Tahmima Anam - A Golden Age

‘And Silvi agreed?’ Maya jabbed aggressively at her cucumber.

Rehana nodded.

‘God. My poor brother. What should we do?’

‘I don’t know. Just make sure he doesn’t bump into them when he comes back.’

In the drawing room Rehana found that Mrs Rahman and Mrs Akram had already arrived. The two went everywhere together, and always without their husbands or their children, wearing fugitive looks and sighing about escaping from home. Rehana was happy to see the room filling up; it made her resist the urge to stare at Silvi and her fiancé. And now there was the food to distract them all.

‘Lunch is ready,’ she announced, setting the heavy tray of biryani on the table. The guests made their way across the room as Rehana filled up the plates and passed them around.

‘A wedding in the neighbourhood,’ Mrs Akram said; ‘you must be the first — what fun we’ll have!’

Rehana piled on the biryani. ‘Let me take your plate, Mr Sengupta. You must have some more.’ Rehana had prepared a special vegetarian dish for the Senguptas.

‘Enough! Your tenants will be eating you out of house and home,’ he protested, putting his hand over his plate.

‘It’s been ten years,’ Rehana said. ‘Time you stopped calling yourselves tenants.’ She made for the kitchen to replenish the biryani.

Rehana found Silvi lingering in the corridor. ‘It’s really good this year, khala-moni.’ She always addressed Rehana as khala-moni, as though Mrs Chowdhury and Rehana were real sisters. Silvi still had a pale, ashen complexion, though the pallor suited her; without it, her light eyes might have been eclipsed, but, as it was, they reflected the sun and shone like bright, chalky pinpoints.

‘Thank you — I made it in such a hurry.’ Rehana’s eyes lingered on Silvi, searching for an answer to the question she couldn’t bring herself to ask.

‘I wouldn’t have guessed — it’s delicious. You make the best biryani in Dhaka.’

Rehana nodded, accepting the compliment. Silvi glanced down at herself and straightened her necklace.

There was a long silence. ‘So. You’re getting married,’ Rehana said finally. She tried to sound cheerful.

‘Yes, I…’ Silvi stammered, ‘well, my mother was worried. I don’t like her to worry. She has high blood pressure, you know.’

‘Well, she looks very pleased,’ Rehana said. She cupped Silvi’s cheek, felt it yielding under her fingers. ‘You’ve made her very happy.’

Sohail arrived with the sweets after the guests had collapsed under the shade of the tent. Rehana tried to intercept him at the gate, but she was carrying a handful of plates and Mrs Chowdhury got to him first.

‘Sohail!’ Mrs Chowdhury grabbed Sohail’s arm. ‘Where have you been? I have news. Silvi’s getting married!’

Rehana saw Sohail brushing the hair back from his forehead with raking fingers. His other hand, holding the sweets box, rocked back and forth.

‘Come, come, you must meet him. Sabeer, this is Mrs Haque’s son, Sohail. A very old friend of Silvi — they were inseparable as children — Sohail, baba, this is Lieutenant Sabeer Mustafa.’

‘Welcome to the family,’ Sohail said.

‘Thank you,’ Sabeer replied, standing up and straightening his uniform.

‘Sohail, jaan, will you help me with these plates?’ Rehana attempted to hand him the stack.

‘Well,’ he said, ignoring her, ‘I’ve just got tickets to tomorrow’s cricket match. Pakistan vs England MCC.’ He fanned out the tickets and waved them in the air. ‘Who wants to come? Lieutenant, will you join us?’

‘No, I’m afraid I’m on duty tomorrow,’ Sabeer said.

‘Silvi? Will you?’ Sohail pointed the tickets at her.

‘I don’t think so,’ Mrs Chowdhury said, jumping in. ‘We have a lot of preparations to make.’

‘I’ll come,’ Mrs Sengupta said cheerfully. ‘Your mother will come too, won’t you, Rehana?’

‘I’ll come as well. I’m afraid there’s no room for you after all, Silvi,’ Maya said pointedly. ‘Another time perhaps.’

There was a long silence as Maya and Rehana finished clearing the rest of the plates. Rehana was hoping someone would begin a conversation, something to change the subject, but no one was saying anything. Mrs Rahman and Mrs Akram passed around the box of sweets. Finally Mr Sengupta brought up everyone’s favorite topic: the election.

‘How are things on the student front, Sohail?’ he asked.

‘It’s uncertain, Uncle,’ Sohail replied, his eyes darting around the garden. ‘It’s been two months since Mujib won the election. They should have convened the national assembly by now and made him Prime Minister, but they keep delaying. Some of the students are urging Mujib to take more drastic action.’ He suddenly looked weary; his shirtsleeves were crumpled, as though someone had grabbed his arms and pulled him into a tight embrace.

‘Drastic action?’

‘He should declare independence.’

‘But he’s won the election — surely now his demands will be met?’ Mr Sengupta said.

‘Yes,’ Sohail said. ‘But they’ve postponed the assembly too many times.’

Sohail looked as if he were about to start speechifying again. Rehana felt her face growing hot.

‘Mujib is a canny politician,’ Mrs Rahman interjected. ‘He must know something we don’t.’

‘Perhaps there’s still a chance for diplomacy,’ Mr Sengupta said.

‘Diplomacy? Forgive me, Chacha. You think Bhutto and Yahya want diplomacy?’

Sohail seemed on the point of turning away from the conversation when Sabeer raised his hand. ‘You think we can make it as our own country?’ he asked. Rehana wondered if Sohail would take the bait.

He did. ‘If you knew anything about the country you would know that West Pakistan is bleeding us out. We earn most of the foreign exchange. We grow the rice, we make the jute, and yet we get nothing — no schools, no hospitals, no army. We can’t even speak our own bloody language!’

Rehana waited for Sabeer to say something, something aggressive and blunt; his military training would have taught him that, but he turned away instead, fingering the buttons on his uniform.

‘Cyclone, young fellow,’ Mr Sengupta interrupted, attempting to make peace. ‘Nature. We live in a low-lying delta. And we have bad luck.’

‘Starvation is not caused by God. It is caused by irresponsible governments.’ Sohail rolled and unrolled the sleeve of his kurta. Rehana wondered if he was going to go on talking about the country’s fortunes, the jute money, the cyclone. But he looked as though he’d run out of air. ‘What we have here is an emergency,’ he said in a tired voice. ‘There is no possibility of reconciliation now. Mujib should have declared independence.’

Rehana had ordered two crates of orange cola, which she hurriedly passed around. She had to get the party back on course. The guests gratefully accepted the drinks and began to sip. They clinked the small glass bottles and smiled hesitantly into their straws. Their saris and kurtas flapped in the sugary March breeze, and the evening regained its still feeling, like the heavy pause before a mighty thunderclap.

The gin-rummy ladies offered to help Rehana put away the biryani. She wasn’t sure she wanted the company, but they insisted, and she was too tired to protest.

‘You didn’t do a very good job of finishing the food,’ Rehana complained, examining the trays of rice. ‘I’ll have to send all of this to the mosque.’

‘You might make up a packet for me,’ Mrs Chowdhury said. ‘You know how much I love it the next day.’

‘I’ve already put some aside for you,’ Rehana said, presenting her with a cardboard box. She saw Mrs Chowdhury eyeing it for size, calculating the number of meals she might make of it.