Tahmima Anam - A Golden Age

Then one day Maya suddenly announced: ‘The soldiers need blankets. We’re collecting old saris.’

‘You’re sewing kathas?’

‘Yes. We need material. Things you’d throw away.’

Before she even realized it, Rehana had an idea that led her to an old steel almirah she hadn’t opened in years. She found the heavy key tucked behind the lowest shelf in the kitchen where she kept the emergency supplies of rice and dal. A life of variable fortunes had taught her never to finish anything. She always kept behind a tiny bit — a finger of ginger, a stick of cinnamon, a handful of rice — in case the next time she went to buy these things they somehow eluded her, through poverty or the unreliability of the country’s fortunes.

The key, despite years of disuse, slid smoothly into the lock. As she turned it and twisted the handle to release the bolt, Rehana recognized the old sound of scraping metal, and she steadied herself for the smell of mothballs and silk. The doors rasped in protest as she swung them open and surveyed the contents of the almirah. Here were the saris Iqbal had given her in the eight years of their marriage. After his death, she had washed, ironed and hung them up in the order in which they had been presented to her.

She remembered each occasion, the sari arriving in the red-and-white cardboard box of the sari shop, still smelling of the attar of the market and the ash of young cigarette-smoking boys who were enlisted to bring down the starched saris from high shelves and drape them delicately around their youthful hips. They would sway in imitation of women, dangling the achol from outstretched arms to show off the elaborate embroidery, the swimming colours.

It had not been difficult to arrange the saris; as the years had gone by, Iqbal’s prosperity, and his gratitude for his wife, had meant more and more daring purchases. Simple cottons became diaphanous chiffons, prints were given up in favour of embroidery, the threads of each sari always heavier than the last, the patterns more refined, the silk more serious, until, just a few weeks before his death, Iqbal had presented Rehana with the jewel of the collection, a blue Benarsi silk.

Rehana regarded the saris and tried to recall the feeling they had given her, of being at once enveloped and set free, the tight revolutions of material around her hips and legs limiting movement, the empty space between blouse and petticoat permitting unexpected sensations — the thrill of a breeze that has strayed low, through an open window, the knowledge of heat in strange places, the back, the exposed belly. It was the bringing together of night and day, the sari: as it concealed the skin, it also released it, so that one body, one woman, would know something of the complications of her sex.

The saris stared at Rehana like pictures in a photo album, evocative, a little accusing. She hadn’t worn a single one in years. She was not sorry to lose them, just sorry she would never again have occasion to wear them. She piled the saris loosely into her arms, rushed into the drawing room and presented them to her daughter.

‘Here. Blankets for your freedom fighters. I’ll help you sew.’

Maya stared at her mother. ‘I asked you for cottons,’ she said quietly. ‘What’s the point of all this expensive material? The blankets will itch.’

‘Put them inside. It will be winter before you know it, and the silk will keep everyone warm.’

The sight of the saris stirred something in Maya.

‘Please don’t give them away,’ she said softly.

‘Why not? You never wear anything but white.’ Rehana was aware of a punishing note in her voice. Why, despite her best intentions, did the words to her daughter always sound so sharp?

Maya’s face closed up. ‘It’s foolish to give these away. They’re of no use; you should put them back.’

Rehana called Mrs Rahman and Mrs Akram to the bungalow. ‘Follow me,’ she said, leading them up the stairs to the roof. She had laid out a jute pati and a few cushions. The saris were stacked up in a basket. Beside the basket was Rehana’s sewing box. The box contained a row of needles and a bundle of black spools. There were small pattern cutouts and a collection of thimbles. A tomato-shaped pin-cushion.

‘What’s all this?’ Mrs Rahman said, sliding off her chappals and flopping on to the pati. ‘You want to open a tailoring shop?’

‘Don’t you know? We’re at war, and my daughter says I have to do something. To prove I belong here. So I’m doing something.’ Rehana felt a tear crawling out of her eye; she tilted her head, sent it back. ‘I’m doing something. Making blankets for the refugees.’ She felt her lip curling back on to her teeth.

‘What’s going on — where’s Sohail?’ Mrs Akram asked.

She was desperate to tell them. ‘He isn’t here — I sent him to Karachi.’

‘Really? I thought—’

‘Don’t you know what they’re doing to all the university boys? They’re making them disappear. What would you have me do, just sit back and let them take him?’

‘Rehana,’ Mrs Rahman said, pointing to the silks, ‘you don’t have to use these. We can find some old cottons.’

Rehana dug in her heels. ‘Why not? Everyone has to make sacrifices, why not me? It’s my country too.’

‘Of course it’s your country—’ Mrs Akram began.

‘My daughter doesn’t think so.’

‘She said that? She couldn’t have meant it; you know how children are.’

‘I slapped her.’

‘Oh, Rehana.’ Mrs Akram put a hand on Rehana’s arm.

‘I couldn’t help it, I just did it. She’s out of control.’

‘Rehana, you must have patience,’ Mrs Rahman said.

‘Patience? I have nothing but patience for the children. Running around all over town, revolution this, democracy that — nothing but patience!’

‘For Sohail, yes, but—’

‘What are you saying?’

The two women exchanged cautious looks. ‘We know she hasn’t exactly been easy,’ Mrs Rahman said. ‘But you’ve always been — a little more unforgiving of Maya.’

‘Unforgiving? Me? I’m only one person — I have to do everything — is it possible, humanly possible?’ But she knew they were right. The knowledge burned inside her, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it. You’re right. I’ve been unfair. ‘You want to help me,’ she said instead. ‘Sew.’

On the last day of April, it rained. Rehana watched the cotton clouds shout to a hungry, cracked earth. She imagined it raining on the human exodus on the Jessore Road and the Mymensingh Road and on the widows and the swollen bellies, trying to wash away the tears, falling in skyfuls over the slowly departing. And falling on her Sohail and his friends as they picked through the spring prairie grasses, through the low paddy, the bleached stacks of wheat, as they searched for the war with only their wettoothed smiles, their poems, their death-defying youth.

Mrs 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 contribution 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!’