Tahmima Anam - A Golden Age

They swayed in silence, narrowing their eyes against the sun and the warm needles of wind.

The ferry stopped in Pabna, and Maya bolted across the gangplank for a snack.

‘What do you think she’ll do?’

Silvi. So he hadn’t forgotten. ‘I don’t know, beta.’

‘Sometimes you can love someone more when they’re dead,’ he said, tracing the slanting metal floor of the ferry with the toe of his sandal.

‘Yes.’

‘But then you can also forget them.’ He looked at her as though she should know which direction Silvi’s affections would take.

‘Sometimes. Sometimes they just grow with each memory. You can’t know.’

He gripped the railing with white fingers. ‘She was acting so strangely — I just, I felt her slipping away.’

‘You have to wait.’

‘Bhaiya!’ Maya called out, running across the deck. ‘They have the best jhaal moori.’ She thrust her hand out, holding a newspaper cone.

Sohail plopped a handful into his mouth. ‘Ouch! How can you bear it so spicy?’ He hung his tongue out of his mouth. ‘Quick, get me some water, I’m dying.’

Maya darted into their cabin for the flask. The huts and tenements that ribboned along the river bank were tilting towards the water, as though aware of their fate; for every monsoon the rivers ate into the floodplain, stealing vast chunks of land, entire houses with their contents, cooking pots and holey mosquito nets and gas stoves and a bridal trunk in which three generations of women have carted their possessions and next year’s rice store and dried chillies and babies and doorframes and tin roofs. And every year they were rebuilt, new tin roofs cobbled together with the remnants of the old; new mud walls; the new year’s baby — hopeful little shacks bowed by the knowledge of what would always, inevitably, happen again.

Maya returned with the flask, flushed from the effort. ‘Eesh,’ she teased, ‘still can’t bear a little morich.’ The ferry horn sounded its animal blare.

‘You have a stomach like a steel tank,’ Sohail said, tipping the flask and gulping greedily. The ferry pushed away, swaying left to right with the effort, its egg-white wake trailing behind like a signature.

‘What do you eat out there?’ Maya asked.

‘Whatever I’m given. You wouldn’t believe some of it. But I can always talk the mess cook into something extra.’

‘Still using your charms to ill ends,’ Maya said.

He smiled a young smile, which she returned, and Rehana was suddenly jolted back to the past, when their faces were fresh, unmarked by grief or history.

When they descended from the ferry in Faridpur, Sohail crouched on all fours and kissed the silty shore.

‘Will you talk to her?’ he asked Rehana.

They were at the Faridpur Station, waiting for their train to Dhaka.

‘I’ll go to see her tomorrow.’

He stalked away and returned with a box of shondesh. The sweetmaker, a lean man with an improbably protruding belly, had tied it with a pink string that matched the lettering on the box. Alauddin Sweetmeat. In Faridpur, as everywhere else in the country, only the Muslim sweetmakers were left.

‘She likes shondesh,’ Sohail said. ‘She likes the molasses ones better, but you can’t get those till winter.’

As soon as she woke on Thursday she could feel the difference. It was there, even though the house was thankfully familiar — the old teak wedding bed, the shapes of the night-time shadows, the mothball scent of the cupboard, from which last night she had pulled out sheets, pillows, kathas, for them to collapse on after the long train journey home. She had kissed Sohail on the cheek and sent him to Shona, where he had curled up on the Major’s bed and fallen asleep with his chappals still dangling from his toes.

Rehana heard her daughter’s long breathing beside her. She rose, pulling her hair into a knot, crossed to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water. As she sipped, she leaned out of the kitchen doorway and into the small side porch. It was always at this time of the day that she allowed herself a selfish moment, when the house, the world, was hers, and there was no one to love, no one to save. It lasted only a few minutes. A few minutes was all the time she would grant it.

The air was grey and heavy with night. She ducked into the bathroom, splashed water on her hands, her eyes. The backs of her ears. She bent her knees on the prayer mat. Every day she asked for the same thing. Protect my children. Forgive me. Save that man. She could not bear to utter his name. She dared to have a hope she might see him today.

She hurried to the kitchen and thought about breakfast. It was the last breakfast for a few weeks. Tomorrow was the start of Ramzaan. For one month they would eat before dawn and not again until sunset. She mixed flour and water and worked the dough with her fingers. She rolled out flat disks, enjoying the quick, steady movement. The kitchen was orange with the coming sun; she stacked the chapattis on the edge of the counter and covered them with a damp square of muslin.

She went back to the bedroom and tried to wake her daughter.

‘Ammoo, it’s so good to be home.’ Maya burrowed deeper under her katha. ‘Come,’ she said, patting the bed, ‘give me an ador.’

‘I’m already up.’

‘Come on’—she peeled back the blanket—‘please.’

‘All right,’ Rehana sighed. She sank into the mattress, which smelled of sleep and talcum powder.

‘It’s a big day,’ Maya said.

‘I know.’

Maya ran her fingers across Rehana’s forehead. ‘You feeling OK?’

‘Yes. Your doctor fixed me up!’ She searched Maya’s face for a clue. In the two months they had been in Calcutta, she hadn’t given anything away.

‘Ammoo — I want to tell you something,’ Maya said seriously. ‘The year we were in Lahore — we never talk about it.’

Immediately Rehana’s eyes began to water.

‘I want you to know — it was all right.’

‘How could it be all right?’

‘It was.’

‘You didn’t miss—’

‘Of course we missed you. We missed everything. But we were children. And it was only a year.’

‘It was a lifetime to me.’

‘You should forgive yourself, Ammoo.’

‘I thought — I keep thinking — it must have been very bad.’

Maya shook her head. ‘It wasn’t so bad.’

‘Was it very good?’ This was the other thing she worried about.

‘No — of course not.’

‘What’s the worst thing?’

‘Parveen Chachi made me wear frilly dresses — I looked like a cake every time we went anywhere.’

‘No, seriously. Tell me the worst thing. I want to know.’

‘I don’t know…’ Maya began slowly. ‘I think it was — oh, I know — I couldn’t remember your face. I kept asking Sohail, and he would say, Ammoo has the prettiest eyes, and I would nod, but I’d forgotten.’ Maya dropped her gaze and looked down at her fingernails. ‘It was a long time ago.’

‘I would have given anything — my life—’

‘I know, Ammoo. I always knew.’

At eleven, after they had both bathed and Rehana had washed her clothes and Maya had strung them up in front of the lemon tree and Rehana had picked the grit out of the lunch rice, they stepped across the street to Mrs Chowdhury’s house.

Mrs Chowdhury and Silvi met them at the gate.

‘You’re back! I thought I saw some lights on last night — beti, didn’t I say, that must be Rehana, but she wouldn’t come back without telling me, so I wasn’t sure.’ She turned to her daughter, but Silvi had disappeared into the kitchen. ‘Rehana, my goodness, you’re so thin! What happened?’

‘I haven’t been well. I brought you these — a little mishti.’