Tahmima Anam - A Golden Age

Footsteps. Rehana’s stomach lurched as Faiz paraded into the room with his arms wide, a deep, satisfied smile illuminating the lower half of his face. The top was obscured by a pair of enormous dark glasses.

‘Sister!’ he boomed festively. ‘How wonderful to see you!’ Rehana stood up to receive his embrace. He was wearing a stiff white kurta and a matching cap, and he had the faint rosewater and dirty-feet smell of the mosque.

‘This is a sight,’ Parveen exclaimed, not getting up from her chair. ‘You don’t know, bhabi, how long it’s been since your brother has been home for lunch. It’s impossible to get him, even on a Friday.’

‘I’m grateful,’ Rehana whispered, as Faiz sighed into a chair.

‘I wouldn’t miss lunch with my bhabi.’ He pulled off the glasses and pointed them at Rehana. ‘Mahshallah, you’re looking very fresh.’ He rubbed the bridge of his nose, where the glasses had left their indentations.

Rehana, not sure what to do with the compliment, looked around at Parveen, who had arranged herself on the armrest of the sofa.

‘Isn’t she looking lovely?’ Faiz continued.

‘Yes, of course,’ Parveen said.

‘You know what I admire about you, bhabi. You manage to remain so cheerful despite all your hardships. Being a widow — no fate worse for a woman — and yet here you are, two children, almost grown up—’

‘Of course,’ Parveen interjected, ‘everyone has their suffering. For instance, I was not blessed with children, but you don’t see me complaining.’

At once Rehana was reminded of the day she had taken the children from Parveen. Parveen had sobbed and wailed and beaten her chest. She had fallen at Rehana’s feet and begged her to let her keep them. One , she had said, please, let me have one. Sohail, she said, I want a son. I want the boy. And Rehana had left her there, rolling back and forth on the pink marble floor as though putting out a fire, and all Rehana could think was, poor girl, she’ll catch cold. And Abdul was there, and he had opened the door for her and she had marched through it, a child in each hand, holding on for dear life.

Rehana pulled self-consciously at her grey organza. Faiz combed his moustache with his thumb and forefinger.

‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘how are my niece and nephew?’

Rehana repeated the stories, careful to add a few new details. Schoolfriend from Shaheen Secondary. Nice boy, studies accounting in Karachi.

‘Mahshallah!’ Faiz said. ‘Thank God the boy has the sense to stay out of trouble. It’s not safe for the young men.’

Because you kidnap and mutilate them , Rehana thought. ‘Yes, that is why I insisted,’ she said.

Faiz raised one hand, palm upturned. ‘Bad influences.’ Repeating the gesture with his other hand, he said, ‘Impressionable youth — and you have what we have now.’

Genocide?

‘Gondogol!’ Troubled times. Parveen’s arm snaked into her husband’s kurta pocket and emerged with a square silver case. Faiz ignored her as she pressed a switch and snapped the case open. Then she pulled out a cigarette, holding it up between two loudly manicured fingers.

As she raised her hand to her lips, Rehana found herself gawking.

‘Really, bhabi, don’t look so shocked.’

Faiz, ignoring Parveen, continued his speech. ‘The integrity of Pakistan is at stake.’ He leaned towards Rehana and the hot steam of his breath passed over her.

‘National integrity, religious integrity, this is what we are fighting for. We are the freedom fighters.’

‘Lunch, sir,’ Abdul interrupted.

‘Ah, lunch. Come, Rehana, let’s eat together.’

As they moved to the dining room, Faiz gripped Parveen tightly at the elbow. Rehana, walking behind them, pretended not to notice the pink patches Faiz was leaving on his wife’s arm. ‘Put it out,’ he muttered.

‘I have nothing better to do,’ she replied, louder than she needed to. Her hollow womb shouted its presence.

The table, an enormous teak plank, was set for three.

‘You shouldn’t have gone to such trouble,’ Rehana said to Parveen, taking in the row of dishes.

‘I didn’t make a thing — didn’t even plan the menu. It’s the cook that comes with this place. Making me fat.’ And she patted her slate-like belly.

‘Please, sit,’ Faiz said, waving to his left.

Rehana examined the spread. There was an oily eelish curry and an even oilier rui. There were two preparations of chicken: mussalam and korma. And, stretching to the end of the table, polao, a steaming bowl of dal, several bhortas, salad and a dish of pickles.

‘Start with the fish, Rehana, it’s fresh — caught today,’ Faiz said.

There had been no fish — certainly no eelish — in the market for months. Rehana’s teeth ached.

‘These youths,’ Faiz said, after Abdul had served the rice, ‘young Turks — are fighting for what? A useless battle. You think Mujib cares about them? He is just getting fat on his paycheck from India. The point is, Pakistan must not be divided! What do you say, sister?’

The bite of eelish Rehana had taken stuck drily in her throat. She asked God to forgive her. She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she managed, ‘you’re right.’

‘Pakistan Zindabad!’ Parveen proclaimed, the Grace Kelly veil falling to her shoulders.

While Faiz’s fingers were still dipping into the sludge of dal on his plate, Rehana decided to take her chance.

She cleared her throat. Her own plate was still crowded with food. She pushed the rice and fish to the side, to make it look as though she had finished eating. ‘Faiz, bhaiya, I’ve actually come to ask you for a favour.’

‘Of course!’ Faiz said, pulling the napkin from his collar. ‘What’s mine is yours,’ he said, as though there could be no other reason for her visit. ‘Let’s wash our hands and have some sweets, and you’ll have whatever you wish.’ He waved in the direction of the kitchen. Abdul appeared with a brass bowl of water and a cake of soap.

As they rearranged themselves in the drawing room, Rehana began again. ‘The thing is, my neighbour has fallen into some trouble.’

Faiz frowned with his forehead. ‘Your neighbour? The Hindus?’

‘No, not the Senguptas. They’ve left.’

‘Parveen told me you had Hindu tenants.’ Faiz said. ‘Now they’ve gone and what are you supposed to do? No chance you’ll find tenants in the middle of this mess. I suppose they didn’t even pay you the rent?’

‘They were in such a hurry—’

‘That is what I always say! Haven’t I said this a thousand times, wife, haven’t I said it? They don’t treat it like their own country. Leaving at the drop of a hat, going off to India — they were never a part of Pakistan. Good riddance to them, I say, let them go back to where they came from. So, you need money, is it?’

‘It’s my neighbour Mrs Chowdhury.’

‘Oh, the famous Mrs Chowdhury,’ Parveen said. ‘Jaanoo, remember Mrs Chowdhury?’ She didn’t wait for him to remember. ‘ You know .’

‘Yes,’ Rehana said.

‘And how is dear Mrs Chowdhury?’

It was not going well. ‘Mrs Chowdhury has been extremely kind to me over the years,’ Rehana said.

‘Yes, we know all about that, don’t we, jaanoo?’

Faiz patted his wife’s knee. ‘What’s the problem?’ he asked, already slightly bored.

‘It’s her son-in-law.’

‘That slip of a girl is married?’ Parveen asked.

‘She married an officer,’ Rehana began.

This elicited a look of mild interest. ‘An officer? Who? Do I know him?’

Rehana decided to tell the whole story all at once. ‘He was in the Pakistan Army, bhaiya, but he joined the rebellion along with all the other Bengali regiments. He’s been fighting. And he’s been captured. They’ve heard he’s in Dhaka and I’ve come to ask you for his release.’