Tahmima Anam - A Golden Age

The petticoat man led her to a squalid block of flats in Nilkhet. He pointed to a four-storey building, told her to climb the stairs to the top floor and left her with a brief ‘Khoda Hafez, Joy Bangla!’

At some time in its history the building had been painted yellow. Now it was a rainbow of decay: the outside walls were streaked with bright green moss where the rainwater had collected; the paint had peeled in places and the cement showed pale grey underneath; and the remnants of the yellow paint were orange in some spots, coffee in others. The verandas were covered in wet laundry, lungis and blouses and soggy pyjama bottoms. Rehana saw a grey pair of men’s underwear, next to which was an equally tired brassiere, and beside that a small child’s nightie. She felt an old swell of longing for the unit, the family: man, woman, child. This was the formula for happiness, the proper order of things. All other equations suffered in its shadow.

As she approached the building the smell of shutki suddenly assaulted her. Some people considered the dried fish a delicacy, but in all her years in Dhaka Rehana had never been able to stomach it. She saw another clothes line dotted with a row of tiny fish. The smell followed her up the stairs and to the flat on the top floor, where she had been promised her son would be waiting. She knocked impatiently.

‘Ammi,’ her son said, as soon as she entered. The Urdu word was the secret language of long ago; it meant he was a boy, her boy, again.

‘My son,’ she said, ‘my poor Sohail.’ She was so relieved to be in his presence. Everything, the war, the Major, Silvi, all seemed so distant, so much smaller than this moment. She pushed him away and searched his face. She saw the bright, earnest gaze, the serious forehead. ‘Ammi,’ he said again. Through the grate of hardness she could still hear the sound of her son, who was never meant to be a soldier. It was him. She was always checking to make sure he was still there.

‘You heard about Sabeer,’ he said. Rehana looked around the room before she replied. A man’s whole life seemed to have been crammed into the tiny space, like a too-short novel. There was a bed in the centre, overpowering the room, the mosquito net still draped over it, like a giant, elephantine ghost. The windows were shut, and the only light came from a single bulb strung crudely from the ceiling, casting a tired mustard halo.

‘Silvi came to see me on Saturday,’ she said sharply, suddenly reminded of the danger Sohail had put himself in. ‘Why, beta, why did you tell her?’

‘I thought she should know.’

‘But she could find out more. About you, the guerrillas, Shona.’

‘She already knows.’

‘You told her? When?’

‘She’s always known. I saw her when we were setting up Shona. And then later, a few other times.’

‘You went to see her?’ Rehana tried to keep the tension out of her voice.

‘Only a few times.’

She couldn’t stop repeating the question. ‘You went to Mrs Chowdhury’s?’

‘Ammi, I’m sorry. I had to see her. After she was married, I just had to make sure.’

Rehana felt her eyes burning. ‘I can’t believe you would do such a thing.’

‘I thought…but something’s happened to her. Have you noticed? I didn’t see her for a few weeks and when I came back she said she wanted me to stop coming. She said we’d be punished, God would punish us. She said we had sinned.’

‘You went to see her? How many times?’ She wanted to hear the details, the dates, the number of times.

‘Not that many.’

‘How many?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘I’m so angry, Sohail, I can’t speak to you.’ For an instant she thought of leaving him there in his shadowy gloom. She began pacing the small room. She found a pile of his clothes next to the bed and began folding. She counted two shirts, three vests, one kurta, one pyjama, two pairs of trousers.

‘I thought, if I told her, she would begin to trust me again.’

One lungi, one pair of socks.

‘Ammi.’

‘Promise me you’ll never do it again.’

‘I can’t do that. I just need a little more time.’

Rehana put down the lungi in her hand. ‘She wants it to end.’

Sohail shook his head. When he turned, she saw the flattened curl on his forehead. ‘That can’t be true. She says it but she doesn’t mean it.’

‘She’s returned your letters.’

‘What?’ Sohail came over to the pile of clothes and stood above Rehana.

‘I have them at home.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘I’m telling you, I have them.’ Rehana paused, and then she guessed: ‘You quoted Rumi, Amir Khusro.’

‘You read them?’

‘Only a little.’ It wasn’t true. She hadn’t dared break her resolve. But if she’d had love letters to write, those were the poets she would have chosen. Then she saw an opportunity and took it. ‘Sohail, listen to me. The Major says there’s nothing to be done anyway. Silvi doesn’t need to know. The important thing is to keep quiet from now on.’

‘You told the Major?’

‘Of course I told him. Who else can I turn to?’ And suddenly she wanted this meeting to be over, so she could tell the Major about it, about the painful love for her son, about the dirty flat, the girl that was no longer a girl but a curse, and she knew that it wouldn’t be until she told him that the day would have any meaning.

‘There’s nothing to be done, Sohail. Just let it go — Sabeer, God willing, will survive.’ For a second she was almost glad Sabeer was captured. She could trace back the start of all this madness to the day he’d walked into her drawing room with Mrs Chowdhury flushed and cooing with pride.

‘Nei, Ma, there is something. Something you can do.’

Rehana thought she had misheard. ‘Me?’

‘That’s why I came back to Dhaka. It’s you. You can save Sabeer.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘He’s been brought to jail. We know he’s somewhere in the city.’

The light outside was fading. Sohail was kneeling in front of her. His hands were on her knees but she couldn’t feel them. His voice was coming from far away, under water, and hers was unnaturally loud when she said, ‘You want me to offer to take Sabeer’s place? Should they torture me instead of him? That’s what you want?’ Rehana could barely see Sohail any more; he was a blur of hair and mouth.

‘Faiz Chacha can get Sabeer out,’ said the under-water voice.

‘Faiz? Your uncle Faiz? No.’

‘I’m telling you.’ A wave, a roar.

‘Why?’

‘He’s got something to do with the army — we’re not sure exactly what. But he has a lot of influence.’ Sohail’s red-rimmed eyes widened.

The words sank in, and the room grew quiet. ‘You’re going to send me begging to him?’ Rehana whispered.

‘It’s the only way Silvi will trust me again.’

‘You’re serious.’

‘Yes.’

Rehana waited for the words to settle. Go begging to Faiz and Parveen. Rescue Sabeer. When she pictured it in her mind, she felt strangely relieved. It was the most distasteful, gruesome task. But it was also an opportunity. Her son was giving her another chance to atone. The years of slavish devotion, the mothering, the theft — she had always known they would not be enough. She could not help welcoming the prospect of some new sacrifice.

Still, the feeling of injustice did not vanish. ‘You can ask me to do this?’

‘He’ll think you’re doing it for Mrs Chowdhury. You can say she begged you to come to him. Say how fond you are of her daughter.’

‘You’ve thought of everything.’

‘Ammi, please do this for me. This is the only thing I care about.’

‘This is the only thing? What about the war, the country, the refugees, all of that? Suddenly none of it matters? What do you think will happen if I bring Sabeer back? You think Silvi will fall into your arms?’ Before he said anything she already knew the answer.