Tahmima Anam - A Golden Age

‘What is it?’ Mrs Akram asked, looking up from her mirror.

‘Whisky, you idiot,’ Mrs Rahman said.

‘What’s the matter with you — drink. God knows we deserve it.’

Rehana saw Mrs Rahman trying to catch her eye. No one moved; Mrs Chowdhury sighed and lifted a cup from the tray. ‘All right, then, as you wish.’ She looked up at the ceiling with its furry cornice. ‘I just thought Rehana needed a little mischief. After all, she won’t get married!’

This last statement caused Mrs Akram to giggle. She did it nervously, in muffled, half-snorting bursts, with a hand over her mouth.

Rehana could smell the sugary aroma of the whisky rising from the cups. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll have one.’

‘Really?’ Mrs Chowdhury almost squealed with joy.

‘Yes, sure. I’ve tried it before.’ Iqbal had once given her a taste. He’d held the glass to her mouth, withdrawing it as soon as the liquid touched her lips. It was like a feverish kiss. She picked up the teacup now and sipped tentatively. The others saw her doing it and followed, smiling into their cups. Mrs Chowdhury gulped hers down and clapped.

They began to play. Rehana won the first game with four aces and a suite of hearts. Mrs Rahman won the second, and at the end of the third Mrs Chowdhury said, ‘RUMMY!’ but there was a four missing in her row of spades. She said it didn’t matter, she’d brought the whisky, that had to count for something. Then Mrs Akram, who had to use two hands to hold up all of her cards, said, ‘But it’s still a mystery, no, why our Rehana here refuses to choose a bridegroom?’

Rehana thought Mrs Chowdhury would come to her defence, but she said, ‘It’s true, Rehana, we are always worried about you — what’s the matter?’

Rehana found they were all pointing their faces at her with fixed, devouring stares. The whisky flooded into her stomach at that moment, as Rehana realized she no longer had the energy to laugh it off and be cheerful; she didn’t want to blush and bite her lip and pretend to be coy. The truth was, she had no intention of remarrying. There was that one time she had considered it, before she’d built Shona. But ever since the children had returned, the urge to be loved in that way had disappeared from her altogether. It was too risky. It could too easily go wrong. And the thought that some man might be cruel to her children was enough to make the bile rise in her throat.

She didn’t say any of this to the gin-rummy ladies. She just stopped attending the card parties. She complained of a headache, and then Maya caught the chicken pox, and so of course Sohail had to have it too, and soon they stopped asking altogether. By then Mrs Sengupta had taken her place at the table. Rehana tried to ignore her certainty that they were muttering about her refusal to marry and her general aloofness as they tossed the cards to the middle of the table and sipped their whisky-studded tea. She knew she must seem strange and remote to them. That they must wonder what was wrong. But even if she tried to explain it to them she knew they could never understand. It had never happened to anyone else.

Mrs Chowdhury arrived first. From the kitchen Rehana heard her twisting the latch on the gate. ‘Maya, keep an eye on the biryani,’ she said, and hurried to the front door.

‘Sweeten your tongue, Rehana,’ Mrs Chowdhury said, squeezing through the doorway, ‘I have some news!’ She held out a box of laddoos. A tall man in a military uniform followed her in. Behind him was Mrs Chowdhury’s daughter, Silvi, overdressed for the occasion in a ropy gold necklace and a pair of ruby earrings.

Mrs Chowdhury waved towards the uniformed man. ‘My son-in-law!’ she giggled, causing a ripple through her neck, her chin and her bottom lip. She stuffed a piece of laddoo into Rehana’s mouth.

‘Really — oh.’ The laddoo was like a lump of candy; it travelled coldly down Rehana’s throat. ‘You told me you were accepting proposals, but I didn’t know things would happen so quickly.’ She swallowed and tried to smile. ‘Congratulations.’

‘Well — they’re not engaged yet. But I wanted you to be the first to know.’

The uniformed man greeted her. ‘As-Salaam Alaikum.’ His mouth was rubber-band tight. Just above was the neatly sewn scar of a cleft lip.

‘Walaikum As-Salaam,’ Rehana replied. ‘Please, come in, sit down.’ She didn’t quite know what to say next, so settled on more pleasantries. ‘I’m very glad you could come.’

‘Silvi, you sit here,’ Mrs Chowdhury instructed, ‘and jamaibabu, you sit beside her.’

Silvi and the uniformed man did as they were told.

‘The boy came over last week,’ Mrs Chowdhury whispered, ‘with his mother and his aunt. Very handsome, don’t you think? Doesn’t talk very much, but then I was thinking, that is just perfect for my shy Silvi. They’re two of a kind — and he’s a lieutenant!’ She tittered and the ripples returned, spreading to her cheeks.

Just as Rehana was trying to think of how she would break the news to Sohail, the Senguptas crossed the garden and knocked on the drawing-room window. Their son Mithun was in tow, dragging his feet in the grass.

‘Hello — it’s us.’

‘Come in, come in,’ Rehana said, grateful for the distraction.

Mrs Sengupta was wearing a peacock-blue sari and a sleeveless blouse that showed off her gleaming, ebony shoulders. Taller than her husband by at least three inches, she took advantage of her height by mounting a pair of platform heels and cutting her hair short so that it revealed the ridged length of her neck, which was adorned with a heavy gold mangalsutra, the ornament that identified her as married, and Hindu, and rich. Her husband, by contrast, was a squat man with tiny, wringing hands.

‘Mithun, would you like some lemonade?’ Rehana asked, turning her attention to the boy.

Mithun put a hot hand on Rehana’s wrist. ‘Tea, please. I have a headache.’

‘I don’t think you’re allowed tea, beta.’

‘No — that’s right,’ his mother said. ‘What’s got into you?’

‘You said it was a special occasion .’

‘True,’ Rehana said. ‘It is a special occasion. How about an orange cola?’ She left to get the drinks while Mrs Chowdhury repeated her news to the Senguptas.

Sohail and Maya were slicing cucumbers in the kitchen.

Rehana’s only thought was to get Sohail out of the house. She couldn’t think beyond that; eventually he would have to return, but she just needed time to come up with a way to tell him the news first, to somehow soften the blow. ‘Sohail,’ she said, ‘I need you to pick up some sweets from Alauddin.’

‘Aren’t we having jilapi?’

She cleared her throat and attempted to sound bossy. ‘I don’t think it’ll be enough — you know how people like a little something sweet after biryani.’

‘It’s all the way on the other side of town — I’ll be at least an hour.’

‘Don’t worry, people will stay all afternoon. You’ll be back in time.’ She gave him a few notes. ‘Take a rickshaw,’ she said. He turned towards the drawing room, more irritated than suspicious. ‘No, go out through the back or you’ll be held up for hours if Mrs Chowdhury gets hold of you.’ She watched him guiltily as he shrugged and ducked out of the kitchen.

Maya could not be duped. ‘What’s going on, Ammoo?’ She sat squatting behind the curved blade of the boti, her polka-dot sari wound around her ankles.

Rehana peered out of the kitchen window to make sure Sohail was out of earshot. ‘Silvi’s getting married.’

‘ What?’

‘I know. It’s all of a sudden. I knew Mrs Chowdhury was looking for a boy, but they’ve hardly met.’