Tahmima Anam - A Golden Age

‘Too long!’

A pause stretched between them. Rehana did not want to bring up the children; let her ask, if she wants to know. When they had first come back, Rehana had refused to talk about those years apart. She hadn’t wanted to know. She had only asked if they’d been fed properly, if they’d been beaten, if anything terrible had happened to them. She had checked them for bruises. Part of her, she knew, had wanted some physical symptom, some obvious mistreatment, that would tell her the children too bore marks of their long separation. She wanted to hear nothing about the little affections, the life that had passed between them in her absence. She especially didn’t want to know if Parveen had been any good at being their mother.

‘So,’ Parveen said, slapping her hands on her knees. ‘The children. They’re well, by God’s grace?’

‘Yes, mahshallah, they are well.’

Rehana was about to tell Parveen that they weren’t home, how sorry they would be to have missed her, but Parveen cut her short. ‘And you still live here? That’s your rented house, in the back?’

‘Yes.’

‘You have tenants?’

‘Yes, the Senguptas.’

‘Hindus?’ Parveen grimaced. ‘You gave your house to Hindus?’

‘They’ve been my tenants for years,’ Rehana said; ‘they’re like family.’

‘Well, you do as you wish, Rehana, but I would not trust my house to those people…’ She screwed up her face, as though she’d just taken a sip of bad milk.

Rehana ignored this last statement; she was busy trying to unmask the purpose of the visit, of Parveen’s cavalier manner, all traces of the dirty history between them forgotten. But she really shouldn’t have been surprised. This was often the way with families; they would try to destroy one another, and then they would pretend nothing had happened; carry on with their old habits, their casual humiliations, as Parveen was doing now, pointing her eyes to the shabby state of Rehana’s furniture.

‘…just as well we’re getting rid of them.’

Rehana was drawn back to the conversation. ‘Rid of who?’

‘Haven’t you been listening, Rehana? I’m talking about the dirty elements of our great nation. The Hindus, the Communists, the separatists! That is why your brother and I are here — it’s a great duty, a privilege.’

This was the mission? Rehana’s eyes flew to the window, to Shona. Parveen was a few short feet away from the guerrilla hideout. When she assured herself there wasn’t any obvious movement in the next house, she relaxed, suddenly pleased at this deceit, to watch Parveen perched so comfortably, while next door the boys planted guns in the garden. She was about to offer her a snack, when there was a knock at the gate and the sound of it swinging open.

‘Yoo-hoo! Sorry we’re late.’ It was Mrs Akram and Mrs Rahman. She heard them crossing the driveway. ‘What on earth is that smell — Rehana, you opened a pickle factory on the roof or what?’

Rehana rushed to the door and ushered them in. ‘Come in, come in. Meet my bhabi Parveen,’ she said, trying to sound casual. ‘Bhabi, these are my friends, Mrs Akram and Mrs Rahman.’

Mrs Rahman gave Parveen a frank, appraising look. ‘Salaam-Alaikum,’ she said in a headmistress voice.

‘Salaam-Alaikum,’ Mrs Akram echoed.

‘We’ve all heard such a lot about you,’ Mrs Rahman said. ‘What brings you back to Dhaka? I thought you lived in Lahore.’

‘We’re here to fix things up!’ Parveen said with a laugh.

‘They’ve come to work for the army,’ Rehana said, praying Mrs Rahman would keep her thoughts to herself.

‘Ah, all right, I see,’ Mrs Akram said. They stood awkwardly around the door, not knowing whether to sit down.

‘What about those pickles?’ Mrs Rahman said. ‘The stench!’

‘Oh, is that what it is?’ Parveen said.

‘Sorry, friends, we’ll have to find somewhere else,’ Rehana said.

‘What possessed you?’ Mrs Rahman asked. ‘You must have been up all night.’

‘Well, I thought I should just make as many as I could — who knows what will happen to my tree?’

This brought a nod of assent from Mrs Akram. ‘So true,’ she said, ‘future is so uncertain.’

‘But who will eat so many pickles?’ Mrs Rahman asked. ‘I’m getting a bellyache just thinking about it.’

‘Maybe you can sell them,’ Mrs Akram said.

‘Arre, good idea, we can buy more thread.’

‘We’ll see,’ Rehana said, eager to get rid of them both. Luckily Parveen was ignoring them; she had stood up and was making her way to the dining table, where Rehana had kept the leftover parathas from breakfast; Maya hadn’t touched hers. ‘So shall we postpone for a day or two, until we find somewhere more suitable?’

The gin-rummy ladies left, patting Rehana on the back, whispering, Tell us all about it tomorrow . A few minutes later Parveen took her leave too, inviting Rehana to bring the children to her new house. Everything happened so quickly that Rehana could almost convince herself it was a dream. And had Parveen’s perfume trails not clung to the walls, or had her words not insinuated themselves into her ears, or had the sight of her shiny beaked hair, her gauzy sari, vanished, even faded, it might have been possible. But of course it was not, and Rehana was left to face the afternoon, replaying the scene, and wondering why, after all, Parveen had decided to come.

Another week passed in much the same manner as the last; Sohail and his friends went in and out of Shona; Rehana watched the pickles ripening on the rooftop; the May sun crashed through the windows every morning and threatened to suffocate them. Then Sohail appeared at the bungalow and said, ‘We’re ready, Ammoo.’

‘Ready for what?’

‘For the operation. I’ve recruited a team, and we’ve received our orders.’

Rehana hadn’t given much thought to what they would actually do once they’d dug up the garden and readied the house. It already looked like work. But they had only been preparing. For this.

‘What will you do?’

‘We’re planting an explosive at the InterCon Hotel. We’re making a statement.’ He put his hand to his cheek and rubbed his jaw.

‘Statement? What sort of a statement? Will people get killed?’

‘No. We’re hoping there won’t be any casualties.’

Now he was referring to dead people as casualties.

‘Is it dangerous?’

‘You want me to lie, don’t you?’

Yes, please. ‘Of course not.’

‘It’s not dangerous. I’m just the lookout.’ He held her wrists. ‘Thank you, Ammoo. I keep meaning to say that.’

‘I’m just happy to have you near me.’ She wanted to ask him to promise nothing would happen. That he would be safe. That he wouldn’t get himself killed, or maimed, or something selfish like that. ‘When will it happen?’

‘Tomorrow, early morning — before sunrise.’

‘I’ll be praying,’ was all she could think to say.

His hand was on his jaw again, and he seemed to consider something. ‘Why don’t you come before we set off? You can meet everyone.’

‘Your friends wouldn’t mind?’

‘They’ll be happy to get your blessings. Some of them haven’t seen their own mothers in a long time.’

Rehana understood. She felt a flush of pride at being asked.

Sohail put his hand to his cheek again.

‘Do you have a toothache?’

He grinned, then winced a little. ‘Just a small one. Nothing to worry.’

A toothache is the sort of thing I used to worry about. Now I worry about your legs, your heart, your life.

Before dawn the next day Rehana crossed the garden and walked through the narrow iron gate she had built to divide the properties. She had made puris, half with potatoes, half with dal, and halwa. It felt foolish nowadays to take pride in cooking, but she couldn’t resist taking pleasure in the domed rise of the puris, the perfect, vague sweetness of the halwa. It was her first time at Shona since the guerrillas had taken over. From the outside, nothing seemed different; she knew some of the plants had been dug up, but they’d settled back, even though they looked a little ragged and unkempt. I must remember to water everything tomorrow, she thought.