Tahmima Anam - The Good Muslim

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.