Tahmima Anam - The Good Muslim

After another morning with Khadija and the upstairs women, Maya found Joy sitting at Ammoo’s bedside, telling her a story about his new business venture with Chottu. She was laughing, holding her stomach in her hands.

‘Ma, be careful, your stitches have barely healed.’ She shot Joy an irritated look.

Joy continued to entertain Rehana. He looked breezy, as though he had just stepped out of the bath, with his neat sandalled feet, his closely cropped hair. Slowly, he finished his story, leaning close to Ammoo’s ear. Then he took his leave, assuring her she would be out of bed in no time, ready to fry her famous parathas.

‘Thank you for coming,’ Maya said politely, leading him to the living room. She wanted to say something about the last time they’d met, the awkward goodbye.

‘Your mother said you’ve been visiting the upstairs.’

‘Sohail came to the hospital. He sat with her, I think she really liked that. So I wanted to thank him.’

‘How did you find it?’

‘It’s another world.’

‘You say that as if it’s not so bad.’

‘It’s different. Totally unlike anything else.’ She tried to turn it into words, the feeling of being among those women. Joy’s foot had touched something under the sofa, and now he was reaching underneath, disturbing the dust.

‘I think I know what this is,’ he said.

Maya knew too. And he pulled it out, a piece of wreckage. A relic.

‘Still has all its strings,’ he said. Maya found a wet rag in the kitchen, and they rubbed it down together, watching as the colour of the wood emerged, honey-toned.

‘Does it play?’ she asked.

‘Probably needs to be tuned. I can try, I’m not very good. It was always my brother.’

‘Mine too,’ she said.

It isn’t fair, she felt him thinking, at least her brother is still alive. What he would give to have his brother back. She imagined him wanting his brother under any circumstances, so long as he were here, even if he shunned his old life and behaved like a stranger. A world of difference, she imagined him thinking, between the living and the dead; not so different, she countered in her mind. There’s a reason for phrases such as you’re dead to me , which she had used against Sohail more than once.

Joy began to fiddle with the guitar strings, turning knobs on the long neck of the instrument. ‘I think I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘Try it now.’

She ran her thumb down the strings. ‘Sounds nice,’ she said.

‘Like old times.’

‘What was that song you used to sing, that Spanish song?’

‘We never sang a song in Spanish.’

‘You did, something with a very long name.’

‘Oh!’ He slapped his knee. ‘You mean “Guantanamera”.’

‘I always loved that song.’

‘Sohail used to sing it. He said it was a revolutionary song, but when I was in New York I had a Mexican friend who told me the words. It’s just like every other song.’

‘Oh?’

‘About some poor chap who wants to fall in love.’

‘You have something against love?’

He leaned back and crossed his legs. ‘I’m only a minor opponent. Not like you.’

She plucked at the strings. ‘You know nothing, my friend. I’m just like any other girl.’ She believed it herself, at that moment. That she was as tender as all the others, as hopeful. He began to strum the guitar.

‘Let me show you the chords,’ Joy said. He took hold of her fingers and placed them on the strings. ‘You have to press harder than that.’

Zaid came into the room. ‘Here’s my little tongue-twister,’ Maya said. ‘Zaid, come and say hello to uncle Joy.’

Joy extended his hand, and when Zaid stepped forward to shake it, he moved it quickly to his forehead. ‘As-Salaam Alaikum. Tricked you!’

Zaid collapsed into giggles.

‘This one knows every language on the planet. Don’t you, Zaid? Tell Uncle Joy something in Spanish.’

Zaid rolled his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Oh-kay,’ he said, enunciating very slowly. ‘Akee yeygo la paz.’

‘That’s very good,’ Joy said. ‘Even I know what that means.’

‘Did he really say something?’ Maya whispered. ‘I always think he’s pulling my leg.’

Joy picked up the deck of cards on the table and began to shuffle. ‘Let me show you something,’ he said.

‘We can’t play cards,’ Maya interjected; ‘he’s not allowed.’

Joy cast a sideways glance at her. ‘It’s not a game,’ he said, ‘it’s magic.’ Nervous, she let him play his trick. Then Zaid climbed into Joy’s lap and whispered something in his ear, and then he danced out of the room, ta-ta, ta-ta, ta-ta, ta-ta.

*

Rehana held her hair in her hands.

‘Oh, Ma.’ Maya took it from her, the tuft like a tiny furred animal. The place where it had been shone like a fragment of metal at the bottom of the sea.

She was in the bath when it happened. There was more, she said, in the towel.

‘Ma,’ Maya said, ‘let’s shave it.’

‘No, not yet.’ Her voice was small and tired. ‘Please, no.’ She lay her head back on the pillow, turned her face away so Maya could no longer see her crying. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, blowing her nose, ‘we discussed this with the doctor.’

Maya was still holding her fallen tuft of hair. ‘Throw it,’ she said. ‘Burn it.’

She tossed it to the floor. Sufia picked it up and disappeared into the kitchen.

Rokeya was on a patch of concrete, sitting with her face to the sun. ‘Get out of the glare,’ Maya said, ‘you’ll get burned.’ It must have been one of the hottest days of the year. Rokeya salaamed, her voice thready, and Maya saw that her lips were dry, hair feathering out from under her scarf.

‘How is your mother?’ she asked.

‘She is managing,’ Maya said.

Rokeya nodded, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. She placed both hands on her stomach in a gesture Maya recognised immediately.

‘Are you pregnant?’ Maya asked, bending to get a closer look at her.

Rokeya smiled weakly. ‘How did you know?’

Khadija parted the curtain and stepped outside. She cast a light glance at Rokeya and handed her a glass of water. ‘Go inside now,’ she said. Rokeya grabbed the water and swallowed it quickly, holding the glass with both hands and gulping hard.

‘We must do another taleem for your mother,’ Khadija said. She turned to Rokeya again. ‘Tell the sisters to make the arrangements.’

Inside, the air had stopped in its tracks. With the curtains drawn tightly, and the windows shut, it was unbearably hot. Only Khadija looked comfortable, the shine of sweat on her forehead giving her a polished glaze as she took her place at the front of the room. She opened the Book and began to read quietly to herself. The other women, who had been whispering and fanning themselves, straightened and hushed one another. Rokeya motioned for Maya to sit beside her.

The sun was at its full thrust now, as Maya stared down at her hands, sweating steadily. Here, in this room, was the only place she could believe, really believe, that her mother would live. Everywhere else the possibility of her absence had taken over: every meal Maya ate that wasn’t cooked by her, the rooms in which she read and bathed and dressed, the garden, which she had diligently watered but could not save from its yellowish cast.

That was why, day after day, she found herself sitting at Khadija’s feet. She did not read from the Qur’an or join in the prayers. She just sat cross-legged with her hands in her lap and her legs slowly falling asleep, for as long as it took for the panic to pass.

When most of her hair had gone, Rehana finally asked Maya to shear off the rest. She propped herself up on the bed, sharp shoulders blading out of her nightdress, the skin on her neck grey and tired. Sufia stood crying quietly as Maya draped her mother with a towel.