No, you’re not. Not safe for refugees. The policeman shooed us back toward the border.

 * * * 

Hawa directed me to turn northwestward, away from Shillong and Dawki. Signs read Mawphlang, and she ordered me to keep driving, until we reached a closed chai and momo stall. We got off the motorcycle, and wheeled it toward a clearing. Multiply the green in Sylhet by a hundred—this was very ethereal stuff.

We came upon a wondrous bridge composed entirely of gnarled rubber tree roots, which ran over a stream. Villagers trained the roots to grow through hollowed-out betel tree trunks. Roots grew across rivers, finally settling in the soil on the other side. Trees grew older and the bridges formed, connecting villagers long separated by waters. After one hundred years, the bridges would grow to unearthly proportions.

Borders erased in twenty years’ time.

The road tapered into a barren moor. A single stone obelisk stood on a hill, erected by ancient Khasis. This would be our
landmark. Hawa motioned for us to leave the motorcycle here. Someone would take it, Rezwan protested. She shook her head, and took off her shoes. We removed ours. We were to touch nothing, take nothing. Not even a fallen branch (or widow-maker, as the locals called it) could be molested. Even a dead man should not be moved unless the syiem allowed it. No one was permitted to come in at night. Some ancient code and sense of honor kept intruders at bay. Dewy grass crunched under our heels. Barefoot, and worried about large spiders and thorny trees, we trudged deeper inside the forest; the wind ceased. I remember thinking, I am a plains person, not a mountain man. Chirping, croaking, hooting, trilling—all manner of fauna bursting alive. A mountain bear, lion, or tribesman could kill us.

We walked past a bamboo grove.

—This means a famine is near, for bamboo brings rats, said Hawa.

Above, dim spots of sunlight filtered through the lush canopy of trees.

Hawa lead us to a circular house. Sitting on the porch were a wizened woman and a man, burning a smudge stick of some sort.

—Hawei! exclaimed the woman, delighted.

—Kpa, Kmie, said Hawa, calling to her parents in Khasi. She nodded at Rezwan, rubbing her belly. —Sengkhún. I’m pregnant. And this is the reason I am here.

Her father simply nodded, chewing away at his betel. He smiled, revealing teeth degraded by betel juice and tobacco. For a syiem, he seemed like a simple man, not the angry chief I had imagined.

—Welcome to the Black Forest, sons, said Hawa’s mother. She was a replica of Hawa, but a foot shorter. She fiddled in her shirt for something. She handed Rezwan a small jute bag. It was full of cowries for protection, for her daughter’s care. And so, we had whisked Hawa on our newfound Enfield, to the Black Forest in the Scotland of the East, Meghalaya.

 * * * 

For the next two months, we went back and forth, your father and I, between Jaflong and Mawphlang, regrouping at the training camp and instigating hit-and-run attacks.

Each time, we survived.

More important than any of those guerrilla moves, I came to learn much about the land, the sacred Black Forest, or law kyntang, as the Khasi called it. Hawa and I would walk together, in the stillness of that jungle. At our feet, ferns ancient as time, orchids in hues of pink I’d never seen. Rezwan slept a lot when he was back in the forest, resting from his pursuit of Rajakars. You see, I didn’t have a stomach for killing. Bayonets, never. I threw grenades, ran as fast as I could, sped away on our motorcycle.

—I am a pussy, I once told Rezwan.

—There are worse things to be. Besides, you’re not the one letting your child take its mother’s last name.

 * * * 

One morning, when Rezwan slept, Hawa and I walked to that old root bridge, to sit by the stream. She taught me the names of trees, the ones used to make guitars, utensils. A hearth could not be made of twigs from different trees. Tender ficus leaves meant that fish would multiply in our rivers. Pungent herbs, ginger, pepper, turmeric, cinnamon—all at our fingertips.

—Tit, said Hawa. Tyng-shain.

—Pardon?

—Stop looking up, Ang Ang. Look down.

At our feet, a circle of bioluminescent mushrooms, aglow. I looked down. Up again.

I looked at Hawa. Without thinking, I kissed her neck. The taste of salt reminded me of a double entendre—Mawmlah: To lick the salt off someone’s back, in Khasi, signified an oath, a promise.

In Bangla, to lick the salt off someone’s back was an indictment.

Hawa gave me a look, somewhere between pity and amusement.

—Don’t do that, Anwar. You know better.

I nodded, feeling weak for what I had done. Did she think of me as some sort of violator—the way she might think of my brother, Aman?

—I’m sorry. I would never hurt you. Not like Aman.

—Then don’t, she cut me off. Hawa’s expression hardened into agitation. She didn’t want to talk about the past.

Hawa, or Hawei-ha-ar, had retreated elsewhere. She lived in the
recesses of my mind. I remembered the old traces of her face, but she was long gone.

What did I have now? Love I could not have.

 * * * 

When the Indians joined the effort on December 3, it became clear that Sam Manekshaw’s tactics would fracture General Niazi’s slippery hold on the eastern front. Halfhearted Pakistani troops stood landlocked, encircled by Indians on land, water, and air. Days later, the BBC announced that India’s fearsome Nepali Gurkha battalions rained down from helicopters to capture Sylhet. Their placid descent by parachute had the Paki brigadiers shaking in their boots. Fewer than five hundred Gurkha mercenaries—skilled at living off the land, wielding kukris with a butcher’s skill, no fear of death—glided easy as skydivers.

We knew then, the end was coming.

 * * * 

We weren’t flying out of planes. We were a terrestrial force of wily coyotes preying on Rajakars, our own men who had turned traitor. Desperate, they intensified their killing. The Rajakars in Jaflong had already been abandoned by Pakistani troops, who were en route to Ashuganj, in a miscalculated move.

The day of the Nepali Gurkha heliborne takeover of Sylhet, Rezwan and I drove back to Mawphlang, to the Black Forest. Hawa had not been feeling well, and her aunt warned that the baby might come earlier than it should.

A few miles from the Tamabil-Dawki border, we noticed a blockade had been set up. Circling the blockade were a pair of jeeps, and a black Royal Enfield Classic 500, same as ours.

—What do these animals want? Rezwan said, revving the engine.

A man cried, Ay, Shaitan! He jumped out of a jeep, and hobbled toward us.

—I think he is the man you crippled. And he wants his motorcycle back.

Rezwan rocketed around the blockade as fast as possible toward the border post. Our regular BSF jawan nodded—go, pass, pass—the young man had gotten much friendlier in the past couple of months.

We heard the Rajakars, stuck at the post, arguing with the jawan.

 * * * 

That evening, in the center room of the circular house, Hawa’s mother delivered Rezwan and Hawa’s son. (I’d started calling her mother Kmie and her father Mr. Lyngdoh, and they didn’t seem to mind.) A few weeks shy of perfect timing, the child was small, perhaps only five or six pounds. Kmie cut the umbilical cord with a sharpened splinter of bamboo—metal was forbidden. I’m not sure why, but perhaps the element was considered too strong at such a young age. She washed the boy’s body in an earthen bath. She placed Hawa’s placenta and a brown hen’s egg in another clay pot.

Mr. Lyngdoh placed a bow and three arrows beside the boy.