The Good Muslim (18 page)

1973
July

Even after Sohail declared his love for the Holy Book, after he started making trips to the mosque and wearing a cap on his head, Maya still thought she could persuade her brother to change his mind. She had known him all her life, and all her life he had been the opposite of a religious man. He had laughed and joked about it, and he had been angry at a religion that could be so easily turned to cruelty. He had seen it with his own eyes, the boys butchered because they were Hindu, the university teachers shot and piled into graves because they weren’t considered Islamic enough. For all these reasons Maya believed Sohail’s conversion was fragile, like the dew that settled between the grasses at the start of the day, gone by the time the afternoon sun vanished into dusk.

She decided to throw him a birthday party. All the old friends would come – Chottu, Saima, Iqbal, the boys from his regiment, their friends from university. The ones who had heard Sohail’s speeches at the student union, the ones who had voted him president of his hall and heard his name ringing in their throats when they joined up.

When the day arrived, she ignored Ammoo’s advice and said little to Sohail about the party, informing him only that it would take place in the afternoon, and that he would be expected to be there. It was his birthday, after all. She worked hard, setting up the Carrom board on the verandah and squeezing lemons by the dozen and frying lentils for a vast pot of khichuri.

The day was bright and hot, not a hint of a monsoon spoiler. Chottu and Saima arrived first, carrying their newborn baby in a katha they had stitched in the colours of the Bangladesh flag. ‘Have you decided on a name?’ she asked, knowing that Chottu’s mother was superstitious, and that she had forbidden them to name the child before her three-month naming ceremony.

‘No,’ Saima said, ‘the dragon still hasn’t given us permission.’

Chottu said, ‘I keep telling this kid how lucky she is to be born in a free country, but all she does is fart and eat, eat and fart.’

Some of the boys in Sohail’s regiment sauntered in, dressed in their army uniforms. Kona, the one whose shoulders filled his uniform most handsomely, gave her a brief salute. ‘Hello, little sister,’ he said. ‘Not so little any more, I see.’

The garden began to fill up. She passed around the lemonade while people scattered to the shady parts of the garden, leaning against the guava tree, lingering on the porch. A large group of Maya’s fellow medical students arrived. Then a trio of women who had always taken a particular interest in Sohail. At university they had been known as the fast girls, sleeveless blouses and lips always curled into perfect, teeth-hiding, air-hostess smiles. It was all coming together, laughter and lemonade and pretty girls – the only thing missing was Sohail. She checked her watch: three o’clock and he still wasn’t there. She felt a flutter of panic; maybe he wouldn’t turn up at all. He was probably at the mosque, repelled by the whole thing, and then what would she do, what would she tell all these people as they munched on peanuts and traded stories about her brother?

She greeted the medical students, pulling chairs together so they could sit in a circle. At that moment she caught sight of Ammoo in a starched white sari, passing out little bowls of puffed rice, smiling and greeting everyone by name. The boys stood up straight and put their hands to their foreheads or bent down to touch her feet. Around her the talk grew more animated, the atmosphere more relaxed, and although there were occasional chants of ‘where is the birthday boy?’ no one seemed to mind Sohail’s absence.

Maya decided to go ahead and serve lunch. She sliced cucumbers for the salad and heated up the khichuri, piling it on to large platters and corralling everyone into the living room. Then, just as she was about to serve the egg curry, she saw him coming in from the far side of the garden. He stood back for a moment, until someone caught his eye and he waved. He wore a white kurta and a cap; she was right, he had been to the mosque. She gave the egg curry an irritated stir, then she heaved the pot out of the kitchen and into the dining room. The fast girls circled Sohail. One of them, the tallest, touched his arm lightly and giggled with the sound of a spoon against a glass.

Maya made her way around the garden, calling everyone to the table. In Ammoo’s room she found Saima lying on the bed with the shutters closed, feeding the baby. She offered to look after the baby so Saima could eat.

‘You’re a jaan,’ she sighed. ‘I’m starving! And that rascal has gone off to refill his glass. Wait, let me change her nappy.’

‘Refill? Where?’ Maya hadn’t seen Chottu in the kitchen.

‘In Murad’s car.’ She giggled. ‘He’s brought a half-bottle of whisky.’

‘Oh,’ she said, imagining Ammoo’s stony anger if she found out.

‘You don’t mind, do you?’ Saima said, pulling up the baby’s legs and slipping the cloth nappy underneath, shushing her as she squealed in protest.

As long as no one found out. ‘No, I suppose not. Just tell them to be careful. Ammoo won’t like it. And Sohail.’

‘We’ll definitely keep it from auntie. But I’ve seen Sohail with a drink before – who knows, he might be in Murad’s car himself.’ She folded the nappy, holding a giant safety pin between her teeth.

Maya couldn’t believe her eyes. ‘Honestly, Saima, I don’t know how you do it, all this baby-handling. Already you’re an expert.’ Maya was relieved it wasn’t her, but still she felt a twinge of jealousy at the thought that her friend was already good at something, while she was floundering, still not sure how she was going to get used to a life without war.

‘Oh, it’s nothing. Can’t be as hard as medical college.’

She was about to ask Saima if she might want to return to the university herself, but she was suddenly given the infant, swaddled into its flag-blanket. ‘He’s different, you know,’ Maya said instead, steering the conversation back to Sohail, her hand warm under the baby’s head.

‘They’ve all changed,’ Saima replied. ‘No one is the same any more.’

She struggled to explain it. ‘He’s been going to the mosque. Says he’s found something.’

‘Don’t worry, it’ll pass.’

‘That’s what Ammoo said. But you know how he is, takes everything so seriously.’

Saima stood up, waved her hand as if she were swatting a mosquito. ‘We won’t let him go too far. I’m going to eat now – you’ll be okay with the monster?’

The child was asleep again, puffy-eyed, working her fists against some imaginary foe. Maya carried her into the living room, where Ammoo was passing out plates. ‘Not too much, auntie,’ she overheard, ‘have to keep our figures!’

Sohail was beside Chottu, holding an empty plate in his hand. Maya saw him, forbidding in his white kurta, tall and lean and spotless. She was suddenly acutely aware of how angry he must be. Tightening her arms around the baby, she gathered the courage to approach him. When he saw her, Chottu thumped Sohail’s back. ‘This guy is full of goodness. He’s been telling me some awesome things. Awesome.’

‘Come,’ she said, ‘eat something.’ Sohail looked at her with an expression she could not decipher. His eyes were dark and locked on her. ‘Bhaiya, please.’ But he shook his head, put down the empty plate and made his way to a clutch of guests waving from the doorway. ‘Sorry to eat and run,’ she heard one of them say. ‘Khoda Hafez,’ she heard Sohail reply. ‘When you are settled, we will talk again.’ She had the impression he had talked to everyone at the party, that they were leaving with little buds of ideas that Sohail had planted, and that, throughout the rest of the day, they would worry these ideas, itch away at them until they were changed, and everything would be slightly altered. This is what Sohail’s talking would have done, what his talking had always done.

‘Here’s my little queen,’ Chottu said, poking his finger into the baby’s mouth.

‘Are your hands washed?’ Maya asked, catching the caramel scent of whisky on his breath.

‘Give her here.’ He pulled the bundle from her hands. ‘How’s my little stink-bomb?’ Maya scanned the room for Sohail, but he had gone outside to open the gate for the departing guests. As people were putting their plates away, it began to rain. The fast girls hurried away, ducking under the gauzy ends of their saris. The medical students and the army men crowded into the living room, leaning against the wall or squeezing on to the sofa.

‘Let’s have a song, shall we?’ Kona said. ‘Sohail, mia, you on the guitar.’

Sohail shook his head. He appeared agitated now, removing the cap from his head and folding it into his pocket.

Kona began to sing.

Bangladesh, my first and last,

Bangladesh, my life and death

Bangladesh, Bangladesh, Bangladesh!

Everyone joined in except Sohail, whose eyes shifted from the tapping of Kona’s feet to the wide sheets of rain that splashed against the windows. Maya wasn’t the only one who noticed; after the song, there was a long, solid silence. The baby began to cry.

‘Sohail,’ Saima said, putting the baby on her shoulder, ‘I hear you’re becoming a mowlana.’

‘Saima,’ Maya said, ‘not now.’

‘It’s all right, we can all see for ourselves. Nothing to be ashamed of. Why don’t you tell us about it?’

Maya didn’t want Sohail to tell anyone about it. She just wanted it to go away. The medical students stood up to leave. ‘Oh, please don’t run off,’ she called after them weakly. But they waved goodbye, promising to see her in the dissection room. ‘We have to take out Hitler’s kidney,’ they said, referring to their cadaver. One of the boys, a rather malnourished-looking one with hair over his ears, paid her particular attention as he said goodbye, holding her gaze for a moment too long and chewing his bottom lip. She ignored him, but when the gate had closed behind them, she heard the others sniggering, and a few dull thumps as they jostled one another.

Now there was only Chottu and Saima and Kona and the boys from Sohail’s regiment. Saima’s question was circling the room.

Suddenly Sohail stood up, smoothing his kurta and resettling the cap on his head. ‘It’s true,’ he said, his voice the perfect shade of rough-smooth. ‘I have been going to the mosque.’

‘Watch out,’ Chottu said, ‘they steal shoes at the mosque.’

‘And stand at the back, yaar, otherwise the other men will get turned on by your backside. All that squatting and leaning.’ They started to laugh. Chottu got down on the floor, demonstrating the dangers of leaning too far forward in prostration. ‘Trouser can come down any time!’

The room erupted. This was exactly what she had wanted, but she realised, too late, what was happening. There was no way Sohail was going to join in, no way he was going to start laughing at himself.

Kona continued to strum the guitar, humming lightly. Sohail did not sit down. He stared straight into the room and said, ‘It is not a bad thing, to find one’s God.’

‘Alhamdulillah!’ Chottu said, raising his fist into the air.

Kona put down his guitar and spoke up. ‘You remember, Sohail, you told us religion would make us blind – in training you would tell everyone not to recite the Kalma before an operation.’

‘That’s right,’ Sohail said, ‘you remember well. And did you listen to me?’

‘No.’

‘Because you knew I was wrong.’

‘Well,’ he said, smiling, ‘we just didn’t want to get our heads blown off, eh boys?’

Ammoo entered with the cake. It was white and square and decorated with blue flowers. Many Happy Returns, Bhaiya.

‘Dosto,’ Chottu said, ‘we didn’t know it was a birthday party.’

Ammoo lit the candles. ‘Come, beta,’ she said, her hand on Sohail’s cheek, ‘cut the cake.’

They sang. Sohail sliced into the cake and fed a small piece to Ammoo. Usually he would do the same for Maya, but she leaned out of sight, her back against the wall. She saw him putting a piece of cake into his own mouth, and she knew, at that moment, that it would be the last time she would see him this way, pretending to be something of the man she remembered, allowing lipsticked women to dance their fingers on his arm, smelling the whisky on his friends’ breath and watching them all shifting uncomfortably as he talked about the mosque; maybe now he would change his clothes and start to grow a beard, and maybe he would make the trip to Mecca and go into purdah. The future was suddenly clear: he was going somewhere, somewhere remote and out of reach, somewhere that had nothing to do with her, and that even if he didn’t disappear altogether, she would, from now on, be left behind.

Later, when they had dried the plates and scraped the khichuri out of the bottom of the pot, Maya turned to Ammoo. ‘I shouldn’t have done it.’

Ammoo nodded, and without a word continued to divide the leftovers into smaller containers, her elbows working hard, lifting, scooping.

‘Did you see him? The way he looked at everyone, like he was from another world.’

She was waiting for Ammoo to tell her it wasn’t something to get so agitated about, just a phase, it would pass. But, instead, she said, ‘It’s more serious than we thought.’

‘He told you?’

‘He wants to use the roof. To talk.’

‘Talk?’

‘Talk about religion. He’s not a mowlana, he says. We shouldn’t call him that. He says he just wants to go up there and talk about God.’

‘To who?’

‘To anyone who’ll listen. His friend Kona has already signed up.’

Ammoo put her hand up to her hair and retied her bun, twisting firmly from the wrist. Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the air heavy with its imprint, and with the occasional sound of leaves dropping their last traces of water.

‘There isn’t anything we can do, is there?’

Ammoo bent over to pick up the empty pot and take it to the outside tap. She sounded very tired when she said, ‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Well,’ Maya said, ‘let’s eat this leftover cake, then.’ And she squatted on a piri beside her mother and passed her a plate with the last corner of the birthday cake, the flourish now gone from the edges, the frosting matted and smudged.