Tahmima Anam - A Golden Age

Before the words could settle, Parveen draped a protective arm around her husband. ‘You shouldn’t have asked, Rehana. This is not something your bhaiya can do for you. Something for you, for the children, of course, but not this.’

‘She’s right,’ Faiz said tersely. ‘You shouldn’t have asked.’

‘This is why you came here? This is why you’ve come to see us after all this time?’ Parveen blew air out of her nose.

‘I just — I wanted to help.’

‘This woman has been giving you bad advice all these years, and still you prefer to take her side?’

‘The poor girl — Silvi — she’s desperate—’

‘She shouldn’t have married a Bengali rebel, then, should she?’

‘She didn’t know he was going to join the resistance before she met him. Mrs Chowdhury thought she was marrying her daughter to an army officer.’

Something in Faiz’s face told Rehana to press on. ‘He just got swept up in the thing. What could he do? His entire regiment was rebelling. The boy is weak, actually. He was in the army before the’—she was going to say massacre—‘before March , and then he just got swept up.’

‘Swept up?’

‘Oh, you know, young boys, they don’t know what they’re doing — you said so yourself, they just go along with whatever everyone else is saying. He’s no leader, that boy, he just follows, and now he’s gone and got himself into this mess; in fact, you’d really be saving him, you know, you’d be saving him from himself. He would come out of it so grateful to you, and he would know that you, I mean, the army, were here to put things right, to restore order, not to punish anyone. You would be doing us — your country — a great service.’ The words were tumbling out of Rehana’s mouth; she didn’t stop to think or even breathe, just read Faiz’s growing interest and mowed forward. ‘Perhaps the boy can be saved,’ she finished breathlessly.

‘Saved?’

‘You can save him.’

Faiz considered this for a moment. Parveen rearranged the sari around her head and tried to look righteous.

‘How do I know he won’t return to the mukti bahini? Isn’t it safer to keep the boy in custody?’

‘That’s true,’ Parveen said, her voice raised high. ‘Listen to my husband, Rehana, he understands people.’

‘Be quiet, wife, let me think.’

After a suitable pause, Rehana said, ‘Have faith, bhaiya. If you save the boy he will be changed. Changed by your generous act. When he sees you opening those gates, he will never want to join that dirty rebellion again.’ How easily the treacherous words slid out of her mouth.

This time he was waiting for her in Shona’s drawing room. He sat on the sofa facing the door with his leg propped up on a cushion. He was wearing a new shirt.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘He said yes!’

He shifted his leg so that it pointed to her; his heel was scrubbed clean, pinkish and smooth. ‘He could still change his mind. It could be a trap.’

‘I’m telling you I fooled them,’ Rehana said. ‘They had no idea!’

‘I don’t think it’s safe.’

He was beginning to sound like Iqbal. Here she was, triumphant — over Faiz and Parveen, how sweet! — and all he could talk about was safety. She felt her face warming up. ‘You said joining the rebellion was the greatest thing you’ve ever done — well, this is the greatest thing I’ve ever done. Something for my son. Can’t you understand that?’

He seemed to consider it. Then he said, ‘Risk is too great. Aren’t you doing enough?’ He moved his arm to indicate Shona, the guerrillas she had harboured, himself.

‘No,’ she said, angry now, ‘I’m not doing enough. I want to do my part. Maybe it’s not for my son — maybe it’s something else. What, you don’t think I can love something other than my children? I can. I can love other things.’

‘But not as much.’

She was startled by this wisdom. Peering into her as though she were a pool of water. ‘No, not as much.’

Faiz had sent a message to say he would arrive at ten. At six, just after the Fajr prayer, when the sun was still rising up behind Shona, Mrs Chowdhury and Silvi appeared at the door. Rehana did not ask them why they had come so early. They didn’t ask her why she was already dressed. Mrs Chowdhury held Rehana’s hands in hers and smiled gratefully, her pale yellow eyes lined heroically with kajol.

‘Let’s have breakfast.’ Rehana said.

‘Yes, what a good idea. Silvi, help your khala-moni in the kitchen.’

‘What shall we have? Egg paratha?’ Rehana knew how to crack an egg in the middle of a paratha without breaking it.

They had just settled themselves around the table when there was a hesitant knock at the door. Rehana went to answer and found Mrs Rahman, wearing a pink cotton sari and holding a few stems of rojonigondha in her hands. The flowers smelled innocent. The grey at Mrs Rahman’s temples stood out like steel wings. All this time she’s been dyeing her hair, I didn’t know! Rehana smiled at the new knowledge. It all felt like such a long time ago.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Mrs Rahman asked. She looked wounded. ‘I didn’t know you were so involved.’

Rehana didn’t know what to say.

‘I could have helped.’

‘I rang them,’ Mrs Chowdhury said, approaching from behind Rehana. ‘Aren’t you going to invite her in?’

‘I don’t want to disturb you,’ Mrs Rahman said, shifting in the doorway, still looking hurt.

‘No, please, we’re just having breakfast.’

‘Oh, here, these are for you. They’re from my garden. I didn’t know what else to bring.’

As she was closing the door, Rehana saw Mrs Akram approaching. She was getting out of a rickshaw with another woman. Who else had Mrs Chowdhury told?

‘Rehana,’ Mrs Akram said, as she made her way up the driveway, ‘Mrs Chowdhury told us you were going to rescue Sabeer. This is Mrs Imam. Her husband was also taken.’

Rehana taught Silvi how to plunge the paratha in the hot oil, wait until it was almost crisp, then tip the egg into its centre. Mrs Imam was bringing the egg paratha in batches from the kitchen. The guests sat in a circle in the drawing room and said very little. After serving the tea, Rehana realized they were waiting for her to say something. Something brave and defiant, something to temper the images of horror stored in their hearts — the deaths of strangers, the sounds of tanks rattling through the city, the rap at the door, the rap of the bullet, the dull, heavy sound of a lover, a son, falling to the ground.

‘I can only hope,’ she said, ‘that if my son were in danger, someone — perhaps one of you — would come to his rescue.’

The egg-paratha finished, Rehana passed around a plate of wrapped betel. The party quieted down into a lazy mid-morning hush. Now would be a good time to make her escape.

‘Time to go, I think,’ she said to no one in particular. Mrs Chowdhury, red-lipped and drowsy from the betel, was sprawled across the sofa. Eggy plates and empty glasses were scattered around the room.

Rehana was about to bid them all farewell when a car sounded in the distance and fired its horn.

Mrs Chowdhury was suddenly galvanized into action. ‘He’s here!’ she cried. ‘Hurry up, your brother is here. You should go now. Get ready and stand by the gate so you don’t keep him waiting.’

The women roused themselves and shuffled towards the door. Rehana waited for them to say their goodbyes, but they just moved into the driveway and stood looking at her.

‘Please,’ she said, feigning politeness, ‘don’t wait for me.’

‘Nothing doing,’ Mrs Chowdhury said, ‘we’ll see you off.’ The others nodded in assent.