Tahmima Anam - A Golden Age

‘Chachi? Are you all right?’

‘Nothing. I should probably have some breakfast — haven’t eaten all morning.’

‘There must be something in the kitchen. Shall I take you?’

‘No, please don’t worry. The list — you’ll keep checking? Sabeer Mustafa. I mean, no — Mithun. Mithun Sengupta. You got the name?’

‘Yes, Chachi.’

The spinning went on as Rehana made her way to the canteen. The din of the hospital was by now familiar to her, and she had learned to ignore it, just as she could ignore the pressing mass of people with urgent faces who lined the corridors. But now there was a roar in her head like rushing water. She put her hand to her mouth and felt the flame of her breath. I need to sit down, she said to herself. Just for a moment. She was scanning the room, looking for an empty chair, when Maya intercepted her.

‘Ammoo, are you all right?’

‘Nothing, jaan, just a little weakness.’ A feathery shiver passed through her body. ‘The telegram — why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Ammoo, let’s sit down somewhere.’

‘OK.’ Maya grabbed hold of Rehana’s hand. They made their way though the beds. Some of the women waved to Rehana as they passed and cried out, ‘Apa!’ Rehana heard them as a warbled, rippling echo.

‘Maya-jaan, I’m not feeling well,’ she whispered. Maya was in front of her now, pushing people aside. ‘Make way, please!’ she was saying.

Rehana slipped out of Maya’s grip. The people rushing into the hospital overcame her, and she let go, falling into the throng, strange, icy hands gripping her shoulders, raising her up, her arms flopping like fish fins, and then darkness.

Rehana drifted in and out of a heavy-lidded sleep, her throat thick with questions. She dreamed of Sabeer, his cracked lips mouthing something incoherent, and Mithun, with a face like Sohail’s, under water, wailing for his mother.

‘Ma,’ she heard Sohail say, ‘I’m here, Ma.’

When she woke, she patted herself; her face was still hot, but the shivering had stopped, and now there was just an aching heaviness in her limbs and a hard throbbing in her head. She rubbed her feet together; they were buttery, even the heels. Someone had been tending to them. She turned and caught a whiff of jobakusum.

‘My hair…’

‘Mrs Sengupta’s been washing it,’ she heard a man’s voice say. ‘Doesn’t speak to anybody, just does it. And your feet.’ The voice had a weathered rasp.

She wondered if she was dreaming. ‘Sohail?’

He leaned over her so she could see it was really him.

‘When did you come?’

‘I was coming anyway — you didn’t get my letter. Just a few days. You’ve been in and out.’

‘What happened?’

‘Jaundice. Rao said you’ve probably had it for weeks, you just didn’t know. It’s very contagious — they had to check everyone.’

‘Maya?’

‘She’s fine.’

Rehana had so many questions, but she was too tired to form the words. ‘Hold my hand,’ was all she managed to say. Before she drifted away, she saw Sohail’s arm, caramel and shiny with sun, moving across the bed.

‘I have an assignment, Ammoo,’ she heard him say the next day. He had brought her a green coconut with a triangular hole cut into the top, which she was tipping slowly into her mouth. ‘We’re going to take out the grid.’

The coconut water was milky and sweet. She dipped her finger into it and pulled out a strip of the flesh. Sohail smiled through his beard-cloud. Rehana couldn’t help noticing how beautiful he was, and so alive, his eyes electric as he told her the news.

‘Whole city will be in total darkness. We’re going to dig up the stash in the garden, Ammoo. I have to go back to Dhaka.’

‘What about us?’

‘You too. I’ve come to take you home. And Maya.’

Home. She wanted to throw her hands in the air and send up a cheer.

‘Is it safe?’

‘It’s been two months since you left and we’ve kept a close watch on the house — it doesn’t look like they know anything.’

‘Sabeer died.’

‘I know.’ His face betrayed nothing — no relief, no shame.

‘He didn’t die for nothing, Ma. We’ve made some major gains. Just last week we took the Pak Army out of one of their major supply routes in Comilla.’

‘Are we going to win?’ It was the first time she had asked him the question.

Sohail was about to say, Yes, of course. But she gave him a weak squeeze of the wrist that meant she wanted to know the truth, and he paused for a minute before saying, ‘It’s not impossible.’ He waited another moment, and then said, ‘We’re outnumbered, outgunned, outmanned. But sometimes we can beat the hell out of them.’ And again he smiled his cloudy smile and said, ‘I can taste the end. The modhu-roshogolla-honey end.’

When she opened her eyes again, Mrs Sengupta was at the foot of her cot. She looked like a dark apparition, the washed planes of her face muted and still. She wore a clean sari and flat sandals. Her hair was oiled and tied into a glossy braid.

‘Now I’m the one in the sickbed,’ Rehana said.

The barest smile touched Mrs Sengupta’s lips.

What happened to you, Rehana wanted to ask. Instead she said, ‘You washed my hair?’

Mrs Sengupta bent her head but didn’t open her mouth. She waited stiffly at the foot of the bed. A few moments struggled by. ‘I’m going back to Dhaka,’ Rehana said finally. ‘Why don’t you come? The war will be over soon. It’ll be like it was before. You can stay at Shona — we’ll be neighbours again. Or come and stay at the bungalow with me. Remember Road 5? And Mrs Chowdhury, and our card-friends — they’ll all want to see you.’ Rehana’s throat was sandy. ‘It’s your home too. Come with us.’

Mrs Sengupta showed no hint of understanding. She kept her eyes on Rehana’s face and fingered her glass bangle, moving it up and down her forearm. Then she walked around to the side of the cot. Rehana reached a hand to her hand. She felt the blood leaping under Mrs Sengupta’s skin. At that very moment she was convinced the glass bangle had kept her friend alive, like a pulse at her wrist.

Mrs Sengupta dipped her face to the cot. Rehana thought she might be trying to tell her something; she struggled to lift her head. It was the barest, faintest touch as Mrs Sengupta’s lips brushed Rehana’s cheek. Then she rose and turned to go.

Rehana made one last attempt. ‘Please, Supriya — come home with me.’

But she was already gone, pulling the sari over her shoulder and moving with that slow grace Rehana had envied since the first day she had arrived at Shona, perched on her high heels with a book under her arm.

They decided to take a long ferry route, crossing the border in Rajshahi and floating downstream on the Padma, past Kushtia, Pabna, Faridpur. It would take two days, and they would arrive late at night on Wednesday after transferring to a train in Faridpur. Sohail would stay at Shona. On Thursday, Joy would come, and they would dig up the rifles buried beside the rosebushes. On Friday, after sunset, they would take out the power grid.

Sohail, Maya and Rehana spent most of the journey on the ferry deck, spread out on a bench that hugged the left side of the boat. The air roared past their ears, making it hard to breathe or to say much of anything. When they spoke, their words were sent up to the air, where the clouds curdled together, or into the water that swirled confidently below. The Padma spread out before them like the sea, its banks so far apart they were visible only as grey lines on the horizon, and in hints offered by the distant shore — a clutch of seagulls, the dotted wave of a fisherman.