MY YOUTH

Autobiography - Volume II
Taslima Nasreen

Chapter One
AGE

I had just submitted my application form for the SSC Examination, when �a four
feet one inch cat-eyed Da Vinci� Kalyani Pal, the Bangla teacher, declared that I
would not be able to take the exam. What was the reason? �You are underage, you
cannot take the exam at fourteen; you have to be fifteen.� But how was I supposed
to acquire a whole year? Disappointed, I returned home and informed everyone that
I wouldn�t be able to take the exam that year. Why not? I was underage. After much
deliberation Ma said �I have heard that many things can�t be done because one is
too old for them, you can�t join the University or you can�t get jobs.� Maybe so,
but for the SSC the reverse is true. If you are underage, sit at home and grow
old. Come back to take the exam when you are fifteen. Towards dusk, Ma read the
Esha Namaz and read two parts of the special sixth prayer known as the Nafal Namaz
as well, bowing her head at the darbar of Allah. She informed the Almighty, in
tears, that her daughter was not being able to take her exams. However, she was
sure that if Allah chose, He could deliver her daughter from this terrible
eligibility problem; enable her to not only take the exam but also to pass
successfully.

I do not know to what extent Allah came to my rescue, but Baba certainly did. He
went to my school the very next day and scratching out the year 1962 from the SSC
form, he wrote 1961. He told me that from now on I had better glue myself to the
study desk and chair. I was to stop all gossip and mischief and concentrate fully
on my studies so that I passed my SSC exam in the First Division with four
Distinctions. If I didn�t, he would throw me out of the house he had said without
mincing words.

My age had been increased by a year. A child, I would be taking the exam with
elders. I was overjoyed. Pricking my balloon of joy Dada said, �Who said you were
born in 1961?�
�Baba did.�

�Rubbish. Baba had lowered your age.�

�That means I was actually born in 1961?�

�Not 1961, you were born in 1960. I remember seeing the parade at the Circuit
House on 14th August, Pakistan�s Independence Day. You were born soon after.�

Chhotda got up, and tightening the knot on his lungi and exposing his black gums,
added, �What are you saying Dada. How could she have been born in 1960? She was
born in 1959.�

I was crushed. I went to Ma and demanded, �Tell me my real date of birth, will
you!� Ma said, �You were born on the twelfth day of Rabi-ul-awal , the third
month of the Muslim calendar , I don�t recall the year.�

�All this Rabi-ul-awal doesn�t work at school. Tell me the English year. The
date.�

�Can one remember years and dates after so long? Ask your father. He might.�

There were two birth dates, Dada�s and Chhotda�s, written on the first page of
Baba�s Anatomy book. There was no trace of Yasmin�s and my birth dates or years in
any corner of any one of the twelve hundred pages of the book. In fact, they could
not be found on any scrap of paper in the house. Ma was born on Id, one of the
Chhota Ids. Which year? That was not known. Till today, no one has had the courage
to question Baba about the date or year of his birth. Most worried, I was about to
spend the entire day calculating anyone and everyone�s ages. Get Ma�s age, by
adding twelve years to Dada�s age and get mine by subtracting ten, but Ma said
�Leave all this and study. Years flow by like water. It seems just a few days ago
that I tied my hair into banana shaped plaits and ran to school, and today my
children are passing their BAs and MAs.�

Ma may not have been worried about anybody�s age but I was. I asked any khala or
mama from Nanibari visiting us at Aubokash whether they knew the year of my birth.
No one did. No one remembered. I confronted Nani when I visited her. Spitting a
mouthful of paan juice into a spittoon, she said �Felu was born in the month of
Shravan, you were born the same year in the month of Kartik.

�Same year was which year?�

�Who keeps track of which year who was born! Kids have been born every year in
this house. If there had been only one or two, one could have calculated years and
dates.�

I became obsessed with as insignificant a thing as the date of birth. The matter
induced a mood of despondency amongst people both at Aubokash and at Nanibari.
Nani remembered that on the day that I was born, Koi fish spawn were cast into the
pond in her house. Runu khala remembered that Tutu mama had been running between
his room and the toilet that day, and had slipped and fallen with a thud on the
stairs, but she couldn�t recall which year that was. Hashem mama remembered
picking up four golden frogs from the courtyard and dropping them into the well,
but he didn�t have a clue about the date or the year.

I had never before felt this keen desire to know my year of birth. Baba had
substituted 61 for 62, ensuring that I took the exams. No one could complain about
my being underage. I was happy. I could experience the joy of studying in right
earnest. But my mind remained occupied with the unknown age factor. It was as if
my age was a person standing miles away from me. Someone whom I was always about
to meet, but never did, although the meeting was imperative. When I had enrolled
at the Vidyamoyee School, I had asked Ma my age and she had told me I was seven.
Even when I was promoted to the new class and asked her, Ma still said I was
seven. �Why seven, I should be eight!� I had protested. Ma had inspected me from
head to toe, slowly shaken her head from side to side and said, �Eight would be
too much, you must be seven only.� The next year she said eleven. Why eleven?
Because it seemed I looked like eleven. I was growing tall like a �banana tree�,
so I had to be eleven, thought Ma. Even though I could never find out my age from
Ma, I always held the belief that I could from Baba. That was because the wisest
person in the house was Baba. He was also more educated than anyone else. He was a
storehouse of knowledge. He was, after all, the head of the household. When he
told me I was nine years old, he meant nine. However, Baba had also not kept a
record of my birthday - that much was very clear. If he had, then next to Dada and
Chhotda�s birth dates, my birthday would have been mentioned there. It was not.
This feeling of non-existence engulfed me the whole day long; it left me sitting
mournfully in the verandah; it made me ask Jori�s Ma, who was forever sweeping our
courtyard, about her age. On hearing the question, Jori�s Ma straightened her
cramped waist and stood upright. It was the only time she would rest the entire
day. It was the only time she could actually call her own. After thinking for a
while she lowered her eyes from the sky and gradually bent to sweep the courtyard
again. Then she said with a nod, �Nineteen.� The last light of the evening was
lightly touching the courtyard. As it did, it touched Jori�s Ma�s dark body, too.

Ma came and sat on the verandah. Since I did not like Jori�s mother�s answer about
being nineteen, I asked Ma about her age.

�She should be at least forty or forty-two, could even be forty-five�, Ma said,

looking askance at Jori�s Ma�s loose breasts hanging from her limp body.

�How old is Jori, Jori�s Ma?�

To tell us Jori�s age her mother again straightened her waist and stood up. Ma
scolded her. She said, �Hurry up, sweep the courtyard and then go and eat. Then
scour the utensils, and put the rice for dinner on the stove.�

We all had had our lunch. Only Jori�s Ma was left. She, alone, had to finish the
cooking, feed everyone, scour the utensils, clean and mop the house, and sweep the
courtyard, before she could eat.

To think of Jori�s age, her mother needed to look up at the sky again. The reddish
sky was filled with flocks of birds flying towards their nests. Jori�s Ma had
never been able to return to any nest with her daughter. After the birth of Jori,
she had been bound to one house or another - bound by work.

�How old? Twelve! Khala, won�t Jori be twelve years old?�

Jori�s mother asked, looking at Ma helplessly.

�How can you say twelve? She appears to be at least fourteen or fifteen.�

Ma did not know when Jori was born. She had not seen her at birth. Jori�s mother
had come to stay in this house along with Jori only two years ago. Ma kept Jori�s
mother for this house, and left Jori at Nanibari to run errands for Nani. Whatever
Ma said about ages were all conjectures. Ma guessed ages looking at the physical
appearance of people. However, these conjectures were happily accepted by Jori�s
mother. From now on Jori�s mother knew her daughter�s age to be �fourteen or
fifteen�, and her own to be �forty or forty-two, or even forty-five.�

Jori�s Ma gathered the fallen leaves, branches and feathers in the courtyard and
heaped them on the garbage pile near the pond. She then lit a small oil lamp in
the kitchen and sat down to eat rice and aubergine curry. Meanwhile Ma sat on the
verandah, sorrowfully staring at the coops of swans and hens running about. I sat
with my legs spread out at her feet, listening to the whirring buzz about my head,
of the evening concert of dancing mosquitoes along with the sounds of ululation
drifting in from Dolly Pal�s house. I watched how darkness slowly fell from the
sky onto our cleanly swept earthen courtyard, like water droplets dripping from
the wet hair of a melancholy maiden.

Staring at the segun tree behind the tin shed, I asked Ma softly, �How old is the
segun tree, Ma?�

Ma looked strangely at the tree and said, �� seems to be three hundred years old.�

How Ma guessed the ages of all human beings and trees, I could not understand.

�Why don�t people live for three hundred years, Ma?�

Ma did not utter a word. Darkness had enveloped her as though bats� wings had
flapped and covered her face, which otherwise always had the carefree appearance
of sea gulls flying playfully over the waters.

Anxieties about age have continued to haunt me since then. I suddenly had the
desire to celebrate my birthday according to the date written on my SSC form. It
helped that Baba was in a good mood. As soon as I asked, a cake, a basket of
malaikari sweets, one packet of chanachur, one pound of sweet biscuits and a dozen
oranges arrived. In the evening I lit a candle on the cake. In the presence of
whosoever was at home and one single precious guest, Chandana, I blew out the
candle. I cut the one-pound cake with the only knife that could be found in the
kitchen � the long knife used for the Holy Sacrifice of cows. Who would offer the
first piece of cake to me was a matter of hot dispute between Geeta and Yasmin.
Geeta finally won. Her desires and wishes, she being the daughter-in-law of the
house, were given more importance than Yasmin�s. Yasmin moved away from the cake,
sporting a long face. Meanwhile, before the camera light could come on, Geeta
fixed a sweet smile on her face and offered me a piece, with her eye on the
camera. My birthday was thus celebrated in the midst of cake-cutting, clapping,
camera clicks, biscuits soaked in the malaikari, and lips licking the white icing
on the cake. In this house it was the first time any birthday had been celebrated,
and that, too, owing to my own enterprise. Chandana gave me three books of poems
as a present. Raja Jaye, Raja Ashei (The King goes, the King comes), Adiganta
Nagna Paddhwani (Bare Footfalls Reaching up to the Horizon) and Na Premik, Na
Biplabi (Neither Lover nor Revolutionary). Dada gave me Rabindranath�s Galpaguchho
(Collection of Stories). This was the first time in my life that I had received
presents on my birthday. I couldn�t take my hands, my eyes or my mind away from
the books. Much later that night, Ma said with a parched throat, �You could have
broken a piece of sweet and given it to Jori�s mother. She has never eaten a sweet
in her life. She could have tasted some, too.� I suddenly realized that not just
Jori�s mother even Ma had not got a share of the birthday food. Ma of course said
that she could do without it. If ever a biscuit or handful of chanachur was
offered to Ma, she said �I really eat only rice. You all are kids, you eat. You
all peck at rice like birds, so you need to eat other foods as well.�

After my birthday celebrations, Yasmin became very keen to celebrate her own. She
caught hold of Baba to find out the date and month of her birth. Baba kept putting
her off, but Yasmin doggedly persisted. After keeping her hanging for almost two
months, Baba told her it was the 9th of September. That was all she needed. Before
the 9th of September could come, Yasmin sent Baba a long list, three kinds of
fruit, two kinds of sweet, along with chanachur and biscuits. She had already
invited almost all the girls at school. When Baba saw the list he said, �What is a
birthday? There is no need for having birthdays. Study hard and become a worthy
individual. I do not want any celebrations in my house.� Ma cajoled Baba, in
secret �She wants to celebrate her birthday, let her! Girls are Lakshmis, it is
not right to beat and discipline them. They too have some desires. She is being
childish, but indulge her for once.� Ma would use the respectful address �aapni�
for some time and then switch to the more intimate �tumi�. The reasons for
descending or ascending from the familiar �tumi� to the formal �aapni� were so
numerous, that by now neither Baba nor we were even startled by the change of
terms. However, whether she used �tumi� or �aapni�, in a light or serious tone,
whether she cried or laughed, whatever way Ma voiced her desires, Baba gave them
the least importance. Ma knew this as well as Baba.

�Forget all this meaningless fun and games. The daughter dances and I see the
mother doing the same� nothing but a dance of apes.�

Ma did not get cowed down by Baba�s frowns. She continued to cajole him while
massaging hot garlic oil into his cold-affected chest and back. �Once you marry
off the girls, they go away to another home. Whatever dreams and desires they
have, must be fulfilled in their parents home itself.� Even if the garlic oil
softened Baba�s flesh, it certainly didn�t seem to soften his heart. Yasmin was
disappointed. Nothing was being done to celebrate her birthday. However,
surprising everyone � that afternoon, Baba sent us all the items in Yasmin�s list.
The girl danced with delight. Arranging all the food in saucers, all dressed up,
she sat staring at the black main gate all evening, awaiting her guests. Since no
one appeared, Yasmin had no alternative but to invite three of her neighbourhood
gollachhut playmates when the girls came to the grounds late in the evening, and
feed them the birthday feast.

When Chhotda returned home at dusk, he was surprised to see the display of food.
�Hey, what is the occasion today?�

Yasmin laughed shyly and said, �It�s my birthday.�

�Who said you were born on this day?�

�Baba said so.� Once Baba had said something, it did not behove anyone to utter a
word in contradiction; for everyone at home, whatever Baba said, was the truth.
There was after all no one more knowledgeable and intelligent than him.

�Okay, understood. You needed a birth date, so you asked Baba for one, and he made
up one.�

Yasmin was stunned at Chhotda�s audacity.

That day too, the one who did not get to share even a single piece of Yasmin�s
cake was Ma. She had left the house in the afternoon to return only at dusk. In
her hand was a brown paper packet, inside which was a red coloured dress material
for Yasmin. Ma was going to stitch a frilled frock for Yasmin herself. Having no
money, she had, without telling anyone, borrowed some from Hashem mama, and gone
to Gaurhari Cloth House and bought three yards of the material.

When I saw it, I leapt up shouting �But it is not her birthday today!�
�Who said it isn�t her birthday?�

�Chhotda did.�

�So what!� Ma scolded. �Never mind if it�s not her birthday. The girl wanted to
have a little fun, let her.�

We never got clothes except on the occasion of Id. Baba gave us clothes only once
a year and that was on Chhota Id. Before the next year�s Chhota Id could come, our
dresses would either tear or become small. If one requested Baba for new clothes
he would snarl and say, �Don�t you have two dresses, wear one and wash it when
it�s dirty, and wear the other. There is no need to have more than two dresses.�
Ma would increase the length of our short dresses with sari borders, or any other
extra piece of cloth and mend the tears. School going girls normally had two kinds
of clothes, one to wear at home and the other to wear outside. If ever I wanted to
keep my Id clothes for wearing outside, and asked for clothes to wear at home,
Baba said, �Why do you have to go out? If you have to go out anywhere, that is to
your school. For that you have your school uniform.� At school, girls were given
the liberty to wear clothes other than their uniforms when a cultural function was
held or a picnic organized. The girls wore different dresses for different
functions. Since I wore the same dress for each and every occasion, one of my
classmates asked me once, �Don�t you have any other clothes?� I was so afflicted
by shame that I ran and hid myself behind a pillar for a very long time. Baba had
never refused us our school uniforms. He personally took us to Gaurhari Cloth
House to buy the material and then went to the tailor shop at Ganginar Par. When
the tailor took our measurements, he repeatedly instructed the tailor to make the
uniforms larger, so that they would last longer. Even at the shoe shops, Baba
would say to the shopkeeper, �Make sure the shoes are a little bigger, so that
they can be used for a longer time.� I found that even the clothes and shoes
larger in size, shrank rather fast. Ma said, �The clothes and shoes don�t get
smaller, you all outgrow them.� As we kept growing physically, I used to be scared
that Baba would get angry. Later when Dada was studying at Dhaka University, he
saved money from his monthly allowance and bought Yasmin and me two silk dresses.
Second hand foreign dresses bought from the pavements, landir maal, cheap stuff,
but there was no end to our happiness on being given even these.

Yasmin was delightedly jumping all over the house wrapped in the red cloth that Ma
had bought for her. Ma sat in the dark verandah with her hair hanging loose, and
watched the bright red Yasmin, who appeared rather beautiful in the glow of the
lighted room.

Chapter Two

WILD WIND

She came on transfer from Comilla and took admission in the new school in
Mymensingh. We established eye contact the very day she joined class. Her almost
wholly shut eyes spoke volumes on that first day itself. Of course, on that day,
she stuck close to her paternal or maternal cousin sister Seema Dewan. She did the
same on the second day also. She sat on my bench on the third day, and after that
she did not sit anywhere else. Chandana�s complexion was like virgin paper, her
nose was as if chiseled by stone. Half her eyes were concealed by her eyelids. The
other half twinkled directly at me and lighted up my heart. When her loose, long,
thick hair freely tumbled down her back like monsoon rain, it secretly soothed my
entire body. Ever since Dilruba left, the seat next to me had remained unreserved.
Before I knew it, Chandana had taken over that place. Every day Chandana�s sounds,
smells, complexion and Dilruba�s absence hovered over me like shadows. Chandana
was not the only girl newly admitted to the class. Flocks of girls from Vidyamoyee
were coming in. They were the same rebellious friends of mine. Yet the fragrance
of our relationship in which I was totally submerged, remained fresh and
u
unaffected.

The Residential Adarsha Balika Vidyayatan or Model Girls School stood in a

deserted corner of the town. The number of girls here could be counted on one�s
fingers. However, in the SSC exam, their results were better than the Vidyamoyee
girls. Not only that, the first division average in this school was higher than
any other girls� school. Hence, my father pushed me there in the seventh grade,
just like other fathers did. If not possible in the seventh or eighth, then
ninth�tenth graders were pushed into this school, and had to spend a long time in
the wilderness. As a student of the senior-most class, I was overjoyed at that
time. I wrote CLASS X boldly on the covers of my books, more prominently than even
my own name.
m

While I was flying high with Chandana in her wild ways, my SSC exams hung over my
head like Damocles� sword, threatening to invade my home and enter every nook and
corner. Baba advised me to learn by heart and internalize each word on every page
of every book. My world was to be surrounded by nothing else but dark black
letters. However, my desire to follow Baba�s advice would vanish as soon as Baba
left the house or the sound of his snores became audible. On the way to school the
one-class senior boys of Edward School wearing ironed clothes would be leaning
over, with sweet smiles peeping from the corners of their eyes and mouths. After
seeing them, my whole day would be suffused with red, blue, green, yellow and
every other colour in the world. On reaching school, my pre-occupation was more
with Mehbooba who walked to school from Natakghar Lane than with my studies. She
gave me all the details about the boys, their names, who stayed where, who was
thinking of what etc. Mehbooba gathered all the information from her brothers, and
the details she didn�t get, she guessed. Whenever Chandana opened her fist, love
letters poured out like monsoon rain. She had begun to receive at least four or
five letters everyday. Why shouldn�t she! Boys between eighteen and twenty-eight
from Panditpara had lost sleep after seeing her. There was small talk about the
most beautiful girl in class, Mamata Banu all the time. It seems Imtiaz Tarafdar
of the Baghmara Medical College hostel, was about to commit suicide by drowning
out of love for Mamata.
o

Asma Ahmed, with her nose and chest both up in the air, was a good student who
kept herself aloof from everyone. It seems even she had exchanged glances with one
of the good students from the Zilla School. Jehangir who lived in the house next
to the school wall, was always staring at Sara. Sara did not seem to dislike him
either. Poppy and Nadira were always whispering to each other between classes.
Ashrafunnissa, a girl with a harelip, saw this and guessed that Nadira must have
fallen in love with Poppy�s brother Baki. Which male teacher peeped into which
female teacher�s room, who collapsed with laughter at whose words, for whom were
who�s eyes shining like stars � these tidbits would reach our ears as well,
wafting in with the breeze. Chandana was captivated by all these rumours and so
was I. She was overwhelmed with her own casual love affairs. Sitting in class, she
would write page after page of love poetry about someone�s melancholy eyes, eyes
she had seen only that morning. For the bespectacled boy seen on the street named
Lutfer, I too felt something. On the way to and from school, two-three scraps of
paper thrown by him caused my night�s sleep to vanish. From the day the note with
�the eyes tell the story of the heart - yours Lutfer� written on it, flew out of
my physics book and fell at Baba�s feet, instead of �fall if you have to on the
gardener�s shoulder�, I had to go to school escorted by guards. Borodada ,
grandfather was given the responsibility of escorting me to school in the morning,
and taking me back home when school was over. After school, some girls took
rickshaws home, some walked and one or two had hunchbacked Volkswagen cars coming
to pick them up. Even when everyone, even Mamata Banu (whose belligerent mother
always escorted her) had left, I had to wait till my long white-bearded, green
lungi clad, black rubber-soled shoe wearing old Dada appeared. It was
uncomfortable to be standing alone like that at the gate after school hours.
However, if by chance Borodada came early, then, getting in to a rickshaw with him
in front of everyone was equally embarrassing for me. I was sure, seeing
Borodada�s skullcap, bearded face, rubber shoes and lungi clad body, everyone must
have been suppressing their laughter and privately assessing what a rustic,
unpolished family I belonged to. I had neither the capability nor the courage to
pretend that the bearded man was not related to me. That he was actually rather a
close relation was also something I could voluntarily never tell anyone. On
finding no trace of scraps in my books for a long time, Baba lifted the guard. The
policing had also to be lifted because of Borodada�s claims about fields full of
mustard, sheds full of cows, a granary full of grain, his own thatched hut, and
also because it was time for him to return to his village of Madarinagar. If
Borodada spent too long in the town away from his village, he began to get
confused in his head. Everyday he would carry his Jainamaz , prayer mat in his
hand and ask someone or the other in which direction was the west. Whenever he
asked me, I pointed out every direction as the west, except the west itself. He,
too, would happily spread his Jainamaz and, turning in that direction, would touch
his thumbs to his earlobes, and invoking Allahoo-Akbar would begin his namaz.
h

If Borodada was with me, I would sit in the rickshaw with my head bent in shame
because of his appearance. When I raised my head, it gave me the opportunity to
furtively look at the boys standing on the road. A new plump boy standing next to
Lutfer, wearing blue trousers and a white shirt, set my heart aflutter again one
day. One glance was enough to excite me. I kept feeling I was drowning in love�s
bottomless waters. I kept feeling that the plump boy would be thinking of me. That
he would be standing on the road at ten, when I would go to school, only to get
one glimpse of me. He did stand on the road the next day. When I saw him, I was
sure there was no one more handsome in the world than this roly-poly. I was amazed
at how my whole life now seemed centred around him. How, if I didn�t see his
smiling lips and eyes everyday, my life was futile.
s

Then suddenly one day the mind switched from these instant love affairs, without
which I had thought I would surely die, to the books in the library. My eagerness
to finish reading as many books as were on the shelves gained the momentum of a
hungry shark. Once the books within our reach had been read, the ones beyond our
reach were obtained by either standing on our toes, or using ladders, and were
gobbled up by Chandana and me. These books were kept under our textbooks, pillows,
mattresses, in spite of the fact that our exams were looming ahead. The home tutor
Shamshul Huda, taught me physics, chemistry, biology, mathematics and all the
seven kinds of sciences. He would slap me almost every evening as a routine. But
despite that, as soon as Shamshul Huda had disseminated scientific knowledge to
me, had his tea and biscuits and left the house, I would bend over those
unwholesome books. Chandana was far ahead of me in this. Where I finished two
books, she finished seven. In the race to read books, I was always behind her. It
was my belief that Mamata, the bookworm, too could not keep up with Chandana. The
library books were called �outbooks� by the girls at school. On wanting to know
what �outbook� meant I was told that any book outside the syllabus, was an
�outbook�. Girls who read �outbooks� were not looked upon very favourably by the
quiet, serious-minded good students. Those who read �outbooks� were considered to
be the kind who did not concentrate on their studies. Their minds were restless.
Most importantly, such girls were not good students and got marks resembling zeros
in their exams. This was the general idea current in the school. Why this was so,
I was unable to fathom. Even after proving that I could read �outbooks� and still
do well in my exams, this idea was not dispelled. Our addiction to these other
books created a different world for Chandana and me. Now, personal love stories of
students or teachers did not drift into our ears, they got stuck somewhere midway.
The air around us was now heavy with the tears of Parvati, the sound of
Rajlakshmi�s bare feet, Charulata�s loneliness and Bimala�s dilemma.
R

It was not that the air was always heavy. Once in a while it cleared up with pure
laughter, and became free from gloom. Such an unblemished smile played often on
our librarian Syeduzzaman�s lips. He taught Islamiat once in a while. For this
subject the school had no teacher. Whenever a teacher was free, he came to take
Islamiat classes. Syeduzzaman�s unadulterated smiling stretched up to his ears in
the Islamiat class. His smile had value, because this class was less important
than all other classes. Kalyani Pal taught us Bangla wearing a Monalisa smile.
Such a smile had use in the savouring of the essence of literature. Suraiyya Begum
also exuded the scent of rajnigandhas through her toothy smile. Could the scent of
a flower be transmitted through a smile? Chandana said it could. Our Mathematics
teacher came to class with a grumpy face. Just as well. Encouraged by
Syeduzzaman�s smile, even if we sat in the Islamiat class gazing abstractedly at
the sky, writing copies full of poetry, spending half-an-hour instead of five
minutes in visiting the toilet or drinking water, it did not make any difference.
Syeduzzaman, too, spent more time on telling stories than teaching Islamiat. His
tales were not totally uninteresting either. However, he repeatedly told us that
as a subject Islamiat was not entirely to be ignored, as it was a scoring subject.
If one could write the Surah Fateeha more or less correctly or give four names of
the Asmani books, one could score ten out of ten. In case you lost marks in
physics or chemistry, then you could depend on Islamiat to get first class marks
without much hard work.
w

For the Mussalman girls in class there was Islamiat readings, for the Hindus,
Sanatan Dharma teachings. In the whole school there was no one to teach Hindu
Religion either. Just because Kalyani Pal was a Hindu, she was constantly pushed
into that class. She would tell her students that instead of wasting time with
religion, they should spend time with mathematics that will be more useful. The
Hindu girls therefore got a big holiday in their Religion class. They didn�t waste
any time on mathematics and went straight to the grounds to play, or spent time in
adda , gossip in the empty classrooms. Since Chandana was a Buddhist, she too
should have left the class. When there was no teacher for Hindu Religion, there
was no question of there being a teacher for Buddhist Studies. But she remained
motionless in the Islamiat class, either deep in some storybook, or in poetry.
Sitting next to her I could neither concentrate on Islamiat, nor open a
Niharranjan Gupta under Syeduzzaman�s nose. I would just scribble or compose
v
verses.

�S
Syeduzzaman fires a cannon

Loading a religious horse on his shoulder

L

He speaks whatever nonsense he can find

H

He not only has a cough, he even pants.

H

He also puts a cap on,

H

But does he really believe in the Quran, the Hadith?

B

Or is it all a put on?�

O
Having ripped Syeduzzaman into shreds, I felt bad later. He was a thorough
gentleman in shirt and trousers, whose pate had not been adorned with any cap. Why
had I slighted him so! Actually it was not about Syeduzzaman at all. I could have
done this to anyone. A person looking like a puny tangra fish could safely be
converted into a wide-mouthed booal fish, especially with a little indulgence from
Chandana. When the Bangla teacher Suraiyya Begum would waddle along, Chandana and
I would follow her like two ants. Chandana would whisper � �Olo Suraiyya, picking
flowers, turning your face.�

I would add � �How much longer will you waddle, the day has almost gone.�

Chandana, feigning a deep sigh would conclude, �By the time you reach, you will be
gone too.�

We knew the teachers at the Residential Adarsha Balika Vidyayatan were not to be
disregarded. Nevertheless, we indulged in limericks, which rarely remained secret,
private or unknown. Other schools would recruit BA�s, but, if you wanted to teach
at the Residential, you had to be an MA, the qualification for University
teaching. None of these Vidyayatan teachers were from this town. They came from
very far, mostly from Dhaka. The residences of the faculty members were all within
the school premises. Each teacher had an independent house, with grounds in front,
and gardens at the back. When this school was built, residential facilities were
not provided for the teaching faculty alone; they extended to the students as
well. Compulsory residence. It was the dream of the East Pakistan Governor Monayem
Khan to shape this school from top to bottom just like a Cadet College. His house
was in Mymensingh, hence he had begun to build this residential school here and
named it Rabeya Memorial, in memory of his late wife. It was spread over 100 acres
of land, with all fens and marshes filled up. Then, of course, came the end of
East Pakistan and the Governor had to go. In 1971, bomber aircrafts encircled the
town and caused most of the half built school building to collapse. Once the war
was over, the landslip was removed and the remaining building was repaired and
white washed. The name, Rabeya Memorial, was changed to Residential Adarsha Balika
Vidyayatan and the school was re-started. The framework could be said to be the
same, a residential system, but even though the faculty members were able to
sustain the residential mode, the student body could not. For a new country, it
was not possible to implement such a massive project. However, what was done was
not insignificant either! Students were not compulsorily confined to the school
boundary. The hostel remained at one corner of the grounds in ghostly isolation.
Only for a few girls coming from Khulna and Rajshahi were living arrangements made
in the ground floor of the Principal Wabaida Saad�s house. In spite of this the
school was the town�s most reputed and expensive school. The very best teachers
had been selected for jobs and the best students had been selected for admission.
As a result, the style of this school was quite different from other schools.
Scholarships were given to the students of this school. Other schools had no such
facility. For scholarships in other schools, one had to depend on the results of
board exams.

Even the auditorium in this school was worth a look, and so were the functions
that were held there. This auditorium was not a hencoop like in the other schools.
It had dimensions of a cinema hall. At the press of a button, heavy velvet drapes
moved from one end of the stage to the other. The stage itself was a revolving
one. The audience seating arrangements were extensive .The kind of plays, dance-
dramas, musical concerts and other functions that could be performed on this stage
could not be bettered by any other school. If not every month, at least every two
months cultural functions were held, apart from the various festivals that were
observed all the year round. If one solicited enough, formidable teachers would
come out of their shells and sing in amazingly tuneful musical voices. There was
no need for bombs to be thrown, requisite amounts of tickling could bring forth
poetry from the innermost recesses of many, in fact even from that of the Maths
teacher. It wasn�t as though apart from these concerts we spent our time
listlessly. Suraiyya Begum teaching Bangla poetry, would very often recite the
poems she had composed. Suraiyya Begum�s heart may have been as soft as clay, but
Jinnatoon Nahar�s was as hard as a rock. She taught us English. Actually, I had
never liked the English teachers. The teachers of English were as tough as the
subject was difficult. I loved Bangla, so did Chandana. One day, as was our
routine, we reached school in the morning and stood in class-wise rows in the
grounds. We completed our daily exercises, and sang our National Anthem �Amar
Sonar Bangla Aami Tomai Bhalobashi , my golden Bangla I love you� in front of the
Bangladesh National Flag. Then we went to our classes. As soon as we entered our
class room, our Principal informed us that writer Kazi Motahar Hussain was
visiting our school at that time and, if we wished to, we could meet him. Our
hearts trembled with excitement. Kazi Motahar Hussain was our Principal�s father.
He wrote very well, played very well, as it was with most intelligent people �
competent in every field of knowledge. He had fathered quite a few talented
children. Except for this Wabaida Saad, the others were all quite renowned. His
son Kazi Anwar Hussain was a famous writer. Daughters Sanjeeda Khatoon and Faimida
Khatoon, were both celebrated Rabindrasangeet exponents. But, in going to meet
this famous father of famous children, Chandana and I got into a very embarrassing
situation. At first we kept peeping through the door. Soon we opened the door
softly with eighty-five percent fear and fifteen percent courage, and entering his
room, we saw him laughing, waving his white beard. His eyes were bright with
curiosity. We entered the room, saying in submissive tones that we had come to
meet him. He listened to us, smiled sweetly, and switched on a radio set kept on
the table. The volume was very loud. The radio remained on for quite some time.
Chandana and I kept exchanging astonished looks. His white-haired and bearded face
glowed and he continued smiling radiantly, with his ear glued to the radio. We
again informed him of the reason for our visit. This time he nodded his head,
meaning that if not then, now at least he had understood why we had come. Then
immediately he left the room, not just the room he left the house and walked
rapidly towards the school. Following him we found he had, Oh Ma, gone straight to
his daughter and was asking her, �You called for me?� Wabaida Saad was stunned.
She had certainly not called for her respected father. What was happening? The
respected father was hard of hearing. How were we going to carry on a conversation
with him then! Wabaida Saad could not find any solution to our problem. We had no
alternative but to silently hurl our reverences at this dignified figure of a much
venerated, respected and saluted man. It was the first time I had seen a living
writer since I had grown up. I had heard from Ma that when I was six months old,
Rahat Khan, a writer friend of Baba, used to visit us. He would rock me in his
arms, and sing songs of his own composition. The songs were dedicated to Farida
Akhtar, a school friend of Ma�s. �The mendicant maid of my dreams lives near a
festering pond, but I sailed my barge and went and saw her...� Rahat Khan was a
master at Nasirabad College. If Ma was asked how a master and a doctor became
friends, her answer was, �Both of them fell in love with the same woman. She was
the beautiful wife of a lawyer, whose house your father was assigned to
administer, while he was a student.� It seems Baba, too, had fallen in love with
Farida Akhtar. The fair, tall, pock-marked Farida was also my teacher when I was
studying in that Rajbari School of my childhood. Ma would say, �Farida as a
student was a back- bencher, I was a front-bencher. She was a much worse student
than me. That Farida now teaches at a school and I shove fuel into an oven. That
is my fate!� Even if others worried about Ma�s fate, Baba certainly didn�t. Ma had
to look after the children, cook and feed everyone, and guard the house against
thieves. How could anyone who had such a great responsibility have the time to
think about her fortunes!

Ma was not as keen as I was to hear stories of Rahat Khan. To a well-read girl, a
writer was someone great� someone who lived on a different planet. That those who
wrote books were human beings like us, that they too urinated and excreted, that
their noses too, once in a while, got stuffed with cold, that if they blew their
noses thick yellow mucous would come out, was something I could not believe. I had
the same belief about film stars. They led beautiful, elegant lives, lived in a
starry world, rode in shining cars and wore dazzling clothes. They lolled on
bolsters like kings and ate apples or grapes and they slept on beds as soft as
cotton-wool. They did not exude any physical smell, let alone that of sweat. From
them emanated the scent of roses. They never made even a single mistake in their
work, never spoke untruths and never caused anybody pain. They were what could be
called noble. I was as much a bookworm, as I was a cinema addict. Chandana was the
same. I would request and cajole Dada to take me to the cinema, and we would pick
up Chandana on the way. After a lot of trouble and effort on our part Dada would
arrange once in a while, to show us a movie, but for my first chance to see a film
magazine at home, I owe thanks to Chhotda. Chhotda was a young man who could not
concentrate on studies, who roamed all over town; a jack of all trades, he was
married rather prematurely. Every week he would return home late in the afternoon
with a Chitrali in his hand to while away his leisure hours. Chhotda had no
wealth, but he had a heart. As soon as Chhotda�s recreation was over, my curiosity
would be set free. What was written in that paper with pictures? I was the kind of
girl who, whenever she saw printed words, would read them immediately. On the way
to school, in case there were no boys around, I would read anew all the signboards
I had read a million times before. After buying nuts, I would read what was
written on the packet while eating the nuts. After eating tamarind pickle, I would
lick the remnants and even decipher what was barely readable in the oil-smudged
paper. Why would a book worm like me allow a journal full of amusement lie unread,
because it was in pictures! It became a habit to look at Chhotda�s Chitrali. The
habit gradually descended to an addiction. Or grew in to one, who knows! If
Chhotda forgot to buy the magazine, then what! Saving the rickshaw fare to school,
I would buy the magazine and read it from cover to cover. I�d go to sleep at night
with all details at my fingertips regarding the houses, cars, meals of all the
heroes and heroines, along with news of their love affairs and separations. In my
dreams, I would see one of the heroes meeting me on a starry night on the banks of
a moonlit lake with a soft breeze blowing. That hero would dance and sing for me
as he swore that he could not live without me, with the trees, skies, air, lake
water, moonlight everything as his witness. Unless I had the magazine in my hand
on Friday I could not digest my food, at least Ma thought so. I was not worried
about my digestion at all. However, if the magazine arrived while I was eating, I
would push my plate aside and get up. Or, I would be holding the magazine in one
hand and eating with the other. The hand holding the magazine was invariably
faster than the hand eating food. Chitrali had the power to not only make me
forget food it could even make me forget my parents. This started when one of my
articles was published in the Readers� Page. I had just sent a piece, on why the
ethereal-voiced Sabeena was being ignored; given the sweetness of her voice,
Runa�s voice was harsh in comparison and so on. That was the first time ever any
article of mine had been published in a magazine. Before sending the article, I
had asked Chhotda whether Chitrali would publish something I sent. Chhotda had
said �Stupid� and pushed me away. Apparently, Chitrali got five thousand letters a
day. Four thousand nine hundred and ninety two were never opened, let alone read,
they were thrown into the wastepaper basket. So if I sent a letter it would go
straight to that basket. Although Chhotda had extinguished with one puff, my
chandelier of desire and had heaped sacks of despair over my hopes, I had still
secretly sent my article to the Chitrali address, testing my fate. Quite
delightfully, it actually got published the very next week, the photograph of
Sabeena Yasmin and Runa Laila inserted. There was major excitement at home. I
floated in the currents of hip-hip-hurrahs. My name was printed in the magazine,
an unbelievable event indeed! Chhotda, after remaining totally open-mouthed for
sometime, finally stuttered �Wow, y-your wr-writing has been pu-published!� As
though I had accomplished the impossible! A victorious smile was stuck to my lips
like red ants on a sugar-candy. I brandished the magazine innumerable times before
everyone�s eyes except for Baba�s; in fact even before Jori�s Ma�s eyes. Jori�s
mother looked at the magazine with astonishment. �But this looks no different from
thongar kagoj, paper packets�, she said.

After this unbelievable event took place, another equally unbelievable event
occurred. Next week, I found that several responses, both favourable and
unfavourable, to my article had also been published in Chitrali. My enthusiasm
bubbled like boiling rice. I began sending my articles not only to the Reader�s
Page, but also to the Letters section. Those days a new magazine called Purbani
modeled on Chitrali, was making its appearance in the world of star-entertainment
literature. I was not so heartless as to neglect Purbani. I just had to have both
Chitrali and Purbani every week. If either of them carried my articles, Chhotda
would say with a thin smile on his lips, �Yes, it�s been published,� and if it was
not he would say, �What happened, didn�t they print your article?� Chandana did
not have to be pulled into this world. Struck by glamour she entered the arena
herself. More was written about me than I wrote myself. I was becoming like a
member of the group. It seemed the person who gave the replies to letters in
Chitrali, known to everyone as Uttar (answer) da, dipped into a pot of syrup while
composing his replies. As I continued to write, this unseen Uttarda began to feel
like my own Dada. After a small hair-pulling battle between Yasmin and me over a
pencil, I wrote to Uttarda to inform him of my unhappy state of mind. Even if I
was full of good spirits, I had to inform him first. Plucking a phrase from the
Golpukur adda, Chhotda one day said, �Twenty springs of my life have passed by and
not a crow has cawed let alone a cuckoo sing here�. Cuckoo meaning the cultural
luminaries, while crows stood for the smaller fry in the cultural scene. I quickly
picked up the phrase and sent it to Uttarda. He was so upset to hear it that he
chased all the crows in Dhaka towards Mymensingh. By doing this he was able to
shoo away the cawing crows from around his vicinity and somewhat bless my
supposedly dry spring. Rubbish, how could I turn in to such an old woman at
twenty! I knew it was only for fun! However, this was not a forum for only fun.
Plenty of serious matters were also discussed. People�s pride and respect, sorrows
and mourning, love and separation and their crooked ways, and sometimes, even
problems of life were solved on the pages of the magazine. The number of readers
was so widespread that in every city a Samiti named Chipachosh was formed for
readers of Chitrali. In Mymensingh, Chhotda himself was the helmsman of
Chipachosh. He had to be. After all, if not a writer he was certainly a reader.
His studies had gone to the dogs. He had nothing to do, and it was possible only
for him to spend twenty-four hours with Chipachosh. They even had a meeting, one
day, in the Town Hall grounds. In the dark green field, under the shade of the
banyan tree, this evening get-together became quite lively. Underneath one of the
banyan trees, Chipachosh was being nurtured, built up, under the other, grown up
girls and boys were carrying on with their former raw childish games. The young
had now grown old, but were not willing to lose their appellation of �young�.
Roknuzzaman Khan of the newspaper Ittefaq, just in case he got called Dadabhai by
the young, had not only opened a forum for them in his paper, but also built up a
society for youth in various cities. There was no dearth of institutions,
councils, committees, and associations in Mymensingh town. From Chhotda, one got
all the news of where in the town various discussions and literary meetings were
being held, and where dance music and dramas were being staged. When I heard of
these my cup of desires would overflow. When Chhotda returned from the Chipachosh
meetings, I would ask again and again �Who all came? What did they look like? Did
anyone say anything? What did they say?� Chhotda would give me one name at a time,
with an introduction. Swallowing the bitter pill of compliance to my request, he
would recite a couple of words or phrases spoken by others. Although Mymensingh�s
Padmaragmani, the main female attraction in the Chitrali forum, attended meetings
proudly, it had not been possible for Chandana and me to get permission to step on
to that shaded, peaceful, cool grass in the midst of a crowd of menfolk. Except
for male relatives and male teachers, we had no opportunity to mix in the company
or gatherings of any other men, however much we wanted to go.
o

After my articles were published in Chitrali, quite a few letters came in my name
to the Aubokash address, from various cities of the country with requests for pen-
friendship. This had never happened before. Till then, no letter had come for me
from anyone outside our relative circle. I was quite excited on getting these
letters. Pen-friendship was quite a unique affair � to know people far away only
through letters, and then to gradually get to know them almost as relatives and
friends. Jewel from Dhaka, Sabbir from Sylhet, Shantanu from Chhatagram� I grabbed
these invitations to become pen-friends immediately. That girls and boys could be
excellent friends was a belief that was gradually growing in my mind. What I had
seen of relationships outside the family circle, were those of love. It had
happened in the lives of Chhotda and Dada, in the lives of Jhunu khala and Runu
khala as well. Love had only one purpose� marriage. Dada was unable to marry his
Sheila, Chhotda made sure he married his. I had not seen any other relationship
between boys and girls beyond these amongst the people known to me. They existed
in novels or in the movie stories. They had no place in the world in which I
lived. Yet, the letters coming to me for the first time caused something different
to happen. Letters from strange men, but not love letters. I was to be married to
no one, yet I got letters. Letters from pen-friends that came by post were read at
home in a kind of group. Whoever received the letter from the postman first, read
it first. Then, while handing over the letter, they would speak of its contents to
me. A letter came from Jewel. Yasmin, while handing over the open envelope to me
said, �Jewel wants to know whose songs you like better, Hemanta�s or Manna De�s?�
Sabbir wrote pages and pages on religious matters. He even sent small religious
texts as presents. When his letters came, Chhotda would read them before I could.
He would throw them at me and say, �Go read, read the letter of the �Munshi�
fellow�. That letters were a personal affair was something I had yet to realize.
This pen-friendship infected Chandana later, as it did Dada. Dada suddenly began
pen-friendship with a girl called Sultana in Dhaka. Sultana�s handwriting was
amazingly beautiful. When her letters came, Dada would call all of us to show us
her handwriting. He would sit us down before him and would read out the letter.
Later, stroking the top of the letter he would say, �This girl must be really
beautiful to look at.� Dada believed that anyone whose handwriting was so neat,
whose language could be so poetic in a letter, could not but be a �paragon of
beauty�.
b

Chandana had begun to read another magazine, �Bichitra�, apart from Chitrali and
Purbani. One of her articles had even been published in the Reader�s Page. On
hearing that women were to be recruited by the Police Force, Chandana gave a
proposal for the uniform the women police could wear. The Burkha. Remaining under
the Burkha would be in accordance with religious requirements and at the same time
the activities of thieves and robbers could be observed through the eye-holes. No
passerby would suspect she was a policewoman. Bichitra had published her article
along with a Burkha-wali�s cartoon sketched next to it. I had to save four to six
annas from the school rickshaw fare, to buy Chitrali and Purbani. It wasn�t always
possible to have the money to buy Bichitra. I would perpetually beg for it from
Dada. Dada enjoyed seeing my outstretched hand, and once in a while, dropped some
coins into it. With that, I would buy Bichitra like an addict. To buy meant that I
had to make Yasmin or Jori�s Ma stand at the black gate, or stand there myself in
order to call a hawker as soon as one appeared. If there was no hawker, I would
send Yasmin to the Ganginar Par turn, and she would buy one. Since I was grown up
I was not allowed to walk alone on the streets. The prohibitory order had not been
imposed on Yasmin, so at bad times I had to depend on her. It wasn�t just the
expense of buying magazines, to write for the magazines and reply to the pen-
friends was also expensive. If one gave Chhotda the letters, even the money for
postage stamps had to be counted out. In case Dada�s mood was off, the option was
to sell �old glass bottles and papers�. Next to Aubokash, hawkers would call out
all day and pass along the three roads that went in different directions� one
towards Golpukur Par, another towards Durgabari and another towards Sherpukur Par.
They would call out melodiously- Sari and kapod-wala, badam-wala, chanachur-wala,
aachar-wala, churi and pheeta-wala, ice-cream-wala, hawai-mithai-wala, ghee-wala,
murgi-wala, kabootar-wala, hans-wala, kotkoti-wala, muri-wala, glass-bottle-paper-
wala. As soon as I would hear the hawker calling the last glass-bottle-paper-wala,
I would send whoever was at hand to catch the fellow. On his head would be a big
basket. Before the basket was lowered from the head, bargaining would be on. �How
m
much?�

�N
Newspaper three taka a ser, books and copies two taka.�

�W
What do you mean by three taka? If you will give four taka, tell us.�

�F
Four taka would be too much. You can take three and a half.�

�A
Are your weighing scales okay?�

�S
Sell only after you are satisfied.�

Once the hawker lowered the basket and sat in the verandah, I would forget my
fascination for the old magazines under the bedroom cot, and get them out. I even
hunted out old books and copies. After selling them, I would get about ten or
fifteen taka. Even ten-fifteen taka made me feel like a king. Chhotda too sold
magazines, Ma sold old glass bottles after hoarding them, even torn scraps of
paper found in the courtyard while sweeping, were dusted and stored. The two paise
Ma earned from broken glass and torn paper, she kept under the mattresses, or tied
in the corner of her sari aanchal. This she was able to put to use and stemmed at
times Yasmin and Chhotda�s extreme penury. Chandana was never lashed by poverty.
In spite of living in a rented green tin house in Panditpara, Chandana easily
procured money for magazines every week. Chandana may not have been able to go to
the Town Hall premises full of men but she would manage to do some amazing things
without warning. She arrived one day at the crack of dawn riding on her younger
brother, Saju�s, cycle. On seeing Chandana, my heart overflowed with joy. The rest
of those at home scrambled out of bed and stared open-mouthed at her. How daring a
girl had to be to take a cycle out in the streets of the city, whether early in
the morning or at deserted midnight! Making Chandana sit in the inner room, Ma ran
into the kitchen and heated rice, rotis and meat. Ma made her sit next to her and
fed her. Chandana, of course, had to run after stuffing herself. Before people
came out she had to reach home. Chandana rode away on the cycle, with her hair
blowing in the mild breeze while I was left standing at the black gate staring at
her in fascination. As if the girl on the cycle, her hair blowing in the wind, was
not Chandana at all, but me. I wished I dared to cycle around the whole city, like
C
Chandana.

While I was in this frame of mind, almost every evening, after finishing his work,
Shamshul Huda would come to tutor me. As soon as I saw Huda�s face anywhere near
the black gate, I would start trembling. On a delightful evening I would have to
do sums, delve into physics and almost drown in the pond of chemistry. When
Rabindranath Das came to teach Yasmin, I found it quite enjoyable. Rabindranath
taught Yasmin for fifteen minutes and chatted for forty-five minutes. He did not
chat with just Yasmin, but with me too. He had a daughter, Krishna and a son,
Gautam, growing up in the Kaliganj village of Tangail. In exchange for meals and a
place to stay, in Mymensingh town�s Chhoto Bazaar, he tutored Nirmal Basak�s son
Gobinda. He was himself the Principal of a primary school in the suburbs. With the
job of a principal and several tuitions in town, he very rarely got time to visit
his native village. He was able to send money home and spend some days there only
once in a while. While in town, he continually thought of his wife and children.
Often, he told us stories of his children. As a consequence, we too came to know
what Krishna looked like, what she liked to eat, do and wear; whether Gautam liked
football or cricket, what marks he had secured, in which subject of the exams,
everything. Of course, if Baba returned home suddenly, I would move away and
Rabindranath Das too, alerted, would bury his head in the book. When Baba wanted
to know how much gray matter existed in Yasmin�s head, what Das Moshai would
laughingly tell him was that the gray matter was more than normal, but the
attention to studies was less than normal. Baba would say, �Spank her. Unless she
is spanked, she will not learn�. Baba personally took out the cane from under the
mattress and handed it over to Das Moshai. If he found my home tutor close at
hand, he instructed him also to straighten me out with a beating. Baba was of the
opinion that unless children were whipped they did not become worthy individuals.
Thanks to Baba�s repeated instructions, Shamshul Huda never hesitated to beat me.
He was a good teacher. He taught Mathematics at Vidyamoyee School. At home he
taught me the science subjects. For the rest of the subjects, there were two other
tutors from Vidyamoyee, Gyanendramohan Biswas and Pradeep Kumar Pal. Pradeep Kumar
Pal had six instead of five fingers on his left hand. Whenever I sat before him to
study, my eyes would repeatedly stray from the books towards that extra finger. He
even wrote poetry. Everyday after studies were over, he would say, �Listen to one
of my poems� and he would pull out pages of his poetry from the breast pocket of
his shirt. However, he would always leave abruptly, without asking how we liked or
did not like his poetry. As a home tutor, if Gyanendramohan lasted out at
Aubokash, Pradeep Kumar did not. Baba was sure that any tutor, who did not deal me
sufficient boxes and blows, was not a good one. Baba took as little time to hire
tutors as he did to fire them. When Yasmin failed in three subjects in Class Five
and her promotion to Class Six was not granted, Baba began to tutor her himself.
On her return from school, Yasmin went straight to Arogya Bitaan, his pharmacy,
with her books. There she sat and watched home tutors waiting endlessly for Baba
to pay them. Baba would make them sit uselessly for two to three hours and give
them twenty to twenty-five taka in hand. No home tutor had been able to receive
their monthly fifty taka from Baba at one go. Baba always preferred to keep three
to four months taka pending. This was very embarrassing; I would hang my head in
shame. Baba was always very arrogant. No amount of shame could put a chink in his
shining armour. He had told me innumerable times, that if I did not pass with five
distinctions and brilliant marks he would throw me out of the house and that all
my life, I would have to walk around the streets with an empty begging bowl in my
h
hands.

The SSC exams were close at hand, in fact they were literally at the tip of my
nose, so to speak, and there was no option but to stay put in the house. Out of
twenty-four hours, I was at my study table for eighteen. Suddenly I became the
most important person in the house. If I went for a walk, everyone stood aside to
give me space. If I went to the toilet, Ma would herself go and place a pitcher of
water there for me. No one had to be told to fill my bucket of water, before my
bath it was always filled. Since I had to sit up at nights preparing for the
exams, special delicacies were cooked for me to eat. Ma was actually feeding me
with her own hands. Every so often, Baba would return home with fruits and would
caress me. There was pin drop silence in the house day and night. The inhabitants
in the house whispered amongst themselves so that no sound disturbed my
concentration. When the Puja songs started in the para, Baba personally went and
told the Chairman of the Puja Committee, that the songs had to be stopped any
which way, as his daughter was taking her SSC exam. Understanding the importance
of the SSC exam, Dilip Bhowmik actually stopped the music. In case he had to play
them, the mikes were turned the other way. Next to my open books and copies on the
table was also an open box of biscuits. I was to eat them whenever I felt hungry
while studying. Ma came and gave me hot milk twice a day, saying, �Milk helps the
brain to function and helps remember all that is memorised.� One of the girls of
this house was taking the SSC exams, what could be bigger news, or of greater
significance than that? As the days drew closer, I got the feeling that the Angel
of Death, Aajrail, was coming to seize me forcibly. My heart trembled. My body,
hands and legs shook. At two or three at night, Baba would awaken me and say,
�Splash some water in your eyes, and sit down to study.� I would do so and sit
down. Baba would say, �If the water does not work, apply mustard oil.�
d

The first day was the Bangla exam. I had never felt afraid about Bangla ever
before, but on the day of the exam I kept feeling I would not pass. Every morning
Ma gave me a fried egg to eat, saying it was good for me. But on an exam day, an
egg was not allowed, because if one ate an egg one scored an egg too. A banana,
too, would not do. Not even a kochu. Getting a banana or kochu in the exams was
the same as getting a rasgolla. Although bananas, kochu and rasgolla were my
favourite foods, I had to forego them while the exams were on. I was the one
having exams but Baba was more restless than me. The night before, he hadn�t slept
a wink. Seeing him, it felt as though Baba was taking the exams. He repeatedly
wanted to know if I had memorised the whole book or not. Radhasundari School was
just a few minutes walk from the house. I knew the way, but was not allowed to go
alone. Baba himself would take me in a rickshaw to Radhasundari and bring me back
again when the exam was over. When Ma was tying my hair in the morning, Baba gave
�the thing�, a paper. The paper had to be folded and tied with a thread, and
clipped to my hair. On the paper was written something in Arabic, someone had told
Baba that if the writing was kept on the head, then one could remember one�s
lessons. To make sure I didn�t forget any details while writing my exams, this
paper had a prayer written on it for remembering what I had studied. I sprang
aside. I did not have the disease of memory loss that I needed to wear this prayer
in my hair and sit for the exam! Ma would daily massage coconut oil into my head
to keep it cool.
t

Ma was tying two banana shaped plaits with my oily hair on my oily head. Now all
that was left was to tie the threaded paper with a knot in my hair. My eyes were
spilling over with tears of shame, but still Baba caught hold of me and tied the
small paper packet to my hair. Chhotda was in splits on seeing me, so was Yasmin.
Chhotda said, �You can�t possibly pass your SSC, but with the power of this amulet
you might.�
y

Baba handed me not one or two but four new fountain pens and a new bottle of
Pelican ink. In case, the ink in my pen finished while writing, I was to fill up
and continue to write. Although everyone had been catering to the moods of the
examinee, no one listened to my �No� regarding the amulet. That amulet surfaced
like a Kholshey fish on my oily hair. Chandana also took her exams at Radhasundari
School. When the last bell rang, I found her standing in the verandah as soon as I
came out. She had already submitted her papers. Without asking any questions
regarding the exams, she informed me that an article of hers had been published by
Bichitra. Then immediately, her eyes widened into saucers. �Hey, what is this you
have tied to your head?�
h

�Mother Earth, please swallow me up without further delay,� I prayed fervently for
only the second time in my life. But the Mother Earth did not comply.
o

�If I am to pass I would do so anyway, not because of any amulet,� I said as soon
as I returned home, pulling it off my hair with one stroke.
a

Ma objected, �It will help you remember your lessons.�

M

�I can remember what I had learnt anyway,� I said gritting my teeth and
suppressing my sobs.
s
Baba rebuked me and said, �You can remember because this is on your head,
otherwise you wouldn�t.�
o

I stared in astonishment. I could not believe that this man who had faith in
blessings, obeisance, amulets and charms was my father.
b

Everyday that talisman was put on my head. None of my rejections were heeded to.
Full of shame, with my head bowed I had to go everyday to the Radhasundari School.
I had to be careful that the shame on my head did not get exposed. I had to keep
touching my head and try and hide my shame behind my hair. Every so often, my
attention would stray for sure from my question paper, in fact, even from my
answer paper to climb up to my head. My head became a big burden for me. The shame
of my head made me come home after my exams with my head bent. If I wanted to I
could take it off, but I felt scared, too. Suppose my memory really failed me!
What if on the day of the Maths exam, I forgot something as simple as that five
and seven added up to twelve! What if on the English exam day on beginning to
write an essay on the cow, I couldn�t remember the first sentence, �The cow is a
domestic animal�!
d

Chapter Three

TA TA THOI THOI � DANCING AWAY

T

Chhotda re-entered Aubokash with his wife, just before my exams. This happened
because of Ma. She had been inconsolable in her grief over her son. When her
appeals and requests to Baba failed, she sent Hashem mama to fetch Chhotda and his
wife to the city, from some shanty in a village in Islampur. However, reaching the
town was no guarantee that he would get permission to enter Aubokash. Baba
straight away declared that they were not to even look towards Aubokash even in
the distant future. Ma cajoled Nani, and a room next to the well in Nani�s
courtyard, the room that used to be our dining room, was cleared out. A wooden cot
was laid out for them. Once Chhotda began to live there with his wife, Baba issued
orders by which at least Yasmin and my visits to Nanibari had to stop. Ma,
however, regularly visited Chhotda�s family. Obviously she never went empty-
handed. For the welfare of her son, rice, daals, vegetables, whatever she could
collect from Aubokash, she carried with her. Whenever Baba was not at home,
Chhotda dropped in at Aubokash. He, of course, never dropped in without reason. He
came only when he needed something. Ma would think of Baba�s cruelty and say, �Is
he a man or a stone?� But her untiring efforts softened Baba a bit one day and he
agreed to allow Chhotda and his wife to enter Aubokash, but they were to only stay
in a small room in the corner. They were not allowed free access to the rest of
house. Baba only agreed because he wanted to see (since Chhotda was already
married, although there was no justification for marriage at this age) if he could
complete his studies and earn his own keep. Ma arranged the small room that she
occupied for them. To hang their clothes, she placed a clothes rack in front of
the door adjoining Dada�s room that she kept shut. Chhotda�s old cot was brought
from Dada�s room and placed in the small room. Chhotda insisted that the dressing
table be moved into his room. Nana had gifted Ma this dressing table along with
the pots and bedspreads for her wedding. Wooden flowers and leaves were carved
around the mirror and at the bottom and they swung if the table was moved. It had
two small shelves on both sides and two drawers. This leonine four-legged table
was dragged from Baba�s room by Ma herself and put in the small room. She wiped
the dusty mirror with her sari aanchal. Geeta would spend an hour before the
table, getting ready, and would go out with Chhotda almost every evening. I looked
at them with longing eyes. If only I, too, could do the same!
a

Baba had sworn he would not look at Chhotda and his wife. However, within two days
of their coming to stay at Aubokash permanently, he called for me after having his
morning bath. Clothed in his shirt, pant, shoes and tie, with a head full of curly
hair, combed and doused in mustard oil, he was sitting cross legged in the drawing
room. When Baba called, it meant that wherever you were, whatever you may be
doing, you had to drop everything and rush to stand before him. As soon as I stood
before Baba, he said, �Call those two.� �Those two� were which two? I had the
opportunity to ask that question, but didn�t. Since Baba had given orders, I had
to figure out which �two� in the house were �those two�. Why only me, everyone at
home had to know which �two� Baba could summon at this time. I figured out who
were �those two�. Entering Chhotda�s room I said in hushed tones, �Go, summons
have come, not only for you but for both of you.� Chhotda�s face turned pale in a
second. He got out of bed in a hurry, tying the knot of his lungi.
s

He asked Geeta, a score of times to accompany him. She sat motionless on the bed,
while agitatedly Chhotda moved back and forth between the bed and the door.
�Nasreen,� � with a weird sound the second call came from the drawing room. This
meant why �those two� were taking so long! Finally, when the �two� mustered up
enough courage to drag themselves up for the audience and stand before him, I
pressed my eyes, ears and nose to a crack in the door. Geeta bent down and touched
Baba�s feet. For a Hindu girl, kadambusi, much like a pranam, was nothing new.
Baba coughed to clear his throat, although there was no such cough filling up his
throat. Looking at Chhotda with eyes as red as it was possible to make, he said,
�Have you thought about your life? You have got married so your studies have been
abandoned. You went to set up house in the village with a hundred taka job. What
job was this, may I ask? A coolie�s work, right? What else would you get but a
coolie�s job with your education! You have dug your own grave. Has it hurt anyone
else? Has anything happened to me? Nothing has happened to me. It has to you. Even
a madman understands himself, but you don�t. If you ask a madman for his money,
will he give it? If you ask him for his food, will he give it? No, he won�t.�
w

Baba paused for a while. I don�t know whether he was waiting for words of defense
from the �two� embodiments. Then he said, �Go and take admission in Anandamohan.
You have a third division in the intermediate, so your chances are dim, but go and
try at least. When you go, take money from my chambers.� Baba now turned to Geeta,
and screwing up his eyes and nose said, �What were you thinking of when you did
this? You did not think even of your own future, did you?� Geeta�s eyes were not
visible as they were cast down, her hair arrangement could not be seen because of
her aanchal-covered head. Geeta�s mouth was a small one and in her small face the
mouth looked smaller. Baba paused again, cleared his throat in spite of the
absence of cough, and said, �Geeta, both my daughters have to study. Let me not
see you chatting with them. Have you understood?� Geeta nodded her head to convey
she had understood. Baba got up noisily and loudly closed the door adjoining my
room. Leaving orders that they were to use the inner verandah door only, he opened
this door noisily and left equally noisily. Chhotda had no option but to follow
Baba�s orders. He secured admission in Bangla Honours at Anandamohan and returned
home. Hearing of this, Baba went around with a sarcastic smile on the corner of
his mouth for a week saying, �How many men have succeeded studying Bangla? Bangla
graduates are qualified, at the most to drive bullock carts, not much else.� That
was all he said. Baba had seemingly given up hope, and did not drag Chhotda to get
him admission in some science subject. Chhotda safely kept spending his married
life in Aubokash. Once in a while carrying a copy in his hand and a fountain pen
in his pocket, he would go to college, and return with a despondent face.
i

In spite of Baba�s strict orders, Yasmin�s and my friendship with Geeta grew. When
the elders were not at home, I was normally the one who was �the leader of the
mischief makers, the King of Lanka�. We would play in the grounds or climb up the
terrace and survey the world. The world meant the dozens of different people on
the streets, the houses and courtyards of neighbours, the holy Tulsi corner
ritual, the evening incense, and the singing of kirtans with the accompanying
music of the cymbals. It also meant watching the procession of women, each clad in
a single wrap of coloured sari and carrying bell metal pitchers, led by a hired
band, heading towards the Brahmaputra. It also included the performance of all
household holy rituals with the muddy water of the Brahmaputra as though it was
Ganga Jal, or reading that which was not prescribed. Geeta not only occupied my
kingdom, with one snap of her fingers, she outstripped me and usurped my status as
the ring-leader by clambering straight up the jack fruit tree. Sitting on its
branches she would eat the jackfruit pods. From below I would tie a cloth bag of
salt and chilly powder to the end of a bamboo stick and hold it within her reach.
She would jump onto custard apple trees even on wood apple trees.
S

�You won�t be able to climb the banana tree, will you?� I asked once. �What do you
mean won�t be able to?� Even in a sari she would climb up the banana tree and go
straight up to the topmost branch. Perched precariously, she would even eat the
guavas which were within her reach. The neighbours could see the new bride of the
house perched on the tree from the streets. We were awestruck at Geeta�s antics.
We stuck to her like a tail. I had no knowledge of climbing trees, Geeta initiated
me. She taught me many other things as well. When it rained, it was our old habit
to run around in the courtyard and grounds and get wet, climb up the stairs to the
terrace and dance all around it. Geeta was not satisfied with just running and
dancing in the rain. Drenched like a wet crow, she would climb up the thatched
roof of the hut and sit there.
r

I was sitting in the verandah watching her and saw her fall. She had heard the
sound of the black gate, and in her attempt to clamber down she had fallen. What
was worse, she fell on the broken brick laid courtyard. Having slipped on the wet
roof, she had rolled down like a ripe pumpkin torn from its stalk. Yasmin too was
on top of the roof. Seeing Geeta fall she was not sure whether to laugh or cry.
Geeta sat in the courtyard, with a pale face and a wet crumpled sari. Meanwhile Ma
had come and was hanging up her wet burkha on the clothes wire in the verandah.
She was shocked to see the bride of the house sitting on the macadam. She
exclaimed, �Afroza, what are you doing there?� Geeta said, �No, Ma, I�m doing
nothing, Yasmin is up there on the roof, so I am sitting here and watching her.�

�Y
Yasmin has climbed the roof?�

�Yes, see, there she is, sitting. I told her so many times not to climb, she will
fall, but she didn�t listen.�
f

Yasmin came down from the top of the roof when Ma scolded her. Geeta, meanwhile
went to the bathroom, changed her sari and came back looking completely innocent.
Ma cooked khichuri ,a concoction of rice and lentils, in the afternoon and poured
some onto Geeta�s plate. Heaving a sigh of relief she said, �Since you are looking
after the two girls, I can now peacefully go to Naumahal sometimes and hear the
Quran Hadith�. Geeta said, �Ma, you don�t worry at all, I�m looking after them. I
will see that they do not get into any mischief�. Ma served Geeta three pieces of
meat instead of two, with mango pickle on the side. Geeta said, �Ma you have
cooked delicious meat. How do you make such tasty pickle?� Ma served her more meat
and pickle and carried on enthusiastically, �I will teach you how to make the
pickle. It�s very simple. Cut the mango into slices and soak them in a jar with
mustard oil, a few pods of garlic, and a few dried chillies. Once in a while you
must put out the jars in the sun.� Geeta stared wide-eyed and said, �Really?�
Geeta seemed to fall from the skies in surprise. Once Chhotda�s childhood friend
Khokon had come from Dhaka and was sitting in the drawing room. On being given the
news, Geeta widened her eyes and said, �Khokon Bhai has come? When? How? Hai-hai,
Kamaal is not there.� Geeta�s surprise knew no bounds as Khokon appeared to have
arrived suddenly without warning. Yet, she went into the drawing room and smiling
sweetly told Khokon, �Arrey, I was waiting for you only. Kamaal has left word for
you to wait for him, he will be returning shortly.�
y

Geeta not only looked like a small baby, she also sounded like one. A heavy burden
of hair was on her head. Her nose was as sharp as a parrot�s beak. Her lips were
like Aphrodite�s, actually closer to home, her lips were more like split chillies.
She had small teeth like mice and a lean neck, like a crane. She had tiny hands,
tiny feet and a petite body. No one called a dark girl beautiful, but we thought
she was the most beautiful girl in the world.
s

When the big drums heralding the Pujas began to beat, we whispered to our baby,
�The Pujas have started from today.� Geeta fell from the sky. �Really? I didn�t
know!� she said Clucking our tongues in sympathy, we felt that having married into
a Mussalman household, she was not being able to enjoy the Pujas. We could attend
all the Pujas throughout the year, moving from one community celebration to
another. On Ashtami and Rath Melas, we could buy sugar candy toys and wheat
crispies. However, since Geeta had converted from Hindu to Mussalman, we felt very
sad for her as she would no more be able to do so. Suddenly, Chhotda came running
and said, �Its late Geeta, quickly, wear that sari of yours�.
a

�W
Which sari?� Geeta asked in surprise.

�T
The one I bought yesterday, that one�.

�T
The one you bought yesterday? Which one?�

�A
Arrey, your Puja sari!�

�W
What do you mean by Puja sari? What all you say!�

Having noted my presence with a slant of his eyes, he laughed in embarrassment and
said, �You know that blue sari you have, the one your mother gave you, wear that
one�.
o

�Say that then. Instead of saying that, why did you say that you had bought it?
Where do you have money that you can buy anything! You can�t earn a penny and yet
you talk big!�
y

�H
Hurry up, its getting late�.

�L
Late for what, where are you going?�

�W
We have an invitation at Babua�s house, have you forgotten?�

Dressing Geeta up like a fairy in blue, Chhotda left. These outings happened quite
often. Visits to the houses of old friends, Chipachosh members and new friends at
the Golpukur Par adda sessions. But they didn�t only spend time visiting friends�
homes. They attended various functions also and enjoyed themselves at music
concerts, dance recitals, theatre, and cinema. In fact, they didn�t even miss
jatras if possible. Seeing all this I was filled with longing. Chhotda had sold
his guitar. The reputation he had in town as a good guitarist was disappearing
like cotton wool in the wind, but it did not seem to bother him at all. He was
living and eating in his father�s hotel with his wife but that there was another
life beyond, for which he should be looking frantically for a job �
l

After the Pujas, Yasmin returned from school and gave me some news secretly. On
Puja day one of her friends had seen Geeta entering her parents� home in Peonpara.
Followed by Chhotda. I talked to Chhotda about the incident, and was cautioned
that no one, not even the birds, should get hold of this news. The birds did not
get to know. The birds did not even get to know that very often when Baba went to
the bathroom in the morning, Chhotda would stealthily enter his room as if he had
to fetch something he had left there. Or, as if he had some very important matter
to discuss with Baba; his face would have such a calm yet serious look. Meanwhile,
from the pocket of the trouser hanging on the rack, he would pick the change,
whether ten taka or twenty. His hands did not shake to remove even fifty. Ma saw
everything, but pretended she hadn�t. I trembled with fear at Chhotda�s daring. To
gauge what would be the outcome, if he got caught, required the kind of courage
which neither Yasmin nor I had.

The tree-climbing Geeta not only jumped on trees, she jumped under them too. In
order to teach us dance, she would make Yasmin and me get up from the study table
and move around the whole house tapping �ta ta thoi thoi�, with our feet. If
Yasmin and I did not believe that we were soon to become �great danseuses� Geeta
certainly did. As soon we heard Baba return, we left our dancing and ran helter-
skelter to sit at our study tables. The disturbance caused by our rushing around
touched Baba�s body like the wind. Almost every night, before going to bed, he
would call me and ask in a cool voice, �Have you eaten?�

Clutching the drapes of the door, I would reply, �Yes�

�Have you studied?�

�Yes�

�Have you played?�

The answer �yes� was almost at the tip of my tongue. Swallowing in time I would
use another word, �No�.

�Have you gossiped?�

�No�

Baba looked at me in astonishment. �Why not?�

Forget the other word, no word came to me at that moment.

�Why haven�t you gossiped now that there is no dearth of friends in the house?�

I began to twist the curtains on the door around my finger.

Baba said, �Adda is a good thing. You don�t have to study, or pass exams. Look at
Chhotda, what a beautiful life he leads! He has to do the useless job of studying
no more.�

I was now untwisting the drapes from around my finger.

�When I leave home tomorrow, you will sit down to gossip, have you understood!
Till I return, you will continue to gossip, have you understood what I am saying?�

Normally, when Baba made you understand something, you had to nod your head and
say, �Understood�. But now I clearly realized it would be very dangerous to say
that.

Baba feared that in Geeta�s company our studies would suffer badly. He had already
got the door in my room adjoining Chhotda�s locked. So they were using the
verandah door. However, the day Chhotda�s friend Khokon spent the night, he slept
on Chhotda�s bed. Consequently, Geeta had to sleep on mine. It was only a question
of one night, nothing much. Though, it may have been nothing much to us, it
certainly was not so to Baba. He woke up late at night to drink some water, and
was pacing from one room to another, when he discovered Geeta in my bed. He
screamed, shouted, threatened and roared and turned the silent night into a
clamorous afternoon. Geeta was compelled to spend the rest of the night on the
same bed as Chhotda and Khokon.
s

Even though Baba tried his best to remove Geeta forcibly from our proximity, our
attraction did not diminish, instead it grew. We would ignore our studies and wait
on her all day just to make her smile. If she asked for her shoes, or comb or
water I would put it before her. If she broke her glass, I would tell Ma it had
broken because my hand had knocked it over. I saved her from many other
misdemeanors as well. One evening she called us all to the terrace and lit candles
on the railings for Victory Day. She then walked on the railings like any circus
girl. She knew that if she slipped even a little, she would surely fall and crush
her head, still she continued. In fact, she incited us to do the same. Lying
horizontal on the railing, she reached into her blouse and took out a packet of
cigarettes, and a matchbox. She lit the cigarette and took a puff, leaving us
stunned. The people on the road saw her openmouthed. Geeta said, �Let them look. I
don�t care! It is my wish if I want to smoke. Who has anything to say?� In our
house no one smoked cigarettes. I had not even seen any male relatives do so. In
these circumstances, a woman, and that too a new bride, was now smoking in full
view of the neighbours and passersby, lying openly on the terrace railing. If this
reached Baba�s ears, it would be horrifying. Just visualising what this
unmitigated disaster would result in, made my body turn cold. Geeta said, �Arrey,
nothing will happen. Come on, take a pull!� My voice shook, as I replied �Baba
will kill me if he comes to know!� Geeta was least bothered about what would
happen or not if Baba got to know. She taught me how to smoke. Inhaling deep
mouthfuls of smoke I would throw it out towards the smoky clouds covering the blue
sky. My cold body would slowly turn lukewarm. I felt an odd attraction towards
things denied me. �Where did you get the cigarettes from?� I asked. Geeta just
said, �Got them,� wearing only a slight smile on the corner of her lips. She never
said anymore than that. In this smoke of cigarettes and mystery, Geeta appeared
like Devidurga. I came down from the terrace, washed out my mouth to remove the
smoke smell and I sat down with lips locked. It was not only Geeta I saved from
minor household incidents or accidents, I saved Chhotda as well. Chhotda, out of
dire need, had completely stopped going in the direction of Anandamohan College
and had taken up a job as a journalist for a Bangla weekly called Darpan on a two
hundred taka salary. Even this did not meet his needs. Everyday, in a hungry nasal
tone, he would ask me, �Give me five taka. Come on give me.�
t

�D
Don�t have five taka.�

�T
Then give me four�

�D
Don�t have four either�

�Okay, then give me three at least�. If not three then two taka, if not two then
one, if not even that, Chhotda did not even leave eight or four annas. He swooped
down to pick up anything he could. Secretly, he even removed medicines from Dada�s
medicine chest. Even though we knew, we kept these incidents to ourselves. It was
like allowing pinworms to eat up our stomachs. Dada went to the bathroom in the
morning. Since he normally finished his toilet, shaving and bath in one go it took
him at least one hour. Chhotda could at this time, pick the loose change from
Dada�s pocket without any fears. Taking money from Baba�s pocket entailed a big
risk. Baba had his bath so swiftly, that exactly when he would come out was never
known. Moreover, Baba�s room directly faced the bathroom. In comparison, Dada�s
room was some distance away, across the verandah and beyond another two rooms.
Chhotda�s needs were never satisfied. Under the wood apple tree, where not even
the fallen leaves would get to know, Chhotda would walk soundlessly towards the
black gate. He would carefully open it and leave, carrying either big paper
packets or shopping bags full of medicines under a panjabi or a loose shirt.
Initially, he said he needed medicines. There was no end to his physical ailments.
However, I questioned him when I saw him taking the medicines out of the house.
�Where are you taking these medicines?� Chhotda�s melancholic answer was, �Friends
ask for them; they want vitamins�.
a

Chhotda did not stick to vitamins for too long. Very soon he was removing
medicines not only for cough and fever, but even stronger medicines for very
serious diseases. Why? Friends want. Why? They want medicines, some for cough or
fever, and others for stomach problems, even ulcers. But are friends sick
throughout the year!
t

�D
Do I have only one or two friends?�

That was true, Chhotda had countless friends. The people who came home looking for
Chhotda varied from journalists, poets, playwrights to Chipachosh friends. From
students, businessmen and executives to the unemployed - all kinds of friends
came. Their ages and sizes varied from ankle high to head high. Some even higher
than the head by a couple of feet. I watched them from behind the drapes, watched
and wished that like Chhotda, I too could chat with them. That I had neither the
courage nor the opportunity to do so was something I realized very acutely.
c

�Y
You say your friends are always so sick, but they look quite healthy.�

�It�s not just the friends. Their fathers and mothers too are sick. They have no
dearth of relatives!�
d

One day I confronted him. �What do you really do with these medicines, Chhotda!
Tell me truthfully!�
T

Chhotda smiled mysteriously and said, �Why what happened?�

C

�Nothing, but first tell me what you do with them, otherwise I will tell Dada.� My
threat worked.
t

Chhotda said, �I sell them�.

C

Chhotda�s words worked, too. I melted in sympathy. I would myself take out
expensive medicines, two at a time, from Dada�s chest and hand them to Chhotda, so
would Yasmin. As soon as Dada left, Chhotda would immediately enter the room and
apart from medicines, would look for any money Dada might have forgotten in his
room. Finally, he would take a shirt from the clothes rack, wear it and leave the
room. Dada had innumerable shirts, so he never found out. By chance if they met
face-to-face at the black gate or on the streets, Dada�s face would darken and he
would ask, �What Kamaal? Why are you wearing my shirt?�
w

Chhotda would say, �I have worn it, but don�t worry I will take it off and keep it
b
back.�

Another day, Dada would ask �Achcha, where is my blue Tetron shirt?� With a vest
on top of his trousers and socks on his feet, Dada would go around asking the
whole house about his shirt, looking here and there stupidly.
w
�W
Who knows, Ma might have taken it for washing�.

�A
Arrey no. That was already washed and ironed�.

�T
Then I don�t know.�

�And where is the white shirt, by the way? The one on which Sheila had embroidered
flowers on the pocket?�
f

�D
Didn�t you wear that yesterday?�

�A
Arrey no, yesterday I wore a red shirt�.

�A
Ask Ma, I don�t know.�

Dada would ask Ma. Ma wouldn�t know either.

D

Wearing a crumpled garish red shirt, Dada would go out very unhappily. He was very
busy. Being a representative of the Fisons Company, he had to go to Tangail one
day and to Netrakona the next, and after returning from Netrakona, again to
Jamaalpur. Dada�s fair face was slowly getting burnt black as he went around in
the sun. I felt sorry for Dada as well.
t

I told Chhotda, �You get a lot of money selling the medicines. Then why do you
take two or three taka from me as well?�
t

�What are you saying? I don�t get so much money! These are doctor�s samples, don�t
you see �not to be sold� written on them? The shopkeepers give less than half the
price for these,� Chhotda explained to me.
p

Ma too noticed Chhotda holding the medicine bag and disappearing very often under
the wood apple tree. She asked Baba gently, �Can�t a good job be arranged for
K
Kamaal?�

Baba�s tone was also soft. �Yes, I can. I can arrange for him to work as a
c
coolie.�

�W
What are you saying?�

�Why? A coolie�s job is a good one. Aren�t people living on a coolie�s income? Let
him do it. Coolies do not need to study. You only have to carry bags on your head.
You do not need to know physics or chemistry.�
Y

Seeing that Baba�s tone was fast changing from gentle to angry, Ma moved away.
S

Geeta was always wearing new saris and going out with Chhotda. She had a lot of
new cosmetics. Seeing all this, Ma told Chhotda, �Well, Kamaal. You do not even
have a good pant or shirt. You wear Noman�s shirts. You can buy a shirt and pant
for yourself at least. Even in the house you wear a torn lungi. Why do you punish
y
yourself?�

�I
Is there any money that I can buy anything?� Chhotda said with a glum face.

�W
Why isn�t there any money? Don�t you work?�

�T
The money I get from work doesn�t even pay for a rickshaw.�

�For your wife you seem to buy things alright.�

�For Geeta? I can�t give Geeta anything. Whatever she has is her own. Her mother
gives her.�
g

�Listen Kamaal. We do not ask anything of you. You buy for your wife that is a
good thing. If you don�t give your wife, who will! What I�m saying is buy
something for yourself, too. You don�t even have a good pair of sandals. Buy one.�

�G
Give me the money, I�ll buy,� replied Chhotda.

Ma was silent for a long time. When she spoke, it was as if she had finally
climbed out of a pool in which she had been swimming all by herself in absolute
s
silence.

�If I had money, I would definitely give you. Who gives me any money?� Ma sighed
long and deep as she spoke. �If I could read and write, I would have at least been
able to do a job. Would I have had to depend on anyone?�
a

Thereafter, for two weeks Ma kept begging Baba for money. She went and bought
Chhotda a lungi, two shirts and a pair of Bata sandals. However, Chhotda�s wants
did not end. He continued to remove medicines both in the morning and evening.
d

�Accha, has Sharaf been here?� Dada asked with a crease between his two eyebrows.

�W
What do I know, I have no idea.�

�H
He must have come.�

�H
How do you know he did?�

�I�m finding my medicines short in count.�

�I
Is Sharaf mama taking them or what?�

�H
He is a big thief. He must be taking them.�

In a cracked voice Ma said, �Look Noman, don�t accuse a person without knowing or
hearing anything. Sharaf has not visited this house in the last three months. What
makes you call him a thief? What has he stolen?�
m

�You have no idea, Ma. He had taken fifty taka loan from me, saying he would
return it the very next day. It is five months now and there is no sign of him
giving it back.�
g

Ma went to the other room. She sat there alone. Through the window in this room
the breeze blew very strongly. What conversation Ma had with it, who knows. None
of us understood Ma�s pain. Taking up Dada�s cue, I said, �Sharaf mama is really a
thief. He came the other day. I left him in the room just for a little while and
went out. I returned to see my gold earrings missing. I had kept them on top of
the table.�
t

�T
Then those earrings of yours were taken by Sharaf only,� Dada was sure.

Dada of course ultimately solved the mystery of his periodically disappearing

medicines. If he ever entered Chhotda�s room for some reason, his eyes fell on the
clothes rack. Picking up six or seven of his shirts, he would leave the room. Out
on the verandah, he would show them to Ma and say, �I found these on raiding
Kamaal�s room�.
Seeing all this, Geeta told Chhotda, �Can�t you die? Why do you have to live this
life! If you have the capacity, go buy some shirts. If you can�t buy them, then
remain naked.� On hearing this Chhotda exposed his black gums and laughed. Geeta
said in a subdued tone, �Go on! Laugh! You have no self-respect. Everyone at home
insults you but you learn nothing. Why have you brought me into this hell?�
i

No one at home had the capacity to understand Geeta�s moods and temper. One moment
she was dancing and laughing and the next she was sitting with a long, gloomy
face. Sometimes she locked the doors and stayed in bed the whole day in her room.
At mealtimes Ma would stand in front of the closed door and call, �Oh, Afroza,
Afroza! Get up. Aren�t you going to eat anything? If you don�t eat you�ll feel
ill. Get up Afroza and have your food.� Geeta Mitra alias Afroza Kamaal would make
a bitter face and would wake up only after being called several times. She would
then eat and drink and go back to sleep. After a long time, Ma had got her younger
son back. This child who was weaned late, spoke late, a semi-lisping, semi baby
and his wife were now being given food cooked personally by Ma. She not only
served them herself in their room but if possible fed them with her own hands as
well. Ma put in every effort just to make her half-Hindu half-Mussalman daughter-
in-law happy. If she was happy, Ma felt Chhotda would also be happy. Either Ma
tried really hard to win Geeta�s heart over, because it was not possible to win
anyone else�s at home, or maybe by spoiling her Ma wanted Geeta to get used to
this household. After all, she was completely unused to Baba�s bullying and
intimidation. On returning home, Chhotda would go straight to his small room
without so much as looking in any other direction. If I ever pushed open the half
closed door, I would see Geeta lying down facing the wall, while Chhotda would be
petting her all over. Like a holy man in a trance, he would be chanting, �Geeta,
Geeta, Geeta! Oh Geeta!�
G

Chhotda was constantly handed lists. Geeta needed blouses, saris, lipsticks,
rouge, powder etc. Chhotda�s wan face looked even more so. The skin of his lips
was so dry they had started to chap. He never spoke to the people in the house
unless required. He was completely oblivious to everything
u else.

Baba, on hearing of Chhotda�s job, heaved a long sigh and said, �To one who digs
his own grave, what can anyone say?� No, no one can say anything. Chhotda had
really dug his own grave rather deep. A journalist now, he would leave in the
morning with a diary in his hand. Returning in the afternoon, he would have lunch
and go out again. He came home in the evening sometimes carrying a sari, or a
blouse or cosmetics for his wife. The minute he came home, Ma would go into the
kitchen to get food. The days he returned only in the evening, Ma would be waiting
with the table laid out. Chhotda would emerge from his room with a drawn face to
eat. No, not alone, he would be holding Geeta around the waist and dragging her to
join him at his meal. Geeta, while trying to untangle herself, would say, �What is
there about my food! I can do without it.� Yet, Geeta had not only eaten with us
already, she had even taken a long nap. However, her face looked so wan that
Chhotda was made to think his beautiful wife was turning into a stick, deprived of
food. Since Geeta would not eat, Chhotda would not eat either. Ma would say,
�S
Since he is asking you to, why don�t you eat once more with him Afroza?�

�N
No, no. I will not eat.�

Chhotda would pull Geeta to the table and make her sit beside him. He would mix
rice and vegetable and feed her. Geeta would take the food in her mouth with her
nose and mouth crinkled up, as if poison was being given to her. She would keep
the poison in her mouth, neither chewing nor swallowing it. Chhotda stroking her
head and back would start saying, �My precious, my jewel, eat a little. If you
don�t eat, I won�t either.�
Geeta refused to swallow the morsel. Chhotda refused to eat. He got up. Ma almost
ran up from the kitchen to the dining room, a bowl in hand, a bowl full of meat.
�What happened? I just got you more vegetables. Why did you get up? Come on eat.
You haven�t eaten the whole day, Kamaal!�
Y

Chhotda would say with a small face, �No, Ma. I have eaten outside.�
C

Ma would sit sadly at the dining table with Chhotda�s uneaten rice and vegetables
in front of her.
i

Ma�s eyes were like deep pools with tiny currents on the surface.
M

Till just the other day, Ma had given Chhotda a bath in the courtyard, made him
sit on a stool and scrubbed his back. Now, Chhotda had his own bath. Ma would say
very often, �What�s wrong? Why is there so much dirt accumulating on your heels?
Don�t you scrub them?� Ruffling his hair, Ma would rub her fingers behind
Chhotda�s ears, shoulders and neck and say, �Warts have developed.� Ma wrinkled
her nose and spat in the courtyard. Chhotda looked neither at his ankles, nor at
Ma. He only looked at Geeta. Why was Geeta�s face so glum? Geeta�s face was not
gloomy a little while ago. She had been playing ludo with Yasmin and eating egg-
pudding. It seems she hadn�t had egg-pudding for a long time. On her complaint, Ma
had quickly made it for her. After the pudding, she had wanted payesh made with
date jaggery. Ma had made even that for her. Ma had lit an earthen stove by
blowing into it and had cooked on dry leaves in the absence of khori ,firewood.
She had then served the meal on the table. Chhotda was sitting with Geeta on his
lap, kissing her lips. He was kissing her and saying, �Why are you so glum? What�s
happened?� Geeta sighed very deeply and gave no reply. As soon as Chhotda came
home, Geeta�s smiling face would suddenly turn weepy. Her face looked as though
she hadn�t eaten the whole day, not even drunk water. The look on her face
suggested as though the people at home were always abusing her in unspeakable
language. Whatever time Chhotda spent at home, he spent it trying to make Geeta�s
drawn face pliable and in trying to bring a smile on the weepy face. His days and
nights were occupied bending over Geeta. Ma noticed it. We saw it, too. Ma sighed
heavily in secret. We were more fascinated with the love story being enacted in
our own home than with those in novels and cinema theatres. Never before had we
ever seen any one embracing another in front of a whole houseful of people.
Touching lips to lips!
T

Yasmin and I would look at Geeta in amazement. Geeta took out ironed saris to wear
at will. She wore high heels, she applied lipstick, she wore a dot on her forehead
and had a bath with scented Lux soap. Everything about her was different. We
washed our hair first with local Bangla soap, then with the bath soap. From our
childhood, Ma had taught us to wash this way. If one used the bath soap to wash
dirty hair, then the soap would not last long, hence the economy. Baba sent mostly
Bangla soap home. The scented bath soaps came only once in a while. Ma had to
economise in all things. Ma explained that Baba�s wealth was not for one household
alone. He had to look after his parents and siblings in the village and also his
second wife�s family in the town. Ma had to cook two kinds of meals� one kind for
all members of the house and the other for herself and the domestic servants. In
that other kind, except for stale daal, dried fish curry or vegetables, if
anything else was available, it was at the most the tiny kachki fish or tangra-
putti curry. If fish or meat was cooked, it was only for us. That meant Baba, we
brothers and sisters, and the newly arrived Geeta.
b

We knew Geeta from before her marriage, she was not new to us, but her arrival as
Kamaal�s wife made her appear different at Aubokash. Covering her head before
Baba, uncovering it before Ma, her unrestricted antics before us, her cheerless
face before Chhotda, everything about Geeta aroused Yasmin and my catlike
curiosity. Of married life, what we had seen at the most was Ma and Baba�s. The
relationship between Baba and Ma was bound by accounts of oil, salt, rice and
daals. I had never seen them close together or exchanging any sweet words or going
out. In fact, they didn�t even sleep in the same room now, let alone the same bed.
After Ma�s small room was arranged for Chhotda and Geeta to stay, her existence
became like that of a refugee. One day she would be in my room, on another she
would make her bed on the drawing room floor. Baba was the head of the household,
Ma had to follow his orders, and run the house as he directed. That was the norm.
Used to this system, we noticed in shock, a couple before us, where the husband
was constantly alert to the welfare of his wife. This was very different from
Baba, no doubt. Ma noticed what was happening, so did we. Yasmin and I were full
of curiosity. Ma wasn�t. Ma soon realised that her baby boy, her lisping son had
left his mother�s lap and arms forever. In Chhotda�s whole world and in his life,
at that time, there was no one but Geeta. His whole world revolved round making
Geeta happy, whatever it would take. To him now his parents, brother and sisters
were of no importance. Ma sat sadly alone on the verandah, sighing deeply once in
a while saying, �I do not know when Kamaal comes home, when he leaves. He no
longer calls me, nor does he call out to me �Ma, I�m going � Ma I�m back�.�
l

One day Geeta suddenly took the decision to move to Dhaka. It was not in our hands
to change Geeta�s decision. Nor was it in Chhotda�s. The day she was leaving
Aubokash with her luggage, holding onto the black gate, we looked with pitiful
eyes at her departure. Geeta was going to Amanullah Chaudhuri�s house in Dhaka.
Amanullah Chaudhuri�s paternal house was in Mymensingh, near Geeta�s house. That
was how she knew them. Chaudhuri�s wife, Raheeja Khanum had started a dance
school. Geeta was going to learn dance at the school. If Raheeja gave her the
opportunity, Geeta could become a great danseuse. Many dance students stayed at
Chaudhuri�s house, and looked after Chaudhuri�s children. Geeta would do the same.
Leaving his wife in Dhaka, Chhotda returned to Mymensingh. The next week, Chhotda
was sent by Baba to Dhaka with money, with orders to get Geeta admission at the
Dhaka University. Having got her admitted to the Physics Course, Chhotda came
back. Even though his own Bangla Honours studies had come to naught, it was
Chhotda�s dream to make Geeta a learned lady. Chhotda�s job was now to build his
future here, get a good job, earn as much as possible and send it to Dhaka.
Whatever time he spent at home, was mostly occupied in writing long letters
sitting in his own room. The kind of letters that he wrote before marriage, the
same thirty-two page letters were what he wrote now. Letters came from there also.
Short letters, with lists attached. Carrying the lists in his pocket, Chhotda
would leave the house. He would buy all the things and bring them home wrapped in
paper. Shutting the doors and windows of his room, he would make large packets to
send to Dhaka. Ma watched and wiped her tears in secret. �Look at Kamaal earning
money, buying so many things for his wife. Not once has he said �let me give Ma
some taka to spend.� Never has he offered me even five taka.� No one was affected
by Ma�s deprivation. Ma was always alone, now she began to get more lonely.
Sitting in the dark verandah, the beads of her toshbihor , rosary remained still.
In Ma�s hands they never moved.
I

Chhotda had friends all over town. If they came looking for Chhotda at home, he
normally took them out with him. Once in a while only, Chhotda sat with friends in
the outside verandah room. He would tell Ma to serve tea. Ma would make tea and
send Jori�s Ma to serve it. The requirements for making tea were not always
available at home. If sugar or milk were not there, either a cup of sugar or milk
was borrowed from M.A. Kahhar�s house. Even from as rich a man�s house as M.A.
Kahhar, people came to borrow sugar or milk, this borrowing was to us a routine
affair. With tea it was mandatory to offer either two toast biscuits or Nabisko
biscuits. Biscuits were not always there at home, so then one had to make do with
only tea in our hospitality. One night, quite late at night actually, almost
twelve-thirty, when one of Chhotda�s friends knocked on the door, he was about to
go to sleep. I was awoken by the sound of knocking. Parting the curtains in the
drawing room, I saw moonlight kissing the smooth unmoving face of a boy whose doe
eyes had a sweet smile in them. Seeing just half of my face peeping out, the boy
said, �Aren�t you Nasreen! How grown up you have become!� The boy�s shining eyes
did not move from my face. I shyly lowered mine.
d

�Y
You don�t remember me? I am Zubayer.�

I did not make any reply. Zubayer asked, �Do you like songs?� In a low voice I
said, �Yes, I do.� I was still standing when Chhotda said, �Go inside, tell Ma to
make two cups of tea.� Ma was sleeping, I shook her awake saying, �A friend of
Chhotda has come. Give them two cups of tea.� Ma turned over and said, �Tell
Jori�s mother�. Jori�s Ma was curled up like a dog on the floor. Waking her up, I
said, �Make two cups of tea�. Sleepy eyed, Jori�s Ma went into the kitchen and
stuffing dry jackfruit leaves into the oven lit the fire for the tea-water. The
water boiled but where were the tea leaves, sugar, or even the milk! Ma knew where
they were. I called Ma again, �Get up and make the tea, the water is boiling.�
t

Ma again turned to sleep, �Don�t bother me so late at night, I�m not feeling very
w
well.�

Ma did not get up. She asked if Baba had returned. When I told her that he hadn�t,
she said, �He�s spending the night with that woman.� Giving up, I lay flat on my
bed and stared helplessly at the beams. Zubayer was singing in a wonderful voice.
On the threads of silence, the melody of the song was floating into the room. A
tune that did not awaken anyone yet did not let me sleep. I wished I could listen
to the songs the whole night, completely absorbed, sitting close to Zubayer,
washed in the moonlight, oblivious of the whole world. At two o�clock at night,
Zubayer left after singing, �I will go away soon, but never let you forget me.�
Z

The next day Chhotda came home in the evening and lay down on the bed quietly.
T

�W
Why are you lying down at this odd time?�

�I am not feeling well.�

�W
What happened?�

�Y
Yesterday � Zubayer who came, my friend � I was meeting him after many years.�

�H
He is very good looking and sings beautifully as well.�

�E
Early this morning Zubayer committed suicide.�

Something cold, I don�t know what, moved out from within my breast and spread all
over my body in moments. The girl with whom Zubayer had been in love, had been
forced by her father to marry someone else, Chhotda informed me in a thin voice.
Last night, Zubayer had not spoken one word about that girl. He had said, on such
a wonderful full moon night, he had not felt like being all alone in his room.
That is why he had come out. He was dying to sing songs. When Zubayer was singing,
Chhotda was sitting beside him, dozing. Zubayer had wanted to sing more songs, but
Chhotda had told him to leave as he just couldn�t stay awake anymore. Suicide and
love are very closely connected. Chhotda too had swallowed poison before his
marriage. He survived only because he was removed to hospital in time and the
poison was pumped out from his stomach by a tube.
p

I was unable to sleep for quite a few nights after Zubayer�s suicide. I kept
thinking that piercing through the night, a song was floating towards me, �I will
go away soon, but will not let you forget me.�
g

Chapter Four
C

TALES OF TINY SORROWS

T

Baba may not have liked anything about Ma, but he was very fond of one of her
limericks. In a good mood, he would ask Ma to repeat it. Ma would laugh and while
swaying from side to side, would recite it:
s

One paisa of oil,

On what did it get spent?

On your beard and my feet

Some more on your son�s physique.

 The children�s weddings took place

Songs were sung for seven days

Some pitiable women indoors went

And none of the oil was found to be left.

Ma had windswept rough hair with no oil or soap ever used on it. She tied the
strands at the back with a string, if it was available. She normally used old
ribbons discarded by Yasmin and me, if not, then a string. After a bath too, she
would tie her wet hair at the back of her neck. As a result, her hair shed even
more. Ma used to have very thick long tresses at one time, now no more. She
lamented their loss, but what remained, from lack of care kept falling, but she
never looked back. When Ma told me to take care of my hair, I told her, �What is
the point of taking care now? My hair is like yours, thin.� I told her regretfully
also about my small eyes. �Yasmin�s eyes are so beautiful; she�s inherited Baba�s
eyes. Mine are like yours.� I commented on my nose as well, �My nose is not sharp.
How can it be? After all, I�ve inherited it from you.� If I was a little fair in
complexion, it was thanks to Baba, and any darkness was because of Ma. I gradually
began to seriously believe that whatever defects there were in my appearance, were
inherited from Ma. �I�m lucky to have got Baba�s chin. There is a dimple in the
chin. The girls say because of this I look pretty. Because I�ve got a little of
Baba�s looks, at least I appear human.� One day, after looking for a long time at
Ma, I asked, �Ma, where is your neck?�
M

�W
What do you mean, where is your neck?�

�You don�t have a neck. Your chin goes straight down to your chest. You don�t even
have shoulders. That�s why your blouse keeps slipping off.�
h

Opinions on my features and physique were not a new thing in the family. Ever
since I became aware of things I would find different parts of my body, eyes,
nose, ears, lips, the lengthy details of my figure, my complexion etc. being
examined, seriously discussed and compared by relatives. If anyone came visiting
too, the same thing happened. In case someone saw me after a long time, they would
immediately say, �Good, this girl is growing really tall. She has got her father�s
physique.� Or, �What�s wrong? Why is she turning so dark?� Eyes, nose, ears too
were critically examined and opinions were expressed on which was good or which
bad, which was like Baba�s or like Ma�s or whether like anyone from Baba or Ma�s
side of the family. Ma too would say, �Yasmin�s hands and feet are like her
paternal aunt�s.� When Jhunu khala came visiting from Dhaka, she looked at me and
said, �Ish, eyes just like Borobu, hair definitely Borobu.� Ma, after listening
for a long time to our examination of physical defects and the complaints finally
said, �Yes, I am of course rotten. I am dark, ugly to look at. You all are
beautiful. Well then, stay that way.�
b

When bath soaps came home, Ma kept them for the children. She never got any
herself. If body odours started she would have a bath with washing soap. Months
would pass and Baba would not send coconut oil. There was no khori. Ma would light
even the oven with dried coconut leaves and branches. These did not light very
well but Baba had clearly said, �You have to put only coconut leaves and branches.
Coal is very expensive.� Because khori costs so much, Ma had to gather the leaves
falling from the trees and store them. Rashid, the dab-wala ,tender-coconut seller
would come and would scramble quickly up the coconut tree like a squirrel being
chased. Tying ropes, he would drop tender and ripe coconuts on the ground. After
which he would clear the trees, free of charge. Rashid�s job was to buy our
coconuts and sell them at a profit in the markets. Rashid came every three or four
months to our house to buy the coconuts. After he cleared the trees and left,
there would be piles of coconut leaves in the courtyard and fields. Ma would then
sit with her iron cutter next to these huge coconut branches, and take out one
stick at a time and make up brooms to sweep the courtyard, clean the bathrooms and
dust the beds. The leaves and stems would then be collected together. If it
rained, she would run back and forth to heap the coconut leaves and branches,
jackfruit leaves, mango leaves, jamun leaves drying in the courtyard, onto the
kitchen verandah. Ma�s torn sari tore even more. The old mattress on Ma�s bed had
torn and hard cotton lumps had come out. The mattress was heavy on one side and
light on the other. If you lay down on it, you would think you were lying on the
stones on the railway tracks. Ma had been talking of a new mattress for a long
time, but who was bothered about what Ma said! Ma�s mosquito net had big holes. To
say ours didn�t have holes would be wrong, they did but they were tiny. Ma had
mended the small holes in our nets. It was not possible to mend the ones in her
own mattress. Everyday Ma�s body would be covered with mosquito bites. Ma spoke of
a new mosquito net for quite a few years, Baba did not bother. When the net
finally came, she hung that on our bed, and hung the old hole-ridden net on her
own.

While cooking at home, if one day there was salt, then there were no onions. If
there were onions then there was no turmeric. If there was turmeric then there was
no oil. Baba would angrily shout whenever he heard, �Not there.� �Didn�t I just
buy oil day before, where did the oil go?�

�It was used in cooking.�

�A whole bottle of oil finished in two days of cooking?�

�Not two days, the oil was purchased two weeks ago.�

�How could one bottle finish even in two weeks?�

�Do you know how much cooking is being done?�

�Stop the cooking. There is no need to cook anymore.�

�I�m not worried about myself. What will the children eat?�

�The children don�t need to eat. They are not exactly overwhelming me with any
great happiness. It is better not to have children than have this kind.�

Ma�s life did not attract me in any way, Baba�s did. Baba had a lot of power. If
he wanted to, he could starve all of us. If he wished to, he could also give us
all the satisfaction of a well-fed stomach. If he desired, he could keep everyone
on their toes with fear, or he could himself speak and laugh and make everyone
happy. Nothing was done in the house according to Ma�s wishes. Ma�s world was very
small. Apart from the torn saris, torn mosquito nets, torn blankets, lumpy
mattresses and the blowing into an earthen stove, Ma�s life was also an oilless-
soapless existence. With this life, she sometimes ran to a Peer�s house. Sometimes
to Nanibari. Apart from these two houses, Ma had nowhere else to go. At home, the
only regular visitor for Ma was Nana. When Nana visited towards afternoon, Ma
would scrub him, give him a bath and make him lie down after a meal. Whenever
there was no fear of Baba coming home, Ma would make Nana sit for a meal. Even if
we saw Nana eating, Ma would get very embarrassed. Before saying anything else she
would state, �I�m feeding Bajaan my portion.� Now, no one ever came from Peerbari.
Whichever other house they might visit, they would not go to a kafir�s house. If
any mama or khala came home, Baba would look at them sharply. That Baba did not
like any of them visiting was clear, not only to Ma, but to us too. If any
relative of Ma visited, Baba would call aside the servants and find out whether Ma
had given them anything or not. Whether she had fed them, and if so, what did she
serve, so on and so forth. The servants also understood that Ma�s relatives were
unwelcome in this house. Chhotku had got a job as Munshi in Peerbari. One day he
came to Aubokash wearing a very long panjabi and skull cap. Baba had thrown him
out. When the people in Ma�s world began to get thrown out from this house, Ma
became very lonely. She began to fill up her world with animals and birds. Ma
wanted to raise hens. Ma would relay her wishes to Baba everyday while massaging
mustard oil into his body. Baba, of course, did not call these desires, he called
them nagging. �Why? What will you do with hens?� �Hens will lay eggs, these eggs
the children will be able to eat. The eggs will hatch into chicks then they will
grow.�

Ma�s dream finally came true. As soon as Baba understood that it would be to his
advantage if ten hens could be had from one, he bought four hens for Ma. Ma made a
coop for the hens with her own hands. In the morning, she would open the coop and
personally feed them tidbits. The hens walked all over the courtyard and dirtied
it. Ma waited. One day the hens would lay eggs. Under Baba�s bed, spread out on a
jute cloth were kept onions and potatoes. Next to them, Ma placed a basket. In
this basket lined with straw, a red hen roosted the whole day. One day I saw one
mother hen followed by many chicks walking all around the house, verandah and
courtyard. The chicks looked so pretty, you wanted to pick them up in your hands.
Ma said, chicks didn�t grow if you held them in your hands. Ma was overjoyed
seeing the chicks. But though Ma counted twelve chicks while putting them back in
the coop, the next day two were missing. It was surmised that while Ma was walking
behind the hens in the courtyard, a cunning mongoose took the opportunity to catch
and eat them. This mongoose lived behind the tin shed in some hole. At sudden
intervals, one could see it running.

Ma wanted to rear ducks as well. Baba snarled about the ducks too and said, �Why
ducks now?� Ma took a long time to explain why the ducks were needed. Baba
rejected Ma�s proposal. Ma placed it before Nana. Nana bought two ducks and
delivered them to our house. One white duck and one brown swan. When the ducks
came home, only two of the twelve chicks had survived. The others were lost to
disease, dogs and mongoose. The swan laid an egg. Ma made the red hen roost that
egg. The egg hatched and a duckling emerged. The duck went swimming in the
waterhole. Behind the kitchen, just beyond the small wooden gate, on the boundary
wall meant for the sweeper, was the bathroom of Prafulla�s house on the left. On
the right was a muddy water body covered with waterweeds. To call it a pond would
be too much, though a waterhole did not exactly describe it but it was one. A kind
of waterhole, a fishless, dirty, muddy, snake and leech infested hole. The
ducklings walked alongside the chicks; they looked similar, both were yellow in
colour as well. It was difficult to tell which were ducklings and which were
chicks. Ma�s ducks and hens did not last very long. The eggs had to be fried for
people at home. As soon as the chicks grew a little, Dada would say, �The mongoose
will eat them up anyway, it is better you use plenty of onions and roast a hen for
me, Ma.� Ma cooked the hen and secretly wiped her tears. Whenever there were
guests, someone would say, �What can be served, there isn�t anything. Okay, let a
hen be slaughtered.� Ma would look dreamily at the hens playing and ask, �How do
you slaughter house reared hens?� Dada said, �Say Allahoo-Akbar, slice the end of
the neck and slaughter, Ma. Very simple.� Ma�s pet hens were constantly used in
satisfying Dada�s palate, in filling up our stomachs and in serving guests until
none were left. Ma had never put a piece of either her pet chicken or ducks into
her own mouth. She would make roast potatoes and eat her meal. The duck and
hencoop was empty before even a month was over. Not just the ducks and hens, we
constantly ate bottle-gourd, beans, pumpkin, cauliflower, cabbage, tomato and
other greens from Ma�s plants. Except for rice, daal, oil and salt in months and
years, nothing major had to be bought from the market. Whatever fruit Baba brought
home, Ma would plant the seeds in the ground. From these planted seeds grew the
dalim ,pomegranate, the fazli mango, the star apple, the red guava, even the
lychees. Suddenly, shaking herself out of her grief for the ducks and hens, Ma one
day went and got two kid-goats. Feeding them milk in bottles like human babies, Ma
nurtured the kids till they were full grown goats. As soon as they grew up, the
two goats began to eat up Ma�s fruit trees right to the roots. Ma put barriers.
The goats jumped over the barriers and extended their overlordship. Ma desperately
tried to save her trees on one hand and keep the goats happy on the other. The two
goats were named Lata ,creeper and Paata ,leaf. Lata and Paata had a wonderful
life eating up their namesakes wherever available. Ma cared for Lata and Paata so
much that she would bring them into her own room in case they got bitten by
something while sleeping at night in the courtyard or verandah. Ma�s room would be
awash with the cries of the goat and their urine and faeces. I myself chose to
climb up the jackfruit tree and pluck leaves for Lata and Paata. If Lata ate
jackfruit leaves, then Paata didn�t. Her face would look very sad. Her name Paata
got wiped out when I began calling her Bairagi, the Stoic. Bairagi got lost one
day. He was grazing in the field. Someone had opened the gate and had come in,
leaving it open. Seizing the opportunity, Bairagi left home, true to his name that
meant a recluse. He had forsaken the bonds of home and family. The whole colony
was searched. He was to be found nowhere. Ma went looking in Akua�s cowshed, where
stray cows and goats found on the streets were collected and kept. Not there. Ma
cried her heart out, went to the Mazaar , shrine of the old Peer, across the river
and poured out money, lit a candle, and asked the blessings of the Peer, so that
Bairagi would forget his renunciation and return home. The Mazaar of the old Peer
was an amazing one. It was on the banks of the Brahmaputra. A huge tomb built of
stone, the grave was almost as big as the open room it occupied and was covered in
red cloth. Morning and evening there were crowds of vow-takers. I asked Ma who
this old Peer was, what did he do, when did he pass away, why did people light
candles and incense and make their wishes known to him? Could this old Peer from
the other world fulfill wishes and desires? If he could, how did he do it? Ma gave
a very simple answer to these difficult questions of mine. �Of course, he can.
Allah must have given him the power to do so. Otherwise, why should so many people
visit the Mazaar!� Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists, Christians all went. The Peer was a
Mussalman but the crowd of Hindus was no less than that of Muslims. However deep
Ma�s belief was, the old Peer could not work the miracle. Bairagi never came back.
Having lost her companion, Lata grew very desolate as the days passed. Her filth
lay scattered all over the verandah and this disgusted everyone at home. But Ma
never felt irritated. She cleaned the dirt with her own hands. She tied Lata in
the courtyard, but was always scared that if she found the gate open, like
Bairagi, she too would accept worldly renunciation. Lata had the colour of a deer,
if her horns were a little more twisted and a little higher, she would have
actually been mistaken for one, said Ma. I told Ma, �Now don�t start wishing to
keep deer as well.� Ma let out a deep sigh and said, �Would a deer be a creature
who could accept being a pet!� Ma�s beloved Lata, whom she had brought up like a
child, from a baby to a goat, also one day disappeared like Bairagi. Ma sat
dropping tears over Lata�s bottle, rope, wooden post and half eaten jackfruit
leaves. Before Ma was completely over her grief, I found a red coloured cow in the
house. Ma had brought her. Where did she come from, why did she come, Baba did not
go into any of these questions. Maybe Baba had a weakness for cows since his
childhood. So he did not pass any strictures banning the cow from the house. This
cow would one day give birth to a calf, give sers of milk or once it grew up, it
could be sold. Baba must have thought that way. Ma very enthusiastically began to
bathe and feed the cow. She waved away flies and even placed an old blanket on her
back in case she got a cold. She did practically everything. She called the
milkmaid, Bhagirathi�s Ma, and arranged for a basket of grass to be delivered
everyday. She herself made a strong wooden post for the cow. She named the cow
Jhumri. She could just not allow Jhumri to get lost. But, the days past and the
grass in Bhagirathi�s mother�s basket began to diminish. Ma went crazy trying to
gather food for Jhumri. Since the field was converted into a kitchen garden, there
was very little grass left. Jhumri was ultimately sent by Ma to Ghagdohore, to the
house of Abdus Salaam, to be looked after. In the village fields, there was plenty
of grass. Along with the other cows in Salaam�s house, Jhumri too would roam
around and eat to her heart�s content and become healthy. For Jhumri�s upkeep, Ma
gave Salaam some money every month. She herself went to Ghagdohore to see her
beloved and stroke her flanks. Days passed. One day, Salaam confessed with a sad
face, �Your cow has been stolen.� Ma was never able to keep anything; everything
was always getting lost. After the cow was stolen, Ma got involved with pigeons.
First, she bought some ordinary pigeons from the market. Ma after all, could not
just get something because she wished to. For months she dreamt and cajoled Baba.
When Baba refused, she appealed to her own relatives. When she failed there too,
she ultimately borrowed money. Returning a loan was also not an easy task for her.
Whatever coconuts grew on her trees had to be sold to Rashid for Ma to pay back
the money. When the trees she had planted after she came to this house bore fruit,
Baba sold off her coconuts like he would the other fruits, and pocketed the money.
After Ma started her hencoop, she persisted day and night, before she succeeded in
wresting the right to sell her own coconuts from Baba. The ordinary pigeons flew
away the very next day. Ma stared expectantly the whole day at the open sky with
food in her hands. She imitated their sounds and called to them many times. Not
only that, she sat till late at night on the verandah in the hope that since birds
normally return to their nests at night, they would too. Suppose they had lost
their way to the house they might find their way back by night. Ma was not one to
give up hope. They did not return. In the outer verandah there was the nest of a
dove in a winged alcove. The verandah had turned white with dove-droppings. I had
wanted to shoo them away for a long time. But Ma had said, �Doves bring peace to
households, do not shoo them away.� One day, Dada finding one of them within
reach, caught it and called Ma. �The doves are troubling us too much Ma, roast
this one for me. Let me eat it.� Ma snatched the dove from Dada�s hands and let it
fly away, saying, �You should not eat doves. If you want I�ll cook other pigeons
for you, but never eat these. If you hurt doves, household peace is lost forever.�
After the ordinary pigeons flew away, Ma brought home a wonderful pair of pigeons.
They looked as though they were wearing socks and crowns. It was impossible to get
this breed of pigeons. Ma had searched the whole district to find them. Ma had
made a wooden cage for them under the kitchen roof. The cage had a small door with
a strip of wood in front of it, like a landing. A small bowl of food
was kept on this landing, the two pigeons emerged from their room chattering,
bak-bakum and ate their food. Ma had tied the wings of this pair so that they
could not fly too far away. Ma had no desire to deprive them from flying. She only
wanted them to eat out of her hands, sit on the trees and plants in the courtyard,
and turn the courtyard white while walking. They could fly, but not too far. Even
if they did, they would find their way back home to their pigeon house by dusk.
The pigeons laid eggs, even hatched them too. But, the baby pigeons were taken off
either by the mongoose or eaten by crows after which these two sock-and-crown
sporting pigeons of good breeding just kept sitting, till they got sick. Ma was
unable to treat their ailments. After the pigeons died, Baba said, �Nobody stays
with this ill-fated woman. They all go.� That was true, nobody ever stayed with
Ma. All of them left her and went away. In the alcove in the verandah, the doves
however, continued their chatter. When I saw them, like Dada, I too felt like
eating them. Baba did not send fish or meat for over a month. I was really sick of
eating vegetables and dried fish. I told Ma that we had no option but to cook the
doves now. If the children wished to eat something, Ma would always try to procure
it by whatever means. I had wanted to eat guavas one day when they were not in
season. But Ma had gone all the way to a little known lady�s house, out of town,
having heard her trees gave fruit out of season. She had returned with some guavas
for me, however, she certainly did not encourage my desire to eat the doves. She
by-passed my wishes, because there was no way she would allow the �household peace
to be disturbed�.
Everyone left Ma and went away. Ma sat alone with her torn sari, unruly hair and
rough skin. She tossed from side to side on her lumpy mattress and under her torn
mosquito net. Ma�s lungs were full of cough. She would cough and spit out the
phlegm on the floor of the room itself. I felt nauseated. Ma had wanted someone
for herself, if not human then at least an animal or a bird. The humans certainly
did not stay, but neither did the animals or the birds. From morning to night, Ma
cooked for us, fed us, cleaned the house and washed the clothes. We would eat,
make merry and keep busy with our studies, games, music etc. but for Ma there was
no one, there was nothing. That was how it was. Ma was to do her duty. She did
too. After finishing her household duties, Ma would sit alone and read the
Darood ,invoking Mohammad�s name, trying to put her mind to the teachings of the
Quran. That Baba had really married Razia Begum, that it was not a falsehood, was
something she kept reiterating. On her way to and from the Peer�s house, it seems
Ma had very often seen Baba on the road to Naumahal. I believed that whatever Ma
said against Baba, she made it up. No matter how distant a person Baba was and how
much I was cowed down by his power and personality, a kind of respect for Baba
remained with me. This did not die even in the very worst of times when I bore his
boxes, blows, slaps and took the whippings on my back. Even after hearing Ma�s
complaints, we did not react. At least I wasn�t in the habit of believing what did
not happen before my eyes. I never thought of Ma as anyone but a woman of mean
understanding and one who cried unnecessarily for every little thing. Ma couldn�t
possibly have any brains, otherwise why did she believe in Allah Rasool! If she
did, why did she sit alone with Aman kaka in the room and whisper under the
pretext of giving him advice? Baba stopped Aman kaka�s visits to this house. Aman
kaka�s wife came one day and informed Ma that her husband was working in
Gaffargaon and had recently married a woman there. Ma replied in an unaffected
voice, �He is a man; he will.� Ma apparently had no respect for any man. Yet, as
soon as Baba called, how Ma ran to him like a hen! Ma�s sitting around, lying
around, walking about, running and going, everything appeared extremely disgusting
to me.
t

Everyone was busy at home. Baba was occupied with his patients and landed property
in the village. Dada was busy with his job. Chhotda was occupied with Geeta. Geeta
after roaming around the Physics department for a few days, gave up her chance of
becoming a physicist, and had poured her whole body and soul into the art of
dancing. She was going to Burma with the dance troupe. I was busy with my studies.
So was Yasmin. Ma was all alone. My dark, plain looking, poverty-stricken mother!
In a way, we had got used to accepting this Ma who had nothing. Ma, who if she had
a petticoat, didn�t have a sari, if she had a sari didn�t have a blouse. All this,
we got used to seeing. Ma�s oilless-thin hair would fly in the breeze. Finding no
ribbon, Ma would either remove the pyjama strings or tie her hair with jute
strings. We would see her and suppress our laughter. We had even got used to our
own subdued mirth. At home, Ma was almost like a clown. The one who laughed at Ma
the most was Baba. After Dada got his job, he gave Ma a sari and a petticoat. But
once he thought of getting married himself, he got so busy collecting and making
household goods, plus his own suits, clothes and shoes, that he forgot sometimes
that Ma�s last sari for Id had torn. Ma had gone to the slum behind Nanibari and
converted her torn saris into kantha covers. As soon as it turned cool, Ma would
take them out and put one on each of our beds. We overslept in the warmth of Ma�s
kanthas, while Ma slept under her torn cotton exposed quilt that barely covered
her body. She slept on a bed that rocked every time she turned sides. Ma dreamt of
an artistically embroidered kantha. She dreamt that after making it, she would be
able to lightly cover up Baba with it one night when it was cool, and surprise
him! Baba of course, was not surprised at anything Ma did. Not when Ma cooked a
wonderful khichuri, not even when she oiled her hair, wore a nice sari, and came
before him with a sweet smile on her paan-reddened lips. Not even if, on a moonlit
night, she sat at her window singing, �Sleepy, sleepy moon, twinkling stars, this
honeyed night, has not ever come in my life before!� Baba�s heart was not with Ma.
Ma knew that; so did we. Tired, she would lie down sometimes, in between the back-
breaking household tasks. If Baba saw Ma lying down, he would scream and bring the
house down. Baba was sure that if she lay down like this, the household would go
to rack and ruin. Thieves would come and rob everything in the house. The servants
would play truant at their jobs. They would steal the meat and fish and eat them
up. The girls would leave their studies and gossip. On one of the days when Baba
was screaming at Ma for lying down, Ma got up and said, �I have lost a lot of
blood because of piles. I am exhausted.�

Baba heard and said, �What a drama over nothing.�

Ma had softly asked Baba many times, �Is there no treatment for piles?�

Baba had said, �No.�

�So much blood is lost. The stools are full of blood. Isn�t it dangerous to lose
so much blood?�

In a grave voice, Baba replied, �No.�

Ma had been wearing torn slippers for quite some time. Baba was told about buying
her a pair. Baba pretended not to have heard. If Ma had to go somewhere, she wore
either mine or Yasmin�s slippers. In the house, verandah and courtyard, she was of
course barefoot. People at home hardly ever noticed what Ma didn�t have or what
she needed. A wastrel and vagabond like Nana, however, noticed Ma�s slipper-less
life. One day, he came bringing a pair of white cloth slippers, which he had
bought for Ma. Nana had no idea that women never wore such shoes. But Ma was
delighted with the pair. She showed everyone at home the shoes her Bajaan had
brought for her. That day Ma made payesh with more sugar for Nana, even though she
knew he was forbidden sweets. Nana ate, passed his hands over his daughter�s head
and asked for blessings so that his daughter went to behesht, heaven. Nana
described the food in heaven. �The food you ate once in heaven, you could continue
eating for the next forty-thousand years. Even the belch would carry the aroma.�
Listening to Nana�s description I was sure Nana observed Namaz and Roza only to
greedily sample all the good food in heaven.

The Naumahal Peer�s fame had spread so much that even the rickshaw-wala did not
have to be told anymore. �Earlier you had to ask him to go behind the Naumahal
Chandu�s shop.� If you now said Naumahal Peer�s house, the rickshaw-wala knew
where to go. Earlier, Ma used to pay four annas. The rate increased to eight annas
later and even went up to one taka. Ma never had so much money that she could
afford to make frequent trips to her parents or the Peer�s house. Very often she
had to control her desire to go. The other day, I was ready for school when she
asked, �Will you drop me at the corner of the rail tracks?� Looking at her from
head to toe, dressed in a single folded sari, with a faded burkha on top, and
Nana�s gifted white cloth shoes, I wrinkled my nose and said, �You can always take
another rickshaw!�

�I don�t have the fare.�

�Then take the fare.�

�No one would give it to me.�

�Then don�t go today, leave it. Go another day.�

Ma did not follow my advice. There was no difference between one day and another
for Ma. I had no option but to take Ma along that day. I had to pray with all my
heart and soul that there would be no familiar person on the road. Let no one see
me accompanying someone wearing a faded burkha and sock-less white shoes. After
crossing C. K. Ghose Street, Ma disembarked in front of the rail tracks. Most of
the route to the Peer�s house was yet to be covered. The rest of the two-mile
journey, she was going to walk. As soon as I reached school, Ashrafunnisa proudly
told me, �I saw you coming by rickshaw. I waved to you, but you did not respond.�

�I never saw you.�

�How could you have?� You were staring at the ground. You looked like a coy family
bride.�

�What rubbish!�

�At the Mahakali corner, my rickshaw crossed yours. You were accompanied by your
maid.�

I could hear the thud in my breast. It was at the tip of my tongue to say that,
�No that was not a maid, it was my mother� but I gulped it down silently. I don�t
know who sealed my lips tightly together. The whole day, I wanted to rectify
Ashrafunnisa�s mistake, but couldn�t.

On returning from school, Yasmin whispered a secret into my ears. Some girl had
told her, �Your Baba has married a second time.�

�What did you say?�

Yasmin said, �I told her my Baba had not married again, it was a lie.�

I too whispered back, �The other day, a girl in my class told me the same thing.�

Ma was sitting unhappily in the verandah. Finding me nearby she said, �Your Baba
has married Chakladar�s wife�

I said, �What all you say, Ma!�

�Yes, everyone at Naumahal said so.�

�Who is everyone? How do they know?�

�They�ve seen.�

�What have they seen?�

�They have seen the woman living in the house at Naumahal and your Baba is
constantly visiting that house.�

�That is not new; you have suspected this for a long time.�

�They have seen your Baba entering with their own eyes. They have even spoken to
the woman. She herself has said she is married.�

�Nonsense!�

�If it is nonsense, then why does your Baba go to the house?�

�He can go. Does that mean marriage?�

That visiting someone�s house did not amount to marriage, was an argument I tried
to make Ma understand. Why did I do it? Was it so that Ma would not feel bad, or
was it my deep faith in Baba that he could not possibly have done something as
shocking as this? Or was it because, Baba�s two marriages were so shameful to me
that I was desperately trying to refuse to bear this burden of shame. I really
didn�t understand.
d

Ma said, �I had gone to Akua. I met Soheli�s mother. She said she saw your Baba
and Chakladar�s wife going to the cinema. Your father never takes me to the
c
cinema!�

�Would you go to the cinema? You were supposed to be following Allah�s path!�
Saying this, I moved away from Ma.
S

In spite of Ma�s grumbles about Razia Begum, she still gave full attention to her
cooking. She fed her husband and children. If there was no oil or onions, she
cooked without them, her face unhappy. Serving the food, she would say, �How can
food taste good without oil or onions! Eat it up somehow today, I�ll see tomorrow
if ��
i

The next day, the oil came but not the onions. With the onions, Baba had sent a
bagful of rotten Koi fish from the market. As soon as she opened the bag, Ma
detected the smell of the rotten fish. But her children were not to stay hungry
because of the smell. She tore a handful of leaves from the lemon tree and put it
in the fish curry, hoping to suppress the rotten fish smell with the scent of the
lemon leaves. Greens could not hide the smell. Maybe the scent of lemon leaves
would but the very presence of lemon leaves made me suspicious. I turned up my
nose as soon as I sat down to eat. �Why have you put lemon leaves, Ma? The fish
must have been rotten.� A sliver of a smile appeared for a second at the corner of
Ma�s lips and immediately disappeared. Ma put an un-broken fish on my plate and
said, �The fish were alive.�
s

�S
Swear on Allah and say they were alive.�

�I
It is wrong to swear on Allah on every instance,� Ma scolded mildly.

Dada ate one and took a second fish. I moved away my plate, saying, �The fish is
rotten, I will not eat it.�
r

�H
How can the fish be rotten?�

Ma called Jori�s Ma from the kitchen, �You tell her, weren�t the fish jumping when
you were slicing them?�
y

Jori�s Ma nodded her head and said, �Yes, they were jumping.�
J

�Let them. I will not eat fish. If there is something else to eat then give it to
m
me.�

Dada explained to Ma, �If the fish have turned a little rotten, just fry them. If
fried, they don�t smell anymore.�
f

�N
Nasreen has the nose of a vulture,� Ma said.

When Baba returned that night and was changing from his pants into his lungi, Ma
asked him, �For whom are you saving this money?�
a
�For whom am I saving it? Meaning? I am feeding so many people, educating them.
Can�t you see with your eyes?�
C

�I�m not speaking of myself. I can have even a meal of only daal. I�m speaking of
the children! Why do you send rotten fish? They come back hungry from school and
can�t even eat their rice.�
c

�W
Was the fish rotten?�

�W
Wasn�t it? The smell almost brought down the house.�

�H
Hmm...�

�There are no onions either for the last one month. Is there no money even to buy
o
onions?�

�D
Didn�t I just send onions a few days back? They finished?�

�A few days back?� Ma took some time to count on her fingers, and replied, �Today
is Sunday, even on the Sunday before the last Sunday, cooking was done without
onions. The Tuesday before that, you sent onions.�
o

�Why do they finish so soon? Why don�t you use them economically? Do you have any
idea how much onions cost in the market? You don�t earn anything. If you did you
would appreciate.�
w

Ma heaved a long sigh. Was it that she was not earning because she didn�t want to?

Whenever Baba�s medical shop assistant, Abdus Salaam came to deliver the shopping,
Ma always called him aside and questioned him. One evening, I found her sitting in
the kitchen feeding Salaam fish and rice. �Salaam, eat well, whatever you may eat
in the morning, you don�t get any food after that!�
i

Ma�s habit of feeding this or that person was nothing new. If any hungry beggars
came home, she made them sit and fed them as well. Stale vegetables, fermented old
rice, dry chillies. They blissfully ate even these. If she heard a landowner had
fallen on bad days and was being forced to beg, she would add two pieces of
freshly cooked meat too. Ma was a generous person. After Salaam had eaten and left
with a happy face, Ma called Dada and me and told us, �Do you know why your father
buys rotten fish and sends it? Why he doesn�t get oil and onions home?�
b

�W
Why, Ma?� Dada asked.

In the manner of Detective Kiriti Ray revealing an ancient secret, Ma said,

�Because he has to send provisions to two places! How can he manage so much! That
woman sends her servant to the pharmacy and your father walks to the market
himself, shops and sends provisions to her house. He has married that woman. The
woman�s younger son even comes and sits at the pharmacy. He pays for his
education. He is actually your father�s son. Not Chakladar�s�
e

I felt uncomfortable listening to Ma�s accusations. So did Dada. He said, �I don�t

know what all you keep saying, and from where you hear all this to scream about.�

�From whom do I hear? Okay, why don�t you go? She stays in Naumahal. Go to the
woman�s house and see. Find out if she has married your father or not, whether he
daily sends provisions or not?�
d
�Yes! Why not? I, of course, have nothing better to do but to go to that woman�s
house!� Dada moved away from Ma. So did I. Ma�s complaints were all familiar to
us, as were Ma�s sorrows and angers. Ma�s shouts and screams did not arouse any
sympathy in us. If anything,
s they aroused only nausea.

Ma sat all alone. There was no one at home to listen to her sorrows. She called
Jori�s Ma and said, �Look Jori�s Ma, I have no peace in this household. My fate
was sealed the day I stopped studying, that very day. Today if I was educated,
would I be slaving in my own house? The children are all worshippers of their
father. They do not even care that I am their mother.�
f

Jori�s Ma did not understand Ma�s sorrow. In comparison to her own, Ma�s sorrows
were nothing. She had been married into a household of three wives. She had been
traumatised by the tortures of the co-wives. Her husband had tortured her no less.
After Jori�s birth, he stopped giving her food. Finally he beat her and kicked her
out of the house. In this household, Ma was at least getting food. The co-wife
stayed in another house. Not in the same. To Jori�s Ma, Ma�s house seemed to be a
lovely golden one.
l

At Ma�s words, Jori�s Ma would heave deep sighs. I�m sure they were false.
A

Even in so much sorrow, Ma still decorated the house. She would rearrange the
furniture. I liked this exercise of Ma�s. The rooms always looked new. It felt as
though a new life was starting. Not just the house, Ma beautified the courtyard
and the field as well. She always decorated them with greens and vegetables, fruit
and flower trees. Every season had a different variety. For those trees that were
leaning over, a barrier of bamboo sticks was put up. The grass was weeded, the
earth was dug up and put back all by Ma herself. Ma loved vegetables and she
insisted on reciting verses while feeding us. She always tried to give us fresh
fruit and vegetables. Ma thought we would happily dance and eat our greens if we
heard her rhymes. Ma was also under the impression that like her, we too, had a
special weakness for vegetables planted with her own hands. The whole year around
while serving vegetables she would say, �Bottle-gourd from the plants, beans,
tomatoes from the plants, this from the plants, that from the plants.�
t

One day at mealtime I caught Ma as soon as she said, �Gourd from the plants.�
O

�What do you mean? Bottle-gourd is grown on plants only, as though gourds grow
o
otherwise!�

Ma said, �These are grown on plants, not bought.�

M

�A
Are gourds that are bought grown below the ground?�

�R
Rubbish! Why should gourds grow underground?�

�T
That means they do grow on plants.�

�O
Of course!�

�Then why do you keep saying it? Even the gourd bought from the markets grows on
p
plants.�

�A
Arrey, these are from the home garden.�

�T
Then say so. From the home garden. You can�t even speak properly.�

�I am illiterate, I have not studied. You are educated. You can speak correctly,�
Ma said haltingly. Ma�s regrets about her lack of education were lifelong. Just
before my SSC exams, when I was bent over a table full of books and notebooks, Ma
in a small voice said, �If I could have only taken the SSC privately.�
i

I laughed, �At this age you want to take the SSC?�

�S
So many people do.�

�During the disturbances, many people even older than me took the exam. The
Government passed them all. That Chakladar�s wife cheated in the exams during that
time and qualified the SSC. Your father only made her take the exam.�
t

That was true. After Independence in December 1971, the first SSC exam held had
allowed anyone and everyone, any age, any qualification to take the exam
privately. There was mass-scale cheating. In that mass cheating, Razia Begum had
sailed through.
s

�N
Now you can�t cheat, how will you pass?�

�W
Why should I cheat?�

�T
Then how will you pass?�

�I will study and pass.�

Suppressing a bellyful of laughter, I said, �Will you remember what you learn?�
S

�W
Why not, I will.�

�You are always searching all over the house for keys which you are holding in
your hands. How will you remember?�
y

�If you�d just help me a little with maths, you will see I will qualify. Bangla
and English are no problem. History and geography I will learn by rote.�
a

Ma�s eyes shone with dreams. The dreams remained in the eyes. With dreamy eyes she
said, �If I could take the exams I would surely pass. I used to be the �first
girl� in the class. I came first in every exam. Even when I got married, my school
masters had told me, �Don�t give
m up your studies, Idul.��

Without any hesitation, I told Ma that she would never understand these difficult
subjects; that those times of turmoil were no more there; that one could not do
just what one wanted today. Also, that she was too old. At this age if she took
her SSC, people would laugh. Ma sighed deeply. Her pride at having been the best
student of her school at one time was now hidden under the embarrassment of old
age. Ma went and sat alone in another room. There, she talked by herself to the
wind blowing through the room.
w

It reached Baba�s ears that Ma dreamt of taking her SSC exam. Baba laughed aloud.
So did we. The whole of Aubokash rang then with the sounds of laughter. Ma
gradually began to shrink. Since the floor of this house was made of strong
bricks, Ma�s dreams fell on it and broke like glass. Ma finally satisfied her
desire to study in another way. At Peerbari, girls learnt Arabic. There was no age
restriction. A girl could begin learning at any age. Ma came home from Peerbari
with about three Arabic language books. Taking money from Nani, she bought big
register copies. On those copies she neatly wrote out the Arabic grammar according
to the rules and regulations, just the way we had learnt the English language,
�He plays, he is playing, he has played, he played, he was playing, he had played,
he will play�. Ma�s Arabic handwriting was as beautiful as her Bangla.
h

�W
What will you do with learning Arabic, Ma?� I asked.

She smiled sweetly and said, �I will be able to read Allah�s teachings. I will be
able to understand and read the Quran Hadith.�
a

We had exams before us, but we did not study as much as Ma did. She sat up nights
and studied. Ma had no letters to write, no gossip. Baba noticed Ma�s studies. One
day, as soon as he returned home, he called, �All students, come here.�
d

Yasmin and I went and stood before Baba. Baba scolded us, �Where is the oldest
student of the house?�
s

I was stunned. I thought I was the oldest student of the house. Couldn�t Baba see
me? I stopped twisting the curtain in my fingers and came before Baba�s eyes so he
could see me clearly. Of course, unless you stood right before him, he did not
consider it correct.
c

Looking at me, he said, �Call the oldest student.�

L

�I�m here only,� I said.

Baba said, �Are you taking your Ph. D.?�

B

�N
No.�

�T
Then go and call the one taking her Ph. D.�

I still couldn�t get who Baba was referring to. Yasmin was sharper than me in such
things. She stood at the threshold and called, �Ma, come quickly. Baba is
calling.� Ma closed her books and copies and came before Baba. Holding the
shopping list Ma had given in his hand, Baba asked her, �How did the salt finish?�

Ma said quietly, �In the cooking.�

M

�What great feast are you cooking that two and a half sers of salt finished in two
d
days?�

�If you are so interested in knowing, sit in the kitchen and watch how it
f
finishes.�

�H
Have you any idea of the price of salt?�

Ma made no reply.
M

Baba gritted his teeth and said, �I will only buy salt next month. This month you
all will have to eat without salt.�
a

�I can eat without salt, your children can�t. They all need extra salt on their
plates,� saying so Ma went away. On the table in the verandah, Ma�s books and
copies were scattered, the pages fluttering in the breeze.
c

After returning at night, Baba called Jori�s Ma and in a low tone asked her,
�A
Accha, does Noman�s mother remove onions, garlic, rice, daals, oil etc.?�

�W
Who knows? I don�t.�
�Y
You haven�t seen her taking anything away?�

�T
There are so many things she takes.�

�W
What does she take?�

�H
How can I see what she puts in her bag? I am a servant, I do my work.�

�D
Does she take her bag and go out?�

�O
Of course, she does. Wherever she goes, she always carries one.�

�H
How big is her bag?�

�A bag is never small; it is always big.�

On her return from Baba�s room, Ma asked Jori�s Ma, �What did he call and ask you?
�

�H
He wanted to know if you carried provisions to your parents� house.�

�W
What did you say?�

�I said I didn�t know all that.�

Ma flared up. �You don�t know? Don�t my parents have provisions? Has my father
turned into a roadside beggar? Even now, the cooking at my house is done in huge
utensils. There is no dearth of food there. Our father may not have built a house,
but he never deprived us of food and clothing. He buys big Rahu fish, Bangash
fish, Katla fish and brings them home. He does not send rotten fish. In fact, it�s
the reverse. I bring money home from my mother. He is making such untruthful
allegations about me. Allah�s wrath will fall on him. This wicked man�s pride will
be destroyed.�
b

Ma angrily muttered through half the night. Jori�s Ma sat cross legged on the
floor and listened to her.
f

The next day, Baba went into the kitchen, opened the cupboard and checked what
provisions were there. Detailed accounts of what had been bought and when and when
what had finished were taken by Baba. As the accounts did not match, Baba got a
big lock and put it on the kitchen cupboard. Now whenever anything was required,
he would open the lock and give it out. Baba left with the keys in his pocket.
From the next day, before leaving home, he would call Ma, open the cupboard, tell
her what to cook and measure out the required provisions to her.
h

In the evening he did the same for the dinner. That is how it went along.
I

Ma remained alive like a mother. I hardly saw her. When I sat at the study table,
Ma left a glass of hot milk, in the afternoon there was sherbet. I saw the milk
and sherbet, not Ma. Ma would come out of the toilet and collapse on the stairs,
unable to stand because her head was spinning. To the question, �What is wrong?�
she would reply in a broken voice, �The bleeding because of the piles is too much,
I feel weak�. I never noticed Ma�s health or weakness. I only picked up the word
�p
piles�.

�W
What is piles, Ma?�

�A lump forms in the anal canal, and then if you are constipated, it bleeds.�
�W
What is the treatment?�

�I have asked your father so many times for some treatment. He never does tell me
a
anything.�

�H
Hmm.�

�That is why I say, have wood apple sherbet, vegetables in greater quantities. You
don�t want to eat them at all. How will your stools remain soft if you do not eat
vegetables! You too are constipated. If your stools remain soft, you do not get
the Arsho disease.�
t

�W
What is Arsho?�

�J
Just another name for piles.�

�That means the signboards we see on the streets �Here there is treatment for
Arsho� that means this disease?�
A

�Y
Yes.�

Ma slowly got up from the stairs and went to her room. She lay down on the bed
with her face turned to the beams. She was very weak. I sat in the next room and
thought about the word �Arsho�, and kept wondering how such a dirty disease could
have such a wonderful name!
h

That was Ma�s life. We were as used to seeing this life, as Ma was used to living
it. One day on hearing the sound of the black gate I ran out only to see Ma
speaking to a stranger and then closing the gate.
s

I asked her who had come.

Someone came looking for Kamaal.

S

�W
Who? What was his name?�

�I don�t know. I didn�t ask.�

�W
What did he say?�

�H
He asked me who I was. I said no one. I worked in this house.�

�W
Why did you say that?�

�This boy may have got shocked to hear I was Kamaal�s mother. I am wearing such a
dirty torn sari.�
d

I kept shut. Maybe Ma was right in telling a lie, I thought. Ma had saved
Chhotda�s reputation. If Ma had said she was Kamaal�s mother, I feared that when
the boy met Chhotda he would have said, �I saw a maidservant in your house. She
said she was your mother! The audacity of maidservants is really increasing
n
nowadays.�

I could neither accept Ma nor reject her. Ma cooked for us, fed us even before we
were hungry, saved us from Baba�s spankings saying, �Girls are the household�s
Lakshmis, it is not correct to beat them. They are only there for a few days; they
will go away to another home.� We survived because of Ma�s intervention no doubt,
but the phrase �will go away to another home� inflamed me so much, that my anger
was more at my mild and mellow mother than at my ferocious father.
w

�W
What does �go away to another home� mean?�

�Y
You have to go away. Won�t you have to, when you get married?�

�N
No, I don�t have to.�

�H
How can that happen?�

�I
It happens. Of course, it does.�

�Does anyone live her whole life at her parents?�

�T
They do. I do. I will.�

Whenever I heard the word �marriage�, my whole body rose in revolt.

W

�Once a girl gets married, she becomes another�s, Ma. Girls are like guests in
their father�s home. Love and take care of them as much as you can. No one knows
what is in their fate, happiness or sorrow!�
w

Even though spoken in a soft tone, Ma�s words pierced me like poisonous arrows.
First I am born then my roots spread, all these years I live close to her, and it
seems I belong to others. Whereas the boys who were always away, left the house
after marriage, or were immersed in dreams of getting married, were more hers than
I was! For me, however cruel my Baba was, and ugly and illiterate my Ma,
misbehaved and garrulous my sister, I could not think of them as third persons.
They were the people closest to me. Some strange person would come along and
become more close to me than them! Impossible! I purposely pushed Ma away, closed
the door on her face with a bang.
t

�Ma give me my food, Ma where are my clothes, where for heavens sake is my bath
soap, Ma�. Even when I had no rickshaw fare, I took rides relying on Ma to pay for
them, when I reached home. �Ma give me three taka,� or �Ma dear, I think I am
getting a fever.� This was enough to make Ma touch my forehead, make me lie down,
cover my shaking body with a warm quilt, call for Baba to come and check my fever,
and give me medicines. Apart from these minor matters, I did not think I required
Ma for anything else in my life.
M

When Baba opened the black gate, I recognized the sound wherever I was in the
house. If I had a doubt I looked out of the window to see if it was him. If it was
Baba, then I would run back to my place. The problem was that if he found us
sitting before our books at two thirty in the afternoon, he guessed we had only
sat down on hearing him come. Then the opposite happened, before the words of
wisdom, came the curses. Of course, if it was before the exams, then whether two
in the afternoon or night, we were to be only sitting there. Baba said, �Put glue
on the chair and sit, stay awake and study.� Baba came at two thirty. When he
did, it was not just for me to be alert, but to alert everyone else as well. As
for me, I could afford to leave my study room to have a bath. Baba felt baths and
meals in the afternoons were permissible. Yasmin on the other hand might be
sitting on the topmost branch of the mango tree, in the kitchen or on the terrace.
These things Baba would never allow. If he saw anything he did not like, there
would be mayhem at home. Yasmin would definitely get a beating. I too would not be
spared. To avoid this I alerted all. In fact anyone who spotted him had the
unwritten responsibility to call out as quickly as possible, running in from one
end to the other, so that wherever one was, one had the time to get back to places
acceptable to Baba. For instance, if the maid was resting in the veranda, she
would enter the kitchen and begin to wash the utensils, or go to the tap to fill
water or do something else. Baba just could not stand anyone sitting or lying
down. When the warning came, Yasmin left the crowns she was making out of coconut
leaves piled in the courtyard and ran into the room. No one had the time to find
out who had heard the warning or who hadn�t. Before one knew where others had
gone, one had to take a quick decision about oneself. One had to look after one�s
own interest first, after all! After giving the warning, when I was walking
towards the bathroom with my towel hanging from my shoulder, I found Ma who had
been eating, stop, run into the kitchen to keep her half eaten plate and wash her
hands. I entered the bathroom, Yasmin sat down to do sums and Ma took rice in the
wicker tray to clean in preparation for the dinner. After coming out of the
bathroom, I asked Ma in a low voice, �Has Baba gone?�
b

�H
He is lying down.�

�W
Weren�t you eating? What made you get up?�

Ma, while removing the woodworms from the rice said, �Your father has never been
able to tolerate my eating.�
a

�Y
You can�t be alive if you don�t eat! Doesn�t Baba know that?�

�H
He does. However, he gets very irritated if he sees me eat before his eyes.�

Just as we would stop playing out of fear of Baba, Ma would stop eating.
J

After feeding everyone, Ma would sit to eat in the kitchen very late, and whoever
was around, maid or daughter, sat with her. This was a sight I was used to. Even
at other times, during functions and festivals too, Ma never sat to eat with her
husband and children. Why this was so, no one had asked so far. This was obviously
not a question bothering anyone�s mind, hence, they hadn�t. When we ate, Ma would
stand beside us and serve us. That�s what Ma did and that is what suited her as
far as Baba knew and so did we. Ma cooked and served very well, was what everyone
b
believed.

Very often I returned home from school in the evening and ate something because I
was hungry. Ma would then be eating her lunch, mixing her rice. I would see a
somewhat embarrassed smile at the corner of her mouth. She would take her plate
elsewhere or wash her hands saying she would eat later.
e

I would laugh and say, �Why did you get up? Are you shy?�

Ma gave no answer. Ma somehow never could eat except secretly, she never could.
She really felt shy to eat in front of others. If Baba came home of course, Ma did
not even eat secretly. Baba had the habit of ferreting out details from every nook
and corner. Therefore, no secrets were possible. Even if Baba were lying down, you
could not think of playing or chatting, because one could never guess when he
would get up, and roam the whole house pussy-footed. Consequently, if he was at
home, even fast asleep, no one ventured to do anything Baba might not approve of.

Baba would come home in the evenings without warning. On one such day no one heard
the black gate opening, and hence, no warning was called out either. Baba entered
the kitchen to find Ma eating.
t

�How much do you eat? Whole day there is only eating and eating. The fat in your
body is increasing with your incessant eating.�
b
Ma heard this, and putting her plate away, washed her hands.
M

I heard Baba, so did everyone else at home. To us, it was like Baba telling us
when we�d been dozing at our study tables late at night, �How can you feel so
sleepy? Whole day you sleep. How much rest do your bodies require? One whack on
the back and all this rest will vanish.�
t

With Chhotda, discussions on art and literature were as engrossing as they were on
p
politics.

�Accha Dada, why did Major Dalim, Rashid and Farookh have to leave the country
after the coup?�
a

�Arrey, underneath that coup, another coup had taken place. Then Dalim and all had
no power.�
n

�And Safiullah? He was the Chief of the Army Staff, why didn�t they kill him? He
was on the side of Mujib.�
w

�Mujib had phoned him at night, to send the army to Number Thirty-Two his
residence. Safiullah called Zia. Early morning, Zia came and said, �No need to go
to Number Thirty-Two.� Safiullah could do nothing.�
t

�S
Safiullah had understood by then that Zia was not following his orders.�

�How could he not! Safiullah was then almost under house-arrest. No one was
following the Army Chief�s orders.�
f

�W
Who made Zia the Army Chief? Mushtaq? Or did Zia make himself the Chief?�

�T
They all were in the conspiracy.�

�Khaled Musharraf, who put Zia into jail and took over the powers, was himself
killed three days later by Colonel Taher. Then why did Zia kill Colonel Taher?
Colonel Taher had after all revolted for the benefit of Zia.�
C

�Taher had wanted to remove Khaled Musharraf and form a national government. He
did not want Zia.�
d

�Colonel Taher was a Muktijoddha ,fighter in the Liberation Army. He even lost a
leg in the war. Can a fighter injured in battle be hanged? Achha, has any leader
ever been hanged till today?�
e

�No. This was the first hanging of a Muktijoddha after the Independence of
B
Bangladesh.�

�I can�t really understand Major Dalim�s differences with Zia.�

�The law and order in the army had completely broken down then. Zia had imprisoned
Safiullah in Bongo Bhavan, and declared himself General. Some supported him,
others went against him.�
o

�D
Did Dalim go against?�

�No. He sent Dalim abroad mainly because Zia had not wanted anyone who had been
directly involved in the coup to be around him. Once you got used to doing coups,
you wanted to do them repeatedly.�
y
�S
So he removed the risk?�

�Yes, you can say that. Before going he had Dalim kill many in jail. Four leaders
were killed. He also sent the others on excellent assignments. Dalim was made
Ambassador. Dalim was happy, and Zia got what he wanted.�
A

Ma suddenly entered our discussion and said �Dalim? � Dalims are ripening on the
tree, why don�t you eat one!�
t

I burst out laughing.

�A
Arrey we are discussing politics, not the Dalim on the tree.�

�W
What about politics?�

�Y
You won�t understand.�

�A
All you have to do is make me understand.�

�D
Do you understand coup? Coup?�

�Coup? In the dark of night, when the Nation�s government is slaughtered, that is
called coup isn�t it?�
c

Ma�s words irritated me so much, that I said �Go now, Ma! You do not have the
capacity to understand such discussions.�
c

Ma went out. There were beggars sitting on the verandah. Sitting with them and
sighing deeply, she listened to the details of their miserable lives. She
understood their talk, they understood hers. Someone�s house had been washed away
by floods, another�s father left home and never came back, someone�s husband had
died, another was blind, or handicapped. Someone�s uterus had come out of the
body. Ma gave special attention to Dulu�s Ma, whose uterus had come out. Instead
of a handful, Ma gave her a quarter kilo of rice. If she saw her hungry face, she
would come forward and say, �Dulu�s Ma, have something to eat.� That day too,
while I was having a serious discussion about politics in Chhotda�s room, Ma was
feeding Dulu�s mother. After eating the rice and vegetables given to her at the
verandah, Dulu�s Ma raised her hands to bless Ma. �Allah, give her as many years
of life as there are hair on my head. Keep her happy, who has fed me. The one who
gave peace to my soul, give her the same peace, Allah. May she live always in
peace and happiness with her sons and daughters!�
p

Ma listened to Dulu�s Ma�s blessings with an utterly expressionless face.

M

Chapter Five
C

LEISURE

My joy new no bounds once the exams got over. I had unlimited time to do whatever
I wished. Watch movies, read storybooks, recite poetry, write verses. However,
Baba ordered that no film magazines were to be read. All third rate magazines
carrying pictures of film heroes and heroines were banned at home. If one wanted
to read, one had to read good journals. Only journals that helped to increase our
knowledge were allowed. So, what was the name of this good knowledge disseminating
journal? I was very curious to know; at that point I was not particularly critical
of any thing. Given a chance, I could read the whole world. The journal of Baba�s
choice was called Begum. It started coming regularly to our house. In one day I
read the magazine from cover to cover. I learnt how to cook different dishes, to
style hair, to grow fruits or flowers in the garden. There was also information
about decorating rooms, childcare, even husband care. The next week, the same sort
of things appeared in Begum. I didn�t read half of it, and less than half, in the
third week. It is not that Begum remained untouched subsequently. In fact our
interest in it increased to the extent that the pages tore due to excessive
handling. It was Dada who made Begum popular. The minute he saw a copy with the
hawkers, he swooped down on it and was the first to pick it up. Then he began
pouring over it. Not only did he do so himself, he made the entire household
follow suit. It had even happened that five to six black heads had spent a whole
afternoon pouring over Begum. Even when the other heads moved away, Dada�s
remained. During the lazy evening, right through the night, after all others were
asleep, Dada poured over the pictures of groups of girls. Whoever wrote for Begum,
whether stories, poems, articles on human or plant care, had their photographs
published on one page. To be able to see twenty to twenty five photographs of
girls at one go was not a matter of joke. Nothing else gave Dada the joy that
Begum did. Every week he would choose a girl from its pages. The very next week
this girl was rejected and another chosen. Actually if in the next week�s edition
he found some one better than his last week�s choice, then things became
complicated. Unable to decide whom to send a marriage proposal to, he would wait
for the next week�s copy, just in case he found someone even better. Once he chose
a beautiful girl named Dilshad Noor, but on reading this line in her poem �The one
who has gone is not returning. If he does, I will lay my head on his breast and
sleep�,� Dada pouted and said �No, I can�t marry this one.�
s

�W
Why not?� I asked.

�C
Can�t you see she�s waiting for some fellow!�

�A
Arrey this is only a poem.�

�S
So what if it is a poem!�

�If you write in a poem that you are flying in the sky, are you really doing so?�

�Even if I am not flying in the sky, I am in my mind. In poetry, you write what
you feel.�
y

So Dilshad was rejected. When he rejected anyone, Dada looked very despondent. As
though the most difficult to capture bird had just flown out of his hands. Of
course, in Sultana�s case Dada hadn�t felt that way. Dada�s pen friend Sultana,
had sent him a photograph of herself, sitting on a mora ,wicker stool, wearing a
sari. Dada spent many sleepless nights with that photograph, before he decided
that this was the girl he wanted to marry. He had bought new clothes, a new
perfume, and a pair of shoes. Spending two and half hours in the morning, he
bathed, dressed in his new clothes, poured half the bottle of perfume on himself
and left for Dhaka. On hearing a knock on the door at night, I found Dada standing
outside, biting his lips. All of us surrounded him. What happened? Dada had still
not removed his teeth from his lips. When he did, he said in great relief, �I have
really had a great escape.�
r

�W
Why?�

�I
If there is anything really ugly in this world it is that woman.�
�W
What are you saying? She looked quite pretty in her photograph.�

�Oof! If only you had seen her. A dark, scar faced woman, frail and old. When she
laughed, her protruding teeth came out like a rakshas ,witch . Her gums were as
black as the underside of a pot. I had never seen a hag before, I have just seen
one today.�
o

�W
Why, I saw she had long hair way below her hips!�

�H
Hair? What use is long hair to me?�

After a pause he said, �I think she wore a wig for the photograph. One of her
protruding front teeth was also false.�
p

Dada had carried some presents for Sultana in gift wraps. They came back unopened.
Not having eaten the whole day, Dada gobbled his food, washed off the grime of his
journey and took a long nap.
j

Casting aside his dreams of Sultana, Dada began concentrating on Begum from the
next day again. I told the hawker of Begum to deliver Chitrali, Purbani and
Bichitra as well. However, now that I did not have school, there was no rickshaw
fare to save from, there were not even any papers at home to sell to the
glassbottlepaperwala and earn a few coins. I was dying to read the magazines, but
where was I to find the money to buy them! Like people normally depend on Allah, I
depended on Dada. Of course, Dada was not always sympathetic. Dada was not only
not worthy of being compared to the benevolent Allah, he was a reputed miser.
Where the rickshaw fare was two taka, he would put an eight anna coin in the
rickshaw-wala�s hand and send him off with a rebuke. Not only did those at home
hear Dada screaming at the rickshaw-wala, so did the whole neighbourhood. This did
not bother Dada. In his language, he had been paying eight annas till yesterday.

�J
Just the other day?� Ma would say, �That was five years ago.�

To Dada, five years seemed �just yesterday.�

T

If Ma had money with her, she gave the rickshaw-wala four instead of two taka. In
case the rickshaw-wala described his penury on the way, then Ma would give him not
only money, but on reaching home, she would choose a ripe and hardened coconut
from the pile under the cot. Giving it to him, she would say, �Eat it with your
children.� Seeing the way Ma behaved, Dada remarked, �Ma is a duplicate of Nana.
Whatever she has, she gives away to people.�
W

Dada had certainly not inherited Ma�s nature. Dada�s mind always told him that
everyone in the world was out to cheat him. Hence, he too tried various methods
of doing the same. It was Dada�s habit to bargain at the shops. Everyone did, but
no one could beat Dada at it. I would always be very embarrassed when I
accompanied Dada to the shops. If asked for fifty, most people would try and bring
it down to thirty or forty. When Dada heard the price fifty, he would say, �Will
you give it for three?� The shopkeeper would stare at him open-mouthed. What on
earth was the connection between fifty and three! Dada would then progress from
three to three and half and upward. The shopkeeper would finally agree to twenty
or twenty-one. He agreed alright, but also told him off, �I have seen many
customers, bhai, but never one like you. You have cheated me. Forget a profit I
haven�t even got my cost price.�
h

I did depend on Dada, but when his stinginess crossed all limits, I had no option
but to follow in Chhotda�s footsteps. Since Dada normally took at least an hour
in the bathroom, my trembling hand entered the pocket of his trousers hanging on
the rack in his room. As soon as my initiation in this skill was completed through
Dada pockets, my hand began to enter Baba�s pockets as well. Now not only my
hands, but my heart too trembled. Even though the pickings were never more than
five or ten taka, I had to hang my head in shame. I got no peace. Later, this
skill oppressed Yasmin as well. Dada�s anger at Chhotda increased day by day.
Before leaving home, Dada had now begun to lock his medicine chest inside his
cupboard. But it was not possible to lock one�s room all the time. If Dada was at
home the door was always open. At such times, as soon as Dada was out of his room,
Chhotda would send us to get medicines out of his chest. Since it might be
dangerous to bring the medicine out in our hands, we were ordered to pass them
from under the door. The green wooden doors in Dada and Chhotda�s rooms had gaps
enough to pass through capsules and tablets, if not bottles. Chhotda�s single-
minded Bahini ,workforce constituted of Yasmin and me, showed exemplary courage in
regularly conducting these operations. One day Dada came to know. He closed the
gap in the door with a plank bought to size from the woodshop. Not that there was
any ebbing in the medicine flow even after this. We became used to not only
smuggling out capsules and tablets, but even medicine bottles under our loose
c
clothes.

In gentleman�s language, it could be called the war of the �Haves� against the
�Have-nots.� In spite of all these, Dada was unable to build up a snake and
mongoose relationship with Chhotda. This was because of his �bone-cracking�
malady. This malady conferred amazing pleasure on Dada. The sound produced by
bones grazing against each other created sweet musical tremors in his ears. Dada
cracked every bone he had in his body everyday. He produced sounds from every bone
in his fingers by pulling the joints in all directions possible. He did the same
with all the toes. He then needed to crack all the bones in his spinal column.
With one hand on one chin and the other on his head, he would jerk the head first
to the right, then to the left, and crack the bones in his neck. Dada could do
this himself, but with Chhotda�s help the job was done even better. The minute he
found Chhotda close by, he would lie upside down on the bed or floor. He would
then extremely solicitously keep calling out to Chhotda. �Come on Kamaal, give me
a pull, please.� It seemed that if asked to touch Chhotda�s feet, he would be
willing to do even that. Chhotda would hold the flesh above Dada�s spine tightly,
and jerk it upwards. Crack! Beginning from the nape of his neck, he would crack
every vertebrae right down till the buttocks. Once he�d finished cracking the
vertebrae on Dada�s spine, Chhotda would lie down in a similar fashion. Then Dada
would do him the same favour.
w

With the object of remaining faithful to his plan of boycotting Chhotda, Dada one
day called me to crack his back bones. I did not have the same magic in my hands.
Even using every ounce of strength in me to pull Dada�s flesh upwards, I failed to
move even a single bone. �Go girl, you can�t do it; call Kamaal.� Perforce,
Chhotda came to administer medicines for Dada�s malady. Not just on his own, Dada
pounced on other people�s bones as well. He could never figure out how people
could survive without having their bones cracked. Once after cracking the little
fingers and toes of my hands and feet with excruciating pain, Dada had caught hold
of my neck in order to crack those bones. When he jerked my neck to the right, I
screamed with pain and ran away from him. He ran behind me saying that the pain
would increase if he did not crack the other side as well. I certainly did not
allow Dada to touch the other side. Apart from this bone-cracking malady, Dada
suffered from another ailment, called flatulence, �passing wind through the anus.�
This was so frightful that instead of providing food for other people�s laughter,
it developed into a cause for irritation. Ma said �Noman�s stomach condition has
not improved even today. Since his birth, he has suffered from stomach upsets.� To
gauge whether it was judicious to enter Dada�s room or not, I had to extend my
nose first instead of my feet. His flatulence caused no end of trouble. Just when
an adda would be getting interesting, thanks to the terrible odour, except for
Dada everyone else had to come away covering their noses and mouths. Dada would be
reading from Rabindranath�s Golpoguchcho to which I would be intently listening.
Just then, thanks to the same reason, I would have to leave, while Dada was left
alone with the book in his hand. If anyone beat even Dada in this, it was
Borodada. Once on observing Dada�s flatulence, he had challenged him. �Let�s
compete.� If Dada blew down the room, Borodada blew down the house. The sounds and
smells had thrown all of us as far as possible. At one point, because of scarcity
of gas in his stomach, Dada was unable to create any sounds in spite of his best
efforts. Borodada happily crowned himself King of Sounds. Dada became so desperate
to win the challenge that he began to contract his whole body, in a superhuman
effort to produce at least one sound, however soft. Borodada warned him, �Don�t
strain too much, you will defecate.� Definitely something unbecoming must have
occurred that day, otherwise why had Dada retreated from the battlefield and run
towards the bathroom!
t

If one overlooked Dada�s reprehensible habits, he was not a bad human being, or so
I thought. Sometimes things would suddenly fall through the cracks in his
miserliness. In Baba�s stinginess there were no chinks, no chance of anything ever
falling through. This time, Dada bought Yasmin and me satin cloth and not landir
maal to make our Id dresses. When Ma was making them for us, Dada had only one
request. �Please make them in the same design Sheila had made earlier.� Ma did
exactly that. Like Sheila, Ma too made the same scalloped design at the neckline.
Dada was not satisfied. He thought Sheila�s were better made. Clicking his tongue,
Dada said, �It�s okay. But not exactly like Sheila�s.� Since some of the satin
cloth had remained unused, I took Dada with me and gave Chandana the rest of it,
to make a dress for herself. On returning from Chandana�s house, Dada said �Don�t
you have any normal friends apart from these Garo, Chakma, Mog, Murang and Hajong
p
people?

�W
What do you mean by normal? Is Chandana abnormal?�

�O
Of course she is abnormal�.

�T
There is no one as normal as Chandana�.

�Chandana is not bad. If only she had had a sharp nose I could have married her.
B
But...�

�B
But, what?�

�S
She�s a Chakma, a low caste Buddhist!�

�S
So what if she�s a Chakma?�

�N
No way! Am I going to finally marry a Chakma? What will people say?�

�What people will say comes later, how did you presume that just because you want
to, Chandana would marry you?�
t

Dada laughed uproariously, as though I was cracking a joke.

D

�I
In her whole life, will she ever get some one as eligible as me?�

�Y
Yes, Chandana has better things to do than to marry you!�

After remaining silent for a long time, Dada said, �Your friend Dilruba was
beautiful. Pretty girls don�t remain available for very long. They get married
while they are still in school. Those girls who are studying IA, BA, MA, are the
ugly unmarried ones.�
u

If he was in a good mood, Dada bought presents for Yasmin and me, even apart from
Id. Once he bought stone necklaces for us. He then took us to the Chitrarupa
Studio, with our necklaces around our necks. Making us stand on either side of
him, he had a photograph taken of our smiling faces. Chitrarupa Studio was on
Durgabari Road. At anytime of the day, Dada would go there and tell Chittaranjan
Das, �Dada, take such a picture of mine that it can be framed.� Dada was a good
friend of Chittaranjan. For many years he had been taking Dada�s pictures in
various poses. They varied from pictures of him with a false telephone receiver at
his ear, reading a magazine on a sofa besides a big vase, with legs crossed,
offering a false sweet picked up with a fork and spoon from a saucer to some one,
smiling sweetly, to those with his hand on the model of a tiger or a lion, the
backdrop being either the false picture of a sea or a mountain. He had even
dressed him up like an intellectual and photographed him. He was made to wear
panjabi and pyjama with a shawl, a pair of thick black-framed spectacles on his
nose, sitting on a wicker chair, with a copy of Rabindranath�s Shesher Kabita in
his hand. Chittaranjan Das arranged our positions according to his wishes. I was
made to stand on Dada�s right with his hand on my shoulder. On Yasmin�s shoulder
was Dada�s other hand. He gave detailed instructions about where Yasmin and I were
to keep our hands, which way to turn our faces, how much to smile and what kind of
a smile � whether with teeth exposed or suppressed. Bright arc lights fell on our
faces. He put his eye to the camera placed on a tall stand and saw how we looked,
testing whether there were any faults or not. Coming forward, he moved our chins a
little to the left or right with his two fingers. In case there were any loose
strands of hair on our foreheads, he gently moved them away. While standing below
these bright arc lights with a false smile fixed on my face, I began to sweat and
the distressed look in my eyes was expressive of something similar to �Deliver me,
O Lord, from this torture.� Chittaranjan Das had repeatedly told us that we had to
hold our smiles at all costs. After looking through the camera he left it again,
to come and straighten the sleeve or frill on my dress, or to remove any crease
falling near my neck or chest. After all this, it took almost half an hour to take
one photograph. However, whatever the time taken, Dada found this photograph �the
best�. Dada would frame his outstanding pictures and decorate with them the walls
of his room. He would examine his own photographs from all angles and distances
and state, �Say, why wouldn�t the girls go mad? Have you seen my looks?� Dada was
handsome, we all acknowledged, but the minute he took off his trousers and wore
his lungi, his extremely repulsive nature was revealed. Dada had a very big black
mark on his right arm. He, of course, told us that in his childhood a python had
walked over his arm leaving the mark. For a long time thinking that the birth mark
was a python mark, I used to recoil with fear. A birth mark was nothing special,
everyone had one kind or other. However, wearing his lungi, when he would start
scratching himself between his thighs with his legs apart, then Dada certainly did
not look like a handsome man. If one saw what he did after this, it not only
aroused nausea, it actually made one vomit out everything in one�s stomach.
Rubbing off the dirt on his body, he would roll it into small black balls, and
before throwing them, he would sniff at them. Even meat particles stuck between
his teeth would be made into balls and sniffed at.
h

Ma said, �Noman, why do you sniff at these?� We
Sometimes he even asked us to sniff at his dirt
digestive tablets, he very seriously handed out
They looked like pills, and I was about to take
a frenzy, and said, �Those are Dada�s filth.� I
v
vomit.
too reproached him about it.
balls. Once when I asked for
three globules for me to swallow.
them, when Yasmin came running in
had to run to the bathroom to

Dada was in service. He was paid a handsome salary at the end of the month. He
attended company meetings well-dressed in suits and boots. He had even received
awards as the company�s best representative. Unfortunately, however high Dada rose
in his career, his bad habits remained unchanged. A small man with big, big airs.
Our small wishes, if not immediately, were fulfilled by him at some time. Almost
every evening when from the terrace, I saw a boy dressed in a white shirt and
brown trousers and felt attracted, I thought why can�t I wear the same kind of
clothes! Baba had never been forthcoming in fulfilling our desires, Dada was the
only one. I got Dada to buy me white Tetron cloth and even brown cloth to make the
trousers. Hearing my wish, Dada said, �Not a pant, but you can make a pair of
pyjamas with this cloth.� When Dada went with me to the tailor at the corner of
Ganginar Par, I said �pant�, Dada said �pyjamas.�

�Do girls wear pants? Pants are for boys.�

�What is the problem if girls wear them?�

�There is a problem. People will stare.�

�Why should they? Is there something wrong in this?�

�Yes, there is.�

Eventually, Dada felt sorry to disappoint me, and asked the tailor, �Can something
like a pant be made for her?�

The tailor laughed and said, �A lady�s pant can be made.�

�How is a lady�s pant made?�

There would be no pocket, no open fly at the centre, the slit would be on the left
side with a zip, no cloth hooks around the waist for a belt - this was a lady�s
pant. Well, something is better than nothing, so I had accepted eagerly. Since it
was impossible to order a shirt for me, I had to settle for a dress. However, I
made a tiny request. Could my dress sleeves be turned up like a shirt, on the
outer side and not on the inner side? The tailor took my measurements with a long
measuring tape. While doing so his hands repeatedly touched my breasts.
Embarrassment made me stiff. But I told myself that it was impossible to take
measurements otherwise. The day the �lady�s pant� and the dress were ready, I was
not just delighted, I was absolutely over the moon with joy. But as soon as I wore
it, there was chaos. Baba saw me and couldn�t believe his own eyes. Angrily he
asked, �What is this you are wearing?�

I said, �Pants.�

�Why are you wearing pants?�

I did not reply.

�Why are you wearing these obscene clothes? Don�t you have any shame? Take them
off immediately. If I see you wearing these clothes ever again, I will flog you
till there is no flesh left on your body.�

I had to shed my pants and wear pyjamas. It is not that I didn�t wear those pants
ever again. I did, only of course, when I knew Baba was not within a mile�s
distance.

Dada�s presents now began to cross the limit of clothes and jewellery and
progressed to paint. Not paint for colouring pictures, but paint to make up our
faces. He bought a makeup kit for me. I had not asked for it; he had bought it of
his own wish. I had no experience of using a makeup box. No idea of what to use
and how. Then Chhotda came to my rescue. He made me sit on a chair like a statue
and coloured my face, eyes, eyelashes, cheeks, chin and lips. He dressed up Yasmin
as well. I began to think of it as a magic box. How wonderfully it transformed my
appearance. I began to look like the film stars, Kabari, Babita and Shabana. When
Chandana came home, she too was made to sit and was made up. When Chhotda was
applying pink powder from the box on to Chandana�s cheeks, Ma said, �Chandana is
fair, does she need any powder?�
f

Dada did not just give Yasmin and me presents, he gave presents to Ma, too. Ma hid
her tears in her soiled saris so that no one could see them. Even if they could be
seen, we had got so used to them that we were never shocked. In fact we would
possibly notice more if she were to wear a new sari. If she wore a pretty sari
there would be a storm of questions and comments. �Bah! What a lovely sari! Where
did you get it from? Who gave it to you?� Some times however, we did take notice
even though our eyes were so used to her blouse-less, petticoat-less saris and the
fact that tears were not such a great disaster for her. In case we suggested, �Ask
Dada for a sari,� Ma would reply, �How much more is Noman to give? He�s already
giving you all. The man, who�s actually supposed to give, is living comfortably.
He has forgotten his responsibilities. He doesn�t ever think of buying anything
for anyone.� Ma obviously wanted that Baba should give her something, not Dada. Ma
waited like the Chatak bird waits for the first drops of rain. She waited
hopefully for Baba to think of her, to do something for her, however small,
however insignificant. Baba never noticed anyone�s hopes or desires, especially
not Ma�s. It appeared that now Baba was not keen to give us even our rationed Id
clothes. That we were getting them from Dada, he of course knew. Not only would he
not give us anything, he even called Dada and rebuked him. He reminded him not to
indulge us too much, because if he over indulged us, we would go to the dogs.
i

I don�t think Dada really remembered this advice. The very next day after Baba�s
scolding he came to me and said, �Hey, want to go for a picnic?� Since I was
always waiting for an opportunity to leave the house, I jumped at the offer. My
afternoon and night sleep just evaporated with this proposal.
a

This picnic was not to be in the forest of Madhupur, but in the capital Dhaka.
This was my chance to go to Dhaka with Dada. The Fisons company people were going
to picnic at Dhaka�s Savar. They could take their families with them. Dada was
unmarried. He had two sisters and a brother. He had parents. The parents could not
be taken, as a picnic would not suit them. Chhotda was too old for the picnic, and
Yasmin too young. I was the only one who fitted the bill exactly. So now I could
begin to choose my clothes. Not that I had much to choose from. I washed and
ironed the one or two things I had, apart from my school uniform, and got ready.
The �iron� was actually a sheet of iron with a handle. Heating the iron sheet on
the oven, I lifted it with a thick double folded towel, and pressed it over my
clothes. I carried my clothes, and the makeup kit given by Dada with me. Traveling
to Dhaka by train! What could be cause for greater enjoyment in life! The entire
journey I looked out of the window, with all the dust and wind blowing in my face.
I watched the trees and plants, rivers and streams, paddy and jute fields,
buildings and homes, markets and shops passing me by, all the way to Dhaka. We had
to put up at Boromama�s house in Dhaka. His house was no more at Lalmatiya; it was
now at Dhanmondi. He had bought a plot and built small rooms. In them were tiny
children. Because of lack of space in Boromama�s house, Dada spent the night in
one of the company bosses� houses. I had to share a cot with Jhunu khala and
Boromama�s children. We were packed like sardines. Dada came in the morning to
take me. Wearing my ironed clothes, I was putting on my makeup. Shubhra and
Shipra, Boromama�s two daughters were looking at me as if they had seen a ghost.
They had never seen anyone applying makeup before. Jhunu khala was continually
shielding me from them, saying, �Elders have to apply makeup, you all have not yet
reached the age to dress up, go away.� Jhunu khala tried her best to shield me
from Boromami as well. She feared that if Boromami were to see all these
cosmetics, she would drive Boromama crazy, till he bought her a similar box. We
traveled to Savar by bus and unloaded the big picnic utensils, crockery etc in a
big field. The cooking, the eating and the playing were all done. A singer named
Niaz Muhammed was hired to sing. In his habitual manner with outsiders, Dada
carried on, speaking his version of chaste Bangla. This always happened to Dada
when speaking to people in Dhaka, who spoke in chaste Bangla. While speaking, he
was so anxious to disguise his regional Mymensingh dialect, that his pronunciation
of raw turned into rhaw and he sounded quite weird. At the picnic Dada introduced
me to all the important executives in the company, saying, �My younger sister,
Nasreen. She has just taken her SSC exams.� Seeing me cowering silently after the
introductions, Dada laughed and said, �Hey, what is there to feel shy about! Come
here. Come meet my boss, offer your salaams to him.� On returning from Savar to
Dhaka, Dada screwed up his nose, saying only one thing, �You over did the makeup
on your face.� It seems I was looking like a clown.

Jhunu khala had passed out of Eden College and was now studying Bangla at Dhaka
University. The day after the picnic, she took me to the University. All the time
I was there, I looked around me in amazement. Jhunu khala even took me to one of
her classes. In the class, the male students sat on the right side, the females on
the left. I was from a girls� school, and this was an unbelievable experience for
me. Nilima Ibrahim came to take the class. I had heard of her, and even read her
articles. Nilima Ibrahim had not noticed that there was a much younger girl
sitting shyly in class. I did not understand a word of her lecture. However, I
came out of the class and whispered my desire into Jhunu khala�s ears, saying,
�When I grow up, I want to study Bangla Literature at Dhaka University.� I said it
because on seeing the wonderful environment of the University, I was beginning to
think that �if there was a heaven on earth then it was here.� With the dream of
studying some day at Dhaka University in my mind, I returned to Mymensingh from
Dhaka by train. On coming home, I gave Chandana a perfect description of the way
the girls and boys of Dhaka University walked together side by side, laughed,
talked and sang. How no one looked back at them repeatedly, winked, made obscene
comments, or threw stones. There were even circles of boys and girls, sitting
together on the grass in the fields and chatting. There was no specific dress code
for anyone. People wore whatever they liked, red or green dresses, some even
saris. It was like a dream world. A dream that swam in the depths of Chandana�s
eyes as well. Apart from our own brothers, father and some very close relatives,
we had never mixed with anyone else. For us, the outside world was a very vast
one. Other men for us were both fascinating and frightening. After reading so many
novels and watching countless movies, if Chandana and I dreamt of any men, they
were always handsome, good looking ones. However, I had got to read my novels at a
great cost. Dada one day threw out the hawker who came to deliver the Chitrali.
He tore the magazines into shreds and threw them out of the window. When he
categorically told us that in future we were to stop reading these �worthless
magazines�, I walked out of the house. I walked out without knowing where to go. I
did not even have the money to take a rickshaw to Nanibari. In novels so many
penniless heroines walked out too, and within a few yards they would find deserted
sea-shores, deep forests or remote melancholy mountains. Nothing untoward
happened, instead amazing incidents occurred. The heroine would sometimes actually
meet the hero, or a very wealthy and benevolent person would adopt her as his
daughter. In others she would walk alone besides a river or sea, share her
thoughts silently with the flowers in a garden in full bloom, chase a colourful
butterfly or just lean against a tree and sing a song of joy or sorrow. In case
something unfortunate happened, then the heroine was always rescued by some
courageous person, who would then proceed to become her brother or friend for
life. With both fear and daring suppressed in her heart, this particular novel-
reading and cinema-viewing girl kept walking along. Knowing that along the river,
the paws of men would be present, she still walked in the direction of the park.
This road led towards a garden area, which had been named �Ladies Park� by the
people. Since men, women and children had very few places in town to go to in the
evening, they normally came here. They sat on the benches munching nuts and
chanachur. They walked around in the breeze and returned home. When I walked out
in the afternoon hoping to find some privacy, I reached the park and sat down on
an empty bench, under the shade of a tree. Before me I could see tiny waves rising
in the breeze flowing over the waters of the Brahmaputra, the trees mildly
dropping leaves occasionally into the river. I sat there like that purposely,
hoping to look at the beauties of nature, for as long as I wished. Though
characters in story books could stay for as long as they wished, I could not.
Lungi clad boys began to gather around me in ones and twos. I was looking at the
river, at two boats that were plying. The boat men were singing a Bhatiali
,country song synchronizing the beat of the music to the strokes of their oars. My
eyes moved to the other bank of the river. What lovely catkins were blooming
everywhere! However this gang of boys did not give me a chance to concentrate on
any of this. Splitting with a knife, the heart of silence and isolation
surrounding me, one asked the other, �Have the girl�s breasts developed?�

Another came in front, giggled and said, �Yes, they have.�

�How do you know? Have you touched them?

The gang of boys burst into loud laughter.

�Is she willing?�

�How much does she want?�

�She doesn�t say?�

�Why doesn�t she? Is she dumb?�

All the limbs of my body were shaking. My throat was drying up. What if they were
now to hit me on my breasts, just as a boy had done once before on these very
shores of the Brahmaputra. I moved away and sat on another bench. Seeing this,
the boys got even more impassioned. They created an uproar and came crowding near
this bench as well.

�Hey, what�s your name? Where do you live?�

�Hey, girl, do you have a father?�

I didn�t answer any of the questions. One of the lungi-clad boys threw a stone at
me. It came and hit my back. Another boy came close to me and poked my feet with
his. From the back, another one poked me. As though I was some strange creature
who had fallen out of the skies, all of them were poking me to see how I would
react. Not responding to either the stone or the pokes, I turned to the lapping
waters of the Brahmaputra once again. I held on strongly to a thread of belief
which gave me the hope that if I did not reply or throw back a stone, they would
eventually go away. However, this tight thread of hope slowly began to unravel.
My eyes desperately searched for some one who looked respectable, who could rescue
me from this vengeful gang of boys. No one was entering the park. All the
gentlemen had gone to the other side. There was no one on this bank. No one. Only
me and these boys. The distant boatmen, too, could not see how these beastly boys
had surrounded me like vultures. I reckoned that they were younger than me in age.
Since childhood I had heard that one did not misbehave with elders. Yet, these
boys were misbehaving with me without a care in the world! Their misbehaviour
progressed from a poke to a push on my back. This push shocked me into turning
around and screaming, �I am sitting here, what is it you all? Run away.�
a

The boys began to giggle and smirk.

T

�S
She�s finally spoken. She can speak then, she can speak��

One of them lifted his lungi and started to dance before me. On seeing him another
joined in the dance. The rest were laughing and clapping their hands. One of them
came at me with his two claw paws directed at my breasts. I pushed away those paws
with both my hands. The paws advanced again. I kept whimpering, then groaning. My
dress was being pulled by two boys. They were widening their eyes, displaying
their teeth, showing their tongues. They were playing with me. Having fun. All
they needed was to pull my dress off. Why only the dress, why not even the
pyjamas! In this deserted park, no one would see what was happening on this side.
Suddenly I saw two people entering the park, and some life came back to my limbs.
The two men wearing shirts and trousers were coming towards this crowd. The two
gentlemen were coming. Seeing them the boys moved back. The lifted lungi dance
also stopped. In the hope of being rescued from this atrocious scene, I moved
towards the men. But one of the two men asked the boys, not me, �What�s happened?�

�T
This girl is sitting alone in the park.�

�A
Alone?�

The other man asked with a serious face, �What is she doing alone?�
T

�T
That�s what we are asking. She doesn�t say.�

�W
Why doesn�t she?�

The two men stood in front of me. They did not look at my face, but at my breasts.
They laughed coarsely. My sixth sense told me they were not my saviours. My sixth
sense told me, run. I couldn�t make out in which direction to run. This dilemma
was causing someone to come at me with hands and teeth out, and another to let fly
a raucous laugh. The laugh was causing the river to tremble. I began to feel they
were going to tear me apart. Eat me up. Bite me. Chew me. The dusk was falling.
The egg-yolk-like sun was sinking in the Brahmaputra spreading its colours in the
water. The coarsely laughing man was zipping and unzipping himself repeatedly. I
shut my eyes, covered my breast with my two hands and bending my knees sat down
pressing my head against them. Twisting myself into a coil I became almost like a
little ball. Stones rained down on me. I shielded myself with my own body. I
realised that the two men had left me at the mercy of this gang of boys. They now
had the permission to do whatever they wanted to. Suddenly I screamed with fear
from inside the coil. My screams made the boys shout with laughter. Without
warning, I got up from the coil and ran breathlessly towards the Circuit House
grounds. The boys followed, laughing, all the way. Whatever I did � speak, scream,
run � everything was a source of fun for them. When people saw a monkey in the
zoo, eating a banana with its own hands, they laughed, finding it funny. All the
monkey�s antics were amusing to watch. I could not think of myself as a human
being. I felt like an animal which was there for man�s amusement. The boys had
merrily lifted their lungis, shown their penis and danced before me. They had
thrown stones at me, poked me and molested me. Not once had they thought I would
call them wicked, or punish them when I got the opportunity. No, nothing bothered
them at all. I ran without knowing my destination. I saw some people walking near
the park, but I did not feel like approaching any of them, I could not trust any
one. Walking towards this agitated, directionless, breathless, crazy sight of me,
was a white shirt and brown trousers! A dry twig before a girl drowning in
bottomless waters. This was the same white shirt and brown pant whom I watched
every evening from the terrace. The same one I went up to the terrace to see so
often. White Shirt stopped me. He shooed away the gang of boys and coming closer
smiled sweetly saying, �When did you come here?�

I didn�t say anything. White Shirt walked ahead talking. I followed panting and
silent.

�Why were you running? Did those boys do something to you?�

No reply.

�Did they say something to you?�

Again, no reply.

I was too ashamed to tell him what the boys had done and said. As though the blame
for all their exploits was mine, and so was the shame. The boys had done wrong,
but it was as though it was my fault that they had.

Reaching close to Ishaan Chakraborty Road, White Shirt said, �You will go home,
won�t you?�

I shook my head from side to side.

�Then where will you go?�

My head shook again. A �nowhere� or �I don�t know� kind of reply.

Following White Shirt I happily went to their house, not exactly their house,
their land lord�s house, not even the house really but its terrace. Sitting on the
terrace and enjoying the breeze was White Shirt�s elder brother and his friend. As
soon we reached the terrace, the brother and friend quickly went down.

�What will you eat?�

I shook my head, I didn�t want anything.

Except for nodding my head, I was unable to utter even one word in answer to White
Shirt�s questions. White Shirt called out to his younger brother from the terrace,
threw down some money and ordered him to get �One Seven-Up.� The younger brother
ran to get the Seven-Up, while White Shirt in the darkness of the terrace tried to
put both his arms around me like Razzaq embraced Kabari in the movie. Such an
invitation should have excited my desire to melt into the embrace as well. But I
noticed that my body remained as stiff as wood. The wood leapt away and stood. The
Seven-Up came, stood by itself, I was unable to touch it. When I had watched White
Shirt from the terrace of Aubokash, walking from Golpukur Par to the corner of
Sherpukur Par and disappearing, I had thought I�d fallen in love with him. It
wasn�t as if my heart had not beaten excitedly. But this matter of rushing like
Razzaq to embrace me, appeared so artificial to me, that deep down in my bones I
understood that just by wanting to be Kabari, I couldn�t be, by wanting to be
Babita, I couldn�t be. Life was not entirely like the novels and the movies. If
that was so, then I would have enjoyed that embrace. Or I would have, with great
strength, been able to uproot the teeth of that gang of boys and those two pant-
shirt clad, uncouth men. I could not.

I had walked out in the afternoon. Now it was dark. I did not have the power to
imagine what punishment awaited me at home. In that house, White Shirt said, �Let
me take you home.� As I had nowhere to go, I came down from the terrace and
started walking listlessly. Keeping Miriam School on my right, and Sudhir Das�
statue shop on the left, past the crossing at Golpukur Par, I walked towards my
house. With disappointment and fear as my props I had followed White Shirt all the
way to the black gate of Aubokash. Eventually, I had entered the house like a
lifeless, inanimate object. People at home looked at me as though they didn�t
recognize me. No one knew my identity. Why I had come, from where, no one had any
idea. When they got used to seeing me, there were a thousand questions to face.
�Where were you till now, whom did you go to, what is in your mind, tell me, how
did you gather so much courage,� and so on. I stood silent, soundless and
motionless. That I had immersed my youth and beauty somewhere and returned home,
was what both Dada and Ma thought. Maybe that�s why without hesitation they
continued to beat up this silent, stationary girl, without justification. I lay
down my numb body and bore every thing. So far at least I had managed to escape
the attack of those urchins, and actually saved myself from White Shirt�s embrace,
but what I was unable to escape was Dada and Ma�s unholy practices. My nausea kept
increasing because of all these experiences.
i

If I stood on the terrace, a boy younger than me standing on the verandah of his
house would lift his lungi and show his penis. I had to turn my eyes away. I had
to move away from the terrace railings. These eyes wanted to see something else,
something beautiful and elegant. These evenings on the terrace, out of the damp
rooms, enjoying the fresh air, watching the world on my own, were very happy times
for me. For me the wide world was confined to only that much. All my freedom was
here. When the cool and calm evening breeze began to bid farewell to the burning
heat of the afternoon, it was the time to stand on the terrace and imbibe the
refreshing air, in one�s body. Not just in the body, I imbibed it in my soul as
well. But, now, realizing that I was not safe even on the terrace, caused me
gradually to shrink. Was I at fault for making that good boy lift his lungi? I
searched desperately for my faults. My own existence kept mocking me. I myself
felt ashamed of myself, to myself. I was very embarrassed when a marriage
proposal came from the house opposite our black gate. Next to Swapan�s house was a
Mussalman house, where an ugly lungi-vest clad boy would stand. He sent his
proposal to our house through the hands of Abdul Bari�s wife, who belonged to
Jaglupara. The Mritunjay School Master, Abdul Bari�s balloon faced, freckle
cheeked wife came home once in a while. She would chat about routine household and
cooking matters and go away. On hearing of the marriage proposal from her mouth I
trembled with fear and burnt with anger. Ma of course did not say anything
insulting to her. With a disapproving face and gloomy expression she said, �The
girl�s father wants to educate her further. He will get very angry if he hears of
a marriage proposal now.� Even after hearing Ma�s answer, Abdul Bari�s wife
called me aside secretly. Taking a crumpled letter out of her blouse, she pulled
out my hand and tucked the letter in it, before leaving in a confused hurry. I
opened and read the letter in the bathroom. There were two pages crammed with �I
love you� type of words. For the first time, I tore a letter written to me into
bits, and threw it into the filth in the toilet. After throwing it, without
informing any one of the letter, I sat alone, hidden from every one.
i

On seeing my growing body Baba collected an odhna from Ma, and hung it over my
shoulders, telling me, �Wear it this way, you will look nice�. Baba�s words were
so intensely insulting that they tied me up in knots. My shame over my developing
breasts was so acute that I buried my head in my pillow and cried all night. I
felt ashamed to wear this extra cloth to cover my breast. To me, this was the
proof that something was hidden behind it, something soft, something modest,
something one couldn�t talk about. That was why it had to be covered, because what
was there, was very obscene, something growing uncontrollably, and definitely not
to be seen. So that I wouldn�t have to wear an odhna, and no obscene part of my
body was visible, I walked with my back hunched up. It became a habit. Ma boxed me
on my back saying, �Walk straight, wear your odhna. If you wear it, you can walk
straight. If you hunch your back from now on, later your backbone will never
straighten up.� Even then I didn�t feel like straightening up and covering myself
with an odhna. I found the article increasingly awkward. Whether I wore it or not,
people knew I had grown up. By the time girls had taken their SSC, Ma said they
were not only married, they sometimes even had children. Hearing this, a sharp
thorn pierced my breast. My breast trembled. I did not want to grow up. Marriage
appeared to me not only something fearful and troublesome, but also obscene. Maybe
it happened to others, but may it never happen to me. I threw away the odhna Baba
had covered me with. I had grown up, yet I was afraid to make people understand
this fact.
t

After my exams, I had dreamt of getting a break from my school books. When I
returned from the Dhaka picnic, my dream was completely uprooted. Baba had told me
to read all my old books over again. Every college had an entrance exam, each very
difficult. If I didn�t qualify, that would be the end of my education for ever. I
would have to spend the rest of my unbearable life with the title of �illiterate�.
Therefore, I had to sit with the same old books all over again. What I had to do
between my studies also Baba knew. For my leisure hours he had already assigned
B
Begum.

The day the SSC results were declared, Rabindranath Das came rushing to Aubokash
and enthusiastically sounded the victory bugle. I had passed in the First
Division. On getting the news, when I was jumping all over the house with joy,
Baba arrived with the exam results in his hand. I was quite sure he was going to
call for me and hug me saying, �Ma-Ma�. He would bring baskets of rasgolla,
malaikari, kalojaam, chum-chum and feed every one at home. When he called me, I
went before him with my face brimming over with happiness. Just when I was
physically ready to feel Baba�s embrace, and mentally prepared to accept his
elation, slapping me hard on my cheeks, he said �You have got a Third Division.
Aren�t you ashamed ?�
A

�Third Division?� My stupefied face corrected Baba, �But I have got a First
Division.�
D

While raining continuous blows on my head and face, Baba said �Have you got a
Star? No, you haven�t. How many Letters have you got? A First Division without a
Letter means you have just about made it, and that means getting a Third
Division.� From the Adarsha Balika Vidyayatan, only three girls had passed in the
First Division. No one was Star-spangled or had secured Letters. So what? �Girls
from Vidyamoyee had, from the Zilla School they had!� Baba caught me by the ears
and dragging me all the way, pushed me towards my study table. Gritting his teeth,
he said, �Those who got Stars ate rice, didn�t you? I kept Masters to tutor you,
not for you to get a Third Division, haramzadi!� I sat still with a book open
before me, salty tears fell in drops on the letters in the book.
b

Late at night when everyone was asleep, I walked stealthily around the house
looking for rat-poison. My developing body coupled with my strange existence and
my useless brain � everything made me feel so small, that I wanted to become
smaller and smaller, so tiny in fact that I would not even be visible. I could not
find the rat-poison. What I did find was a dusty rat-trap in one corner of the
r
room.

Chapter Six
MY VERY OWN LITTLE BIRD NAMED CHANDANA

Every year I was given a scholarship at the Residential, right from the seventh
grade onwards. But I was not allowed to keep a single taka of it for myself. Baba
counted every penny and took it all. Ma said, �Your Baba is keeping it aside for
your future. He will give it back to you when you grow up.� I believed what Ma
said. In a way I felt content that all the money with Baba was actually mine. I
dreamt of being able to buy books enough to fill a whole room when I grew up.
Yasmin, after failing twice in the fifth grade, had actually done something
surprising. Baba had made her take the School Board scholarship exam, and she not
only did well, she even got the scholarship. Now if Baba wanted to call for
Yasmin, he would say, �Where, where is that scholarship winning student!� I had
not been able to take the fifth grade scholarship exam, and though I had taken the
eighth grade one, I was not fated to be successful. It was because of my failure
that Baba made it a point to call Yasmin �scholarship winning student� in my
presence. Not just that, Baba compared me very often to the worms found in dirty
sewers. Repeatedly called a worm, I soon began to think of myself as one. When I
did not get a star-spangled First Class, I again began to think of myself as a
dirty worm. Chandana had passed in the Second Class. She was not at all worried
about this. Most of the students had done the same. I was, however, very sure that
if I, too, had secured a Second Class, Baba would have whipped me till I was
covered in blood and thrown me out of the house. I was saved because that disaster
had not taken place. Having secured a First Class, I would get a scholarship in
college and I would study for free. Baba was very fond of scholarships. If he was
pleased, I would at least be free of some of the pressure of having to perform. If
even this had not happened, I would have had to face Baba�s snarls at every
juncture. Not that I was not facing them now. Anyway, I was positive the frequency
would have been much more had I not got the scholarship.

There was no need to take entrance exams for admission. The college admitted me on
the basis of my SSC results. I regretted having wasted so much precious time
studying my old school books even after my exam. My time had flown by, literally
gone with the wind. Would such a leisurely time ever come back! Maybe, there would
be other times, but the vacation after one�s SSC exam would never return.

I had wanted to join Anandamohan College. Boys studied there, too. However, even
if others allowed their girls to study, sitting close to boys in class, Baba
certainly was not one of them. In spite of the fact that Anandamohan had a much
better reputation than Muminunissa, Baba forcibly admitted me there just because
it was exclusively for girls. He seemed to rest in peace only after he had
literally denied a hen, so to speak, permission to enter the duck pen, and had
pushed it into the hen coop along with the other hens. The reason I wasn�t as
unhappy about joining this college as I should have been, was Chandana. Her father
too had forcibly admitted her to Muminunissa College. Having Chandana for company
meant that let alone curse my fate at not being able to see hundred boys a day, I
did not even have the chance to sit alone for a couple of hours in a black mood.
Anandamohan remained a mysterious seventh heaven somewhere beyond the skies.
Temporarily leaving it on a pedestal, Chandana and I got busy creating other
dreams for ourselves. Muminunissa College was situated on huge grounds in the
western corner of the city. Classes were held in a long tin shed, very much like
those in the village school houses. On one side was a new brick building. The
science students had their classes there. Classes were not all held in one room as
in school. One had to run to different rooms for different classes. I liked this
system. In school one sat in one classroom and remained there the whole day. There
was another system I liked in College. Even if you attended no class and sat in
the grounds or dipped your feet in the water in the pond and chatted with your
friends, no one would pull you by the hair and drag you to class. Nor would you be
made to stand on one leg, holding your ears as a punishment in front of a
classroom full of girls. Roll calls were taken in every class, not like school,
where one roll call in the class meant you sat there from ten in the morning till
five in the evening. I was charmed with most of the new college rules, but
disliked the one that prevented us from leaving college as we pleased. Needless to
say Chandana disliked it even more. Much before joining college she had said many
times, �Do you know the greatest thing about studying in a college? If you want to
attend class, you do, if you don�t, you needn�t. Whenever we wish, we can leave
college. All we have to do is return home by the time the college gets over.� The
idea had not enamoured me any less. However, once we had joined college, the sight
of the six feet tall, black as snake skin, hairless, toothless Gagan set my spleen
trembling in shock. Ki re Baba, why a guard? School gates had guards for the
school children. Where was the justification for a guard at the college gate where
big girls quite capable of looking after themselves, came to study! Chandana was
of the same opinion. We came to college at ten in the morning. For two hours we
had no classes. Chandana said, �Let�s go out.� We did not decide where we would
go. Outside. Beyond this boundary wall. Just as we were anxious to get away from
the confines of our homes, so we were keen to go beyond the bounds of the college
building. However, �let�s go� was easier said than done. Every time we reached the
gate Gagan caught us and pushed us back into the college. For two hours we had
nothing to do. That may have been the case. But no way could we take one step out.
No way, there was no way. We tried to justify ourselves to Gagan. We were not
small anymore; we had grown up. We would not get lost, nor could a kidnapper stuff
us into a sack and take us away. But Gagan like the sky he was named after,
remained ablaze, not even a hint of rain clouds anywhere. Gagan hurled our dreams
into the gutter. The rules in Girls Colleges were that once you were inside the
premises, the gates closed, and would only open in the evening when the last bell
was rung. After years of being confined within the ten-to-five school routine, if
one was unable to spread one�s wings even in college, then what was the point of
going there! The girls and boys of Anandamohan College entered and left the
premises as they pleased. The girls of Muminunissa, because they were girls, even
though they were grown up, were not thought of as such. Hence, they were again
subjected to the ten-to-five routine, again the uniform, white pyjama, white
tunic, red odhna. We had left school and joined college. We had changed buildings,
changed masters, even books, but our routines remained the same. We had to spend
our time disconsolately roaming within the boundaries of the college.

Chandana hated the odhna as much as I did. Very often we appeared in college
without wearing it. On seeing the wide-eyed shock of students and teachers, we
realised that by removing this absolutely mandatory piece of clothing, we had
upset them all. However, none of us were of the kind to be affected by the
feelings of others. Once college started, from the knowledge we gathered about our
teachers, we realised that the one class we could not afford to miss was that of
our Maths teacher Debnath Chakraborty even if the world were to turn upside down.
The rest, we could miss unless there was something really important. The Bangla
teacher Abdul Hakim mispronounced most of the words. In his class we could
exchange little notes, draw Hakim�s picture, round haircut, glasses hanging from
his nose. There was no reason to be interested in the poems in the textbooks as
our minds were already infused with poetry. Srimati Sumita Naha also taught
Bangla. When she explained the poetry and prose, except for those sitting in the
first row, it was impossible for anyone else to hear her voice. She seemed to keep
her voice close to the ground as if she wanted to protect it. Perhaps she feared
that if she raised her voice too high, it might just crash and fall on the ground!
She was a well known Rabindrasangeet exponent. Her husband Alokmoy Naha was also
an artist. An artist and a politician. He stood for elections and won. He was a
good politician, but that was not the reason he won. He won because he was a good
singer. The Chemistry teacher�s nose was always wrinkled up, as though every
possible thing in this world was stinking. She taught us in a nasal tone. Whether
or not her students understood what she was saying, she continued to teach. As
soon as the bell rang, she would leave immediately, her nose still crinkled up.
One day Chandana and I were suddenly sent out of her class as punishment for being
unable to suppress our laughter. We were, of course, thrilled at this opportunity
to leave the class. Chandana and I tried to gauge in which girls� hearts a warm
breeze blew whenever our Physics teacher entered the class with his crooked smile.
The Biology class created some waves. One had to catch frogs and lay them on their
backs in trays of wax. Their chests and stomachs had to be cut open to show their
digestive systems. On thick white paper we had to draw pictures of various
creatures. Drawing meant it was my day to reign as Queen. The whole day I would
elaborately sketch pictures with HB, B, 3B and other types of pencils, as though I
had joined an art school. Seeing this Baba would say, �Leave all this worthless
exercise and learn your texts by heart.� To Baba, drawing pictures in Biology was
also worthless. A frog had to be taken to college, so a race after a frog would
begin all round the courtyard. The frog ran and we ran after it. Yasmin, Ma and I.
Finally, I carried a golden frog in a paper packet to college. The frog which had
been ambushed while sitting in the corner of a room had its limbs ultimately
stretched out and pinned down by me. I even cut it open to expose its digestive
system, but my pity for the frog made me so sad that until Chandana came and shook
me, I did not feel normal. Once I did, I left the room. The less time spent within
the suffocating environment of the classrooms the better for us. I left the
biology laboratory. We wanted to spread our wings. Within us was born a strong
desire to break our bonds. However, as we were unable to cross the limits of the
college boundary, we were forced to sit under a red cotton Simul tree in the
extreme corner of the compound. In a futile attempt to quench our thirst for milk
with whey, we read each other�s poetry. All the students in the college stared at
us unblinkingly. It seemed we were �different�, not really normal. At that time
Chandana was in the process of falling in love with a boy she saw on her way to
college. Hearing her story of �falling, falling�, I too felt like creating some
waves in the dull routine of my life. But there was no one close at hand to create
a ripple. I had no �falling, falling� story. My life was only full of the empty
silences of the afternoon and the hot dusty winds of the summer. I felt like a
destitute. One day I got Yasmin to secretly give White Shirt a note asking him to
meet me near the college gate at ten. He was the same White Shirt who made my
heart beat faster when I used to see him from the terrace. The next day, instead
of entering college I picked up the waiting White Shirt and went straight to
Muktagaccha. This method of taking a rickshaw on a long trip to Muktagaccha was
something I had learnt from Chhotda. He used to do the same with Geeta. However,
all the way I only looked at the villages, the farmers ploughing the land and the
emaciated cows sitting on the edges of the road. At the famous Gopal Sweet Shop, I
bought two of their popular mondas, and rode back to the college gate on the same
rickshaw. On the way White Shirt had asked some casual questions which I had been
able to answer only in the negative or positive, nothing more. There was no doubt
that I got a great thrill out of engineering this episode, and was considered very
daring when I described the whole incident to Chandana in detail. But I noticed
that for White Shirt I did not feel anything. I did not even want to run away with
him again somewhere and enjoy the weather.
h

In the meantime something awful happened. Baba had engaged Debnath Chakraborty to
teach me at home. Students thronged to his house to study, and a Pandit like
Debnath Chakraborty had actually agreed to come home and tutor me. This was no
ordinary matter; it was an extraordinary privilege! However, I noticed a big
danger in this arrangement. In the classroom he had to see my pretty face, not
just see, but every question he had to ask was directed at me, and he expected the
correct answers from no one else but me. Naturally I was unable to do so.
Therefore, in every class he showered slaps, boxes, the duster and everything else
at my head. When he appeared at Aubokash in the evening, my body turned numb. With
a figure like a round potato, wearing the perennial blue shirt and black pants,
carrying a fat black pen in his shirt pocket, black rubber shoes on his feet, hair
parted and combed, a mouth full of paan, a swaying gait, the man could have been
any Kalimuddin-Salimuddin walking along the road. But no, he was Debnath
Chakraborty with a big head full of complicated scientific knowledge. Without his
tutoring it was not possible for any student to do well in the exams. Thanks to
Debnath Pandit, every evening of mine was ruined. If I made any mistake in Maths
or in the laws of Physics, he would immediately tear my books and copies and throw
them on the ground. Yasmin hovered close by to pick these up and put them back on
the table. With my head the target, a continuous stream of powerful beatings,
boxes and slaps rained down on it. People at home watched my pitiful condition
from behind the drapes. One day, Ma stricken with compassion, sent a branch broken
from the jackfruit tree with Yasmin, so that it could be used on my back. She was
keen that the beatings fall on my back alone, not on my head. �The way he beats
her on the head, one day she won�t have one at all!� Ma was really worried
regarding my head. When Debnath Pandit�s temper rose, however, he rarely noticed
the branch of the jackfruit tree. The branch stayed where it was, and as before
his beatings again rained down continuously on my head, and he resumed tearing my
books and throwing them down. Not just my evening, Debnath Pandit managed to make
my whole life utterly miserable.

****

In this unbearable existence, there was no dearth of other tensions. When the
magazine Bichitra started a section called �Personal Announcements�, Chandana and
I decided we would write for it. For one word the charges were eight annas, for
four, two takas. It was not possible for me to manage more than two or three
takas. Saving my rickshaw fare for college, on the way back home, we stopped at
the Post Office and wrote our notices on money order forms and sent them. We had
finally got a formidable opportunity to write what we pleased, beyond the usual
movie talk in cine magazines, and the hackneyed monotony of nation-times-society
discussions in Bichitra. We were two individuals extremely impatient to do as we
pleased. Seeing Poet Rafiq Azad�s personal notice �One poem for one kiss�, our
enthusiasm began leaping like a kangaroo. Chandana and I together wrote, �We are
one soul, one life.� I wrote, �I am an unmanageable turbulence.� Chandana wrote,
�I am the greatest.� Just like the reaction in Chitrali, if I wrote one, twenty
others wrote about me, some for and some against. Hardly two or three words used
to create a statement, like throwing a stone into a still pond, and creating
ripples. Sitting on the edges, Chandana and I both enjoyed the experience of
watching the waves. Ours was a sheltered existence. We had barriers and wire
meshes all around us. There were prohibitions at every step, denials at every
stage. We acquired the strength and courage to disobey these restrictions through
words. Our words were pronounced with such pride and arrogance that anybody who
read them assumed we were two haughty, immodest, headstrong, disdainful, fierce
young women who did not accept restrictions and cared two hoots for customs, rules
and regulations. Whereas, the reality was the absolute opposite; this unrestricted
free life was only the life of our dreams. Many even thought, we were the two
names behind which a man was hiding, that Taslima and Chandana were not two
different individuals at all. Like ants in winter, whatever money we gathered and
saved in two and four annas from one rickshaw fare, from our glassbottlepaperwala,
from the pockets of our fathers and brothers with or without their knowledge was
perpetually swallowed up in the fast-flowing stream of our personal announcements.

Chandana and I had never spoken in pure Bangla; we had always used the Mymensingh
rural dialect. Chandana was much more of an expert at this than I was. Initially I
used to laugh at Chandana but gradually I fell into the trap of this language
myself. Between us, the competition was about who could use the maximum number of
regional terms. I lost to Chandana repeatedly. People going through schools and
colleges tried to overcome their provincialism as much as possible. Chandana had
come from the hilly regions of Rangamati in Chattagram. At home she spoke the
Chakma dialect. However, outside her home very few people knew the level of pure
Bangla that she used, just as even people born and brought up here could not match
her mastery of the tone and rhythm of the local dialect. Chandana enthralled me no
doubt, but she surprised me as well. Whenever I spoke to Chandana it was in rural
Mymensingh dialect, even letters were exchanged in the same language. I had always
known that whatever language people used while speaking, they always wrote letters
in pure Bangla. However, Chandana had never followed this norm. In whatever
language she spoke to a person, she wrote letters to that person in the same
language. Before coming to Chattagram, she lived in Comilla. She wrote to her
friend there, in Comilla dialect. Before Comilla, she had been in Chattagram, she
wrote to a friend there in the local dialect. After meeting me, she gave up all
other friends and gave me her exclusive attention. In my life, too, apart from
Chandana all other friends had begun to fade away. I had no hand in this.
Chandana�s individuality, novelty, rarity overwhelmed me, at all times I felt awed
by her. After SSC and before joining college our chances of meeting were very few
for similar reasons. Just as I had to sit at home, Chandana had to sit at home,
too. There was no question of visiting friends whenever we wished. Going out meant
visiting Nanibari. I had given up visiting Peerbari ages ago, or going to
functions with Chhotda with a reluctant consent from Ma, or watching movies with
Dada. As far as movies were concerned I could only go to matinee shows, so that
Baba did not get to know. As soon as the show would get over, Dada, Yasmin and I
would hurry home and sit with faces which appeared as though we had never known
what cinema was all about. I had taken Chandana sometimes with me to the movies,
but even that was under Dada�s supervision. After seeing Alamgir Kabir�s film
Seemana Periye (Beyond the Limits), the dialogues of Bulbul Ahmed were always on
our lips. Enacting the part of a moronic stammering man on a remote island, Bulbul
had told Jayshree, �Wha-what haven�t I done for you, I have he-held you-you close
to my hea-heart, carried you on my ba-back�!� This dialogue of Bulbul, Chandana
and I knew by heart. Chandana started it. She had a battle with her younger
brother Saju once. Soon after being beaten up by him, a very aggrieved Chandana
described the whole incident to me saying �Wha-what have I no-not done for him, I
have he-held him clo-close to my hea-heart, my sto-stomach, my he-head, my shou-
shoulders.� Chandana never bore a grudge against her brothers even when she was
hurt by them in fights. But one hurt she bore all her life. When Molina Chakma had
given birth to a girl child, Subroto Chakma had come into the labour room with a
big chopper to kill his own daughter because he did not like girls. Thanks to the
intervention of family members in the labour room, Chandana�s life was saved no
doubt. Molina Chakma having subsequently given birth to two male offsprings,
Subroto Chakma�s anger with Chandana had abated somewhat, but Chandana had never
been able to forgive her father. Even now, like a nightmare the scene stubbornly
remained day and night in her mind.
r

Chhotda brought the news that Chipachosh was having a function. The one and only
Bulbul Ahmed was coming from Dhaka! The same Bulbul Ahmed of Seemana Periye and
Surjo Kanya (Daughter of the Sun) fame. Chandana could not go to the function; she
did not get permission from home. It was not easy to go out with Chhotda. Chhotda
was a boy who had gone astray. No one was willing to let me run wild with him.
However, I still got permission. Ma had a partiality for film heroes and heroines,
however spiritual she might have been. I was bursting with excitement. I would
actually be seeing a film hero in person. Chhotda said, �Don�t forget to carry
your autograph book.� I had no such thing called an autograph book. On the way,
Chhotda bought me a notebook with red-blue-green pages. Bulbul Ahmed was sitting
at a table corner, and pressing around the edge of that table were people sitting
and standing. He was talking to everyone very naturally, as though he had known
them all his life. He was cheerfully answering everyone�s queries. When the time
came to take his autograph, my heart was pounding; what should I say to him? I
like your acting very much. Obviously I liked his acting, otherwise why would I
want his autograph! When he asked my name before signing, I pronounced it very
softly. He wanted to know the full name! After I told him, he burst out laughing,
and overwhelmed me by saying, �You are Taslima Nasreen? Why should you want my
autograph! I should be taking yours! Hey, you are more famous than I am!� I hid my
face behind Chhotda. Prior to this meeting I would never have believed that film
stars were like ordinary people, that they too laughed, cried, abused, were
abused, that they also needed to answer the calls of nature, they too caught cold,
or felt feverish. However, after seeing Bulbul Ahmed at close quarters I changed
my views. I had not even a tiny doubt that Razzaq, Kabari, Azim, Sujata, Jaffar,
Babita, Alamgir, Shabana and all the rest were human beings just like us.

Chandana suddenly, abandoning her casual love affairs with neighbourhood boys who
threw notes or wrote letters, became absorbed with Jaffar Iqbal. Jaffar Iqbal was
the most handsome hero in the world of films. Many things were written about the
love affairs of hero Jaffar Iqbal and heroine Babita in the film magazines. We
never bothered about such things. It was a question of good looks. There was such
a bankruptcy of handsome men about us, that we both knew we had no option but
Jaffar. One day, Chhotda went to Dhaka to chat with Jaffar Iqbal on behalf of
Chipachosh. Chandana and I fell all over him in our eagerness to hear all the
details from the beginning to the end. Hearing everything added more fuel to the
fire of our eagerness. Taking Jaffar Iqbal�s No. 5 Nayapaltan address from
Chhotda, I wrote him a letter. A reply came from Jaffar Iqbal on the second day.
On very nice writing paper with Jaff inscribed on it, was a short letter addressed
to a friend whose name was mis-spelt. The evening was spent in a state which was
completely out of self-possession. Next morning I picked up Chandana on the way to
college as usual, but the whole day was filled with nothing but Jaffar. No
reading, no writing, nothing else. The wrong spellings in the letter we forgave
for the moment, but only because they were Jaffar Iqbal�s. Those who sent mis-
spelt letters requesting pen-friendship, we very categorically rejected. I incited
Chandana to write to Jaffar. A few days later, a letter from Jaffar came to her as
well. The next day, without waiting to meet me in college, she almost flew to
Aubokash with his letter in her hands. Our dreams of Jaffar made time fly like
floating Simul cotton, for both of us. After seeing two English films with
Chhotda, Chandana reacted more than I did. She bought a pair of high-heeled shoes,
stuck Jaffar�s picture on it, wrote, �I love you� on top of it and came merrily to
college. Not just that, copying a design from a foreign fashion magazine, she got
a long skirt stitched. Wearing it with a big hat on her head, she moved about,
causing everyone to stare at her as though leave aside this city, she couldn�t
possibly belong to this world. I too bought the same kind of fabric in the same
colour and made a skirt. I had no concept of fashion before. Chandana was the one
to sow the first seed. In the meantime, my old-fashioned father did something
which simultaneously dismayed and enthralled us. He brought home a telephone. The
phone was locked, so no one could call anyone from home. The main reason for
installing the phone was to make sure that everyone was doing their work at home
well, and were at the places they were required to be, while Baba was at Arogya
Bitaan. The happiest person when the phone was installed at home was Chhotda.
Using a twisted wire he would unlock the telephone and call Geeta every night in
Dhaka. Sensing this Baba put the locked telephone into the drawer of his
Secretariat table, and locked the drawer. The solution to this problem did not
occur to anyone, but to Chhotda himself. He merrily removed the desktop, took out
the telephone, used the wire again, opened the lock and continued his calls to
Geeta. On this side, delighted with the arrival of the telephone I distributed our
number to all and sundry. Then came that evening, when Jaffar Iqbal personally
called me on the phone. Chhotda took the call and handed the phone to me. I had
never spoken to anyone before on the telephone. After saying hello, no sound
emerged from my throat. I began to drown in a chilled silence. Desperately I
searched for words. At least one or two. The more I searched, the more they eluded
me. From the other end, Jaffar after talking to himself for sometime, put down the
phone thinking there was no one at this end. The phone rang again, I ran to the
other room saying, �If Jaffar Iqbal calls, don�t give me the phone.� The next
night the same thing happened. The phone kept ringing. Chhotda picked it up, told
me that Jaffar Iqbal had called again. But what was I supposed to do! I just could
not utter the familiar tumi. In my letters I used tumi, but in response to his
voice not even a bomb could have induced me to address him in the same way. After
debating for over an hour about hello, tumi, how are you, I am fine etc., I
finally got ready to answer the phone. When it rang, I picked it up only to hear
Baba�s voice saying, �How did you pick up the phone? It was locked up in the
drawer!� I could not imagine what the outcome of picking up this phone was going
to be. All I knew was that it robbed me of my speech, my own mother-tongue Bangla.
Chhotda courageously picked up the next phone, which was Jaffar Iqbal�s. Giving me
the receiver, he said in a subdued tone, �Say hello. Come on.� I said, �Hello.� To
the question how are you? I was able to reply �I�m fine,� and to the query, �Have
you received my letter?� I was able to say, �Yes�, but from my side not a single
question was asked, because this would then involve my having to address him as
tumi. To the question �Where are you studying?� I replied, �At the University,�
since I didn�t want to be thought a plait-swinging young girl. When I spoke I was
not really in this world, not standing next to a table whose cover had been
removed, or holding a phone whose lock had been secretly opened with a wire.
Mistaking the light of the lamppost outside filtering through the red and blue
glass of the windows and falling on my body, for the delightful moonlight, I was
mentally walking hand in hand with Jaffar Iqbal on a deserted sea shore. But the
very next thing he said shocked me. �No. You do not study at the University. I
know that.� Returning to earth with a bang, I asked, �How do you know?� Without
answering the question, he replied in a grave voice, �One should not lie to a
friend.�

*****

The shame of having lied devoured me. Putting the phone down, I went and hid my
face under the quilt on my bed. Later, as soon as I met Chandana I sighed deeply
and told her about the embarrassing incident. �I�ve ruined it. Trying to appear
older in age, I went and told a lie.� Jaffar Iqbal knew that Chandana was my
friend. If one was a liar, then the other could be one too! After sitting
desolately for a long time; Chandana suddenly shook off her sorrow and said, �You
spoke only the truth, don�t we study at the University? We do. In our minds.� When
Baba removed the telephone from the drawer, and walked out of the house with it
under his arms the very next day, I kind of heaved a sigh of relief. The torn
phone cable kept hanging for a long time. Chhotda bought an old telephone, from
where, only he knew. He tried connecting it to the torn cable and tested it only
to get no sound. Meanwhile out of shame I did not reply to Jaffar�s letter.
Chandana continued to receive letters from him. His letters had now gone beyond
friendship and were hinting at love. So were Chandana�s. I was the listener for
both sides. This role suited me. I also realised that I did not have the capacity
to accept any other role.

Chhotda was again organising a function for Chipachosh. Shahnaz Rahmutullah, the
renowned singer, and her brother, our one and only excellently beloved Jaffar
Iqbal were coming from Dhaka. The function was to be held in the Town Hall, on
Saturday evening. Chandana and I sat under the Simul tree at college, oscillating
between whether to go or not to go and see Jaffar Iqbal. I wavered throughout
Saturday, and finally never went to the evening function. That lie made me shrink.
Chandana, after saying she would, also ultimately did not go. At the end of the
function, at Jaffar Iqbal�s ardent insistence, Chhotda took him to Chandana�s
green tin house. Over tea and biscuits there, Jaffar spoke to Chandana. For as
long as he was there, Chandana remained with her head bowed down. Some �yes�, some
�nos� and some embarrassed smiles were all she had recourse to. She was hundred
per cent sure that after returning to Dhaka Jaffar would never again write letters
to her. But Jaffar�s very next letter was steeped in the language of love. This
deep love finally developed into a marriage proposal. Chandana could fall in love,
but marriage was a no-no. It was pleasant to watch a dark wild sea from its
shores, but Chandana did not possess the daring required to leap into it.

Chandana had squashed quite a few lovers meanwhile. She had abused their
neighbour, Magistrate Akhtar Hossain as an �old bull�, had spat out in disgust on
seeing Antu, the boy who sang, walking bare-chested on the terrace, and had
rejected Sandipan Chakma, the paying guest in their house for a few months, on
seeing him eat. Chandana could not bear to see bare-chested men or those chewing
food. Romance disappeared in fright from her mind. She had even said on and off,
�Do you know when it is that people always look awful?� �When?� �When they eat.
There is an orifice called mouth in our body, people stuff all kinds of things
into it, rubbing their two sets of teeth on them in the most obscene manner �
Chhi! The one I love should not eat in front of me, not undress before me or go to
the toilet in my presence. Bas, that�s the simple equation.� During the vacation,
Chandana once went to visit Rangamati. The Raja of the Chakmas, Debashish Ray was
then looking for a bride. At a family function he was amazed to see Chandana.
Where would he ever get such an eligible bride! Where else in Rangamati was there
anyone as beautiful and intelligent as her! He wanted Chandana. Wanted means
wanted. Debashish Ray was a friend of one of Chandana�s paternal cousins. Through
him, Debashish sought an opportunity to meet and speak to Chandana. Subroto Chakma
was over the moon with joy. His daughter was about to become a Rani. At her
cousin�s request Chandana went to meet Debashish at the banks of a big pond. In
its clear water, flocks of white swan were swimming with their smooth necks held
high. Sitting on the grass nearby, when Debashish like a lover had extended his
sweaty hands towards her and had just begun to speak words of love in a serious
voice, Chandana had burst into laughter. Returning home she told her enthusiastic
cousin that Debashish may be a Raja and what not, but he certainly did not know
how to make love. Marriage would not work out with him. Subroto Chakma, initially
in a soft tone, then in a strong voice told Chandana to accept Debashish�s
marriage proposal. She did not agree. Beatings did not work either. Chandana was
totally against marriage. She could not even imagine a bare-bodied man sharing a
bed with her. Then he would do things, make her do things, which even if other
girls were agreeable to, Chandana certainly wasn�t. Merrily rejecting the royal
proposal, Chandana came back to Mymensingh when the vacations finished. She anyway
disliked any blunt nosed Chakma man, however great a Raja he might be. Chandana�s
ability to quickly fall in love like this and as quickly reject the lovers was
very fascinating to me. I had no one to reject, and I did not fall in love with
anyone either.

At Chhotda�s request Chandana wrote a letter to his childhood friend. Gradually

Hassan Mansoor Khokon grew to be Chandana�s number one pen friend. As the name
Khokon was associated with being a mama�s boy, Chandana rejected it, and chose to
address him as Hassan. She regularly listened to the song �Na Sajni, I know she
will not come�, and added the name Sajni, meaning ladylove, at the end of her
name. She did not like the name Chandana, and certainly did not care for the title
Chakma at all. However, as they were her own names she could not drop them. Even
if anyone was called witch, she had to retain the name as her own. Chandana read
Hassan�s marvelous letters, and after writing Sajni Hassan on paper, moved around
to see how good it looked. Jaffar Iqbal had been handsome no doubt, but his
letters were full of wrong spellings and faulty language. This could be forgiven a
couple of times, not everyday. Chandana got involved with Hassan. Just as Hassan
wrote poems about forests and seas, about getting lost one day on some unknown
island, Chandana too wrote of her perfectly beautiful dreams that were like
feathers floating sorrowfully in the colourful sky. What Chandana wrote to Hassan,
or even what Hassan wrote to Chandana was all read out to me. There was not even a
single little thing that was secret between Chandana and me. I couldn�t believe
that Chandana was really keen to meet, in reality, any of the people she wrote to.
She liked to play with words and dreams; she played. I told Chandana that my heart
fluttered when I saw Hassan�s crooked smile. I even told her that Hassan was very
handsome. In fact in my childhood I had thought that there was no one in the world
more handsome than Hassan. Chandana listened very carefully to what I was saying,
and while doing so she mentally began walking in some faraway forest holding
Hassan�s hand. The same Hassan, almost half-mad with reading Chandana�s letters,
one day arrived in Mymensingh from Dhaka to see her. But how was he going to see
her? The moment she heard that Hassan had come to see her, Chandana retired like a
snail into her shell. A soft, colourful feather from the cloudy sky fell loudly on
the senseless dry earth and broke Chandana�s absorption. The harsh reality made
Chandana turn pale and wan. At Chhotda�s urging I begged this apathetic, lifeless
and wan individual to meet Hassan at least once. When she agreed, Chhotda took
both of us to the Mymensingh Exhibition along with Geeta. Geeta, had now settled
down in Mymensingh on her return from Burma and Korea. The main reason for going
to the fair was to get Hassan and Chandana to meet each other informally. Hassan
was waiting for us at the Exhibition. The Exhibition meant street-plays, circus,
motorcycle races inside a dry well, shops and stalls, dazzling lights and a
gambling game called Housie. Walking slowly around the grounds, Geeta suddenly
wanted to play Housie. Chhotda was ever ready to satisfy Geeta�s desires. He
entered the Housie game with the whole group. There were no women there, only us.
After winning seventy-five takas at Housie, Geeta danced in joy and excitement.
Quite a substantial portion of the seventy-five takas was spent eating meat and
paranthas, rotis fried in oil. Once Hasan saw Chandana, he was unable to take his
eyes off her. Chandana, however, after glancing at him once, did not look at him
again. To Hassan�s one or two questions, she had answered in the negative or the
affirmative. Are you well? Yes. Physically well? Yes. Mentally well? Yes. Are your
studies getting along well? No. Do you want to buy anything? No. Have you ever
been to Savar? No. Judging from Chandana�s shy smiles, everyone assumed that she
had really liked Hassan. Girls appeared shy like her especially if they were head-
over-heels in love. Chandana had held my hand throughout. Quite often I had felt
the pressure of her hand on mine. I had interpreted these to mean, �Look, look at
how beautiful Hassan�s two eyes are! Look at his smile, can anyone smile so
pleasantly! He is walking with his hands in his pocket, what a wonderful manner of
walking! Aah; I am dying!� That night I did not get the opportunity to see
Chandana�s excitement in the midst of the crowd and the dust. The next day I was
eager to hear her excited words and phrases.

�I had already told you how handsome Hassan was, did you see!�

Chandana laughed loudly.

�Come on. Tell me quickly.�

�What do you want me to say?�

�Tell me how you liked Hassan.�

�Dhoor, he was rotten! The fellow had a paunch.�

Hassan was rejected. I too looked closely at Hassan, the fellow really had a
paunch. Chandana opened my eyes for me, opened my mind for me. I clearly
understood that Chandana and I both liked everyone, and yet didn�t like them. We
wanted to fall in love, and yet didn�t want to. We knew all about love, we had
read about it, seen it, but somehow its existence in our own lives was acceptable,
yet not really so. We swung between liking and not liking, Chandana and I.
Even though we bunked class, we had not been able to hoodwink Gagan, the guard. So
we discovered a thorny bush at the end of the college grounds and one day, even
though we got badly scratched, we escaped from under it into the streets. We had
got out but where could we go? The afternoon was in a daze, deserted and burning
in the rays of the sun. Chandana suggested going to the park. My heart trembled at
the thought of the park. Suppose I was confronted again by those gangs of boys!
Chandana caught my hand and pulled me ahead. Her touch was enough to make me more
restless, lively and activated. Floating for the moment on the wings of Chandana�s
daring, I temporarily forgot the gangs of boys and went to that same Ladies Park.
We spread ourselves under a fig tree, and were bathed in the cool of the waters of
the Brahmaputra. Calling a dinghy boat, Chandana made the boatman sit idle, while
she herself plied the oars making lapping noises, which sounded more like a song
in Raag Dhrupad, than the sound of oars on water. I dipped my feet in the waters,
and watched the play of the clouds and the sun in the sky. Just watching and
floating we didn�t realize when the evening shadows began to fall. The multi-
coloured twilight was not only in the sky, it covered us all over as well. I, too,
wanted to row a boat like Chandana, I wanted to float about in the water, I wished
my whole life could be spent rocking to the music, reaching nowhere, to no shore,
I wished my life could be spent eternally floating in this way. I wished I could
suddenly spread my wings, and fly like a bird all over the sky. Go close to all
those colours, and gradually get absorbed in them. �Chandana, do you ever want to
become a bird?� I wanted to ask Chandana. She, too, must want to become a bird;
her wishes were just like mine. I still felt that what Chandana desired, a lot of
it she managed to achieve, surprising everyone. She might actually be able, one
day, to fly really close to the colours of the sunset. We did not feel like
leaving the waters of the Brahmaputra. But we had to. Even if we were to be exiled
somewhere, we both thought that that would be like truly immersing our bodies in a
sea of happiness.

In the college premises, Chandana and I gradually became isolated in our different
world. Not that we didn�t want to meddle sometimes in the gossip of other girls.
Once there was no class. Sitting in the midst of a group of gossiping girls, I
heard about when which girl was getting married, which boy was coming to see which
girl and when, the boy�s name, address, what he did etc. Both Chandana and I had
smiles peeping out of the corners of our mouths. None of the girls liked our
smiles. One of them wanted to know why we were grinning.

�We are laughing because you are talking about this disgusting subject.�

�Disgusting subject?� Some girls� eyes had reached their foreheads; others near
their noses, and some girl�s eyes had bulged out of their sockets. It was as
though Chandana and I could not possibly be human; we must be some strange
creatures from another planet.

Irritated, one of them asked, �Why should it be disgusting?�

�Of course, it is disgusting,� said Chandana.

�You are behaving as though you will never get married.�

�We never will. I can be married only if I want to!� I said.

Chandana said, �Phoo! Am I mad to get married! No one but mad and stupid people
get married.�

�We will never get married.� On hearing this declaration of ours, the girls wanted
to know what was the reasoning behind our decision.
�I
Is there any reason for getting married, if there is, then what is it?�

�T
To have a household. There is need for a family.�

�W
What is the need for domestic life? Do people not survive without it?�

�T
There will be children.�

�W
What happens if you don�t have them?�

�W
Who will feed you? Give you money?�

�I will complete my studies and work. I will earn money. I will stay alone. Eat
and drink. Roam around. Enjoy myself. Do whatever I please.�
a

�I
Is that possible?�

�W
Why not? Of course, it is. You only have to wish to do so.�

We moved away. We could make out that many eyes were staring unblinkingly at our
backs. Taking my hand in hers, Chandana walking towards the Simul tree, said,
�Don�t look back.� We walked along together like this, holding hands with our arms
around each other�s waists and shoulders, without looking backwards. This was
nothing new in the college grounds. Friends spent time talking to each other in
this way. However, the girls said that the slight slant of our necks indicated an
invisible pride and arrogance.
i

To Chandana and me, poetry became more important than romance. Everyday we wrote
poems, or we wrote stories. Whatever I might write, in comparison to Chandana�s,
mine appeared very ordinary. If she created a beautiful red flowering Krishnachura
Gulmohar tree, mine appeared like a wilting, flowerless plant. I was so enchanted
by her beauty, her aura, her essence and her extraordinary originality, that if
ever a trace of jealousy was born in my mind, it disappeared in seconds. Chandana
and I could never become Chipachosh members; we could never even go to any
societies or meetings; we were not for such things. Ours was a different world. We
were involved in the endless, unworried, solitary and pure game of words. We did
not take our words to demonstrations and shout slogans, nor did we know how to
play the game of politics. During that period of poetic abundance, one day Chhotda
brought home Shafiqul Islam. Shafiqul wore thick lenses. His head was bigger than
his body, and it was covered with tough, wiry hair. He looked as though he had not
taken a bath in two years, nor changed his clothes. This garrulous man was
constantly talking in the regional tune and tone. As soon as he saw me he said,
�What�s up, you have become very famous! I publish a little magazine. Write a
poem, will you?� In one evening I complied with his request, and wrote a new poem
called �Free Bird�. It went a bit in this way � �Open the window, I want to go, I
want to fly all over the sky.� Maybe I was inspired by hearing Ma, who whenever
she sat on the verandah would suddenly break into the song, �I am a free, flying
goose, I spread my wings in the far away blue sky�. Two weeks later when
Shafiqul�s poetry magazine came out, my poem was published in it. Padmarag Mani
had also written a poem in it. Padmarag Mani came to visit Chhotda and Geeta at
Aubokash once in a while. From a distance I had exchanged glances, subdued smiles
and even a couple of words with this eye-catching beauty. Once my poem was
published in Shafiqul�s magazine, other such poetry magazines began to float in.
Rush in and even crawl towards me. Chhotda came home with numerous small magazines
after meeting various poets in town. Frequently he demanded, �Write a poem for
Banglaar Darpan.� I wrote, it got published. �Tell Chandu Mastaan to write a
poem.� Chandana too kept giving Chhotda poems, and they too got published. Since
the day Chandana had arrived at Aubokash early morning on a cycle, Chhotda had
named her �Chandu Mastaan, the hell cat�. Chandana was not displeased. Chhotda was
told by the Dainik Jahaan also, to get me as well as Chandana to write poetry for
them. Entering the material world of poetry, those were my first uncertain steps.
So were they Chandana�s. Our poetry notebooks were overflowing with words.
Chitrali and Purbani began to fade away. We neither wrote for them nor bought
them. We hardly remembered sending personal announcements to Bichitra. If the
topic came up, Chandana would say, �There are dangers in advertisements. A
printing error could change a 24 year old heroine into a 42 year old harlot.� So
advertisements were out. If we had to send something, we would send poems, either
to the Sunday or Searchlight�s literary page.

****

At the end of the first year at college, there was to be a promotion exam to the
second year. Debnath Pandit came home to tutor, rained boxes and slaps on my head
and back, to his heart�s content, and went away. Chandana did not have this
Debnath Pandit problem. She was happy. Chandana had always been unconcerned about
things like studies. I, too, would have been, but could not be, thanks to Baba. I
was forced to study in the English medium because Baba wanted me to. Chhotda had
studied in this medium and some of his books were lying around at home. I dusted
them and arranged them on my table. Before the exams Debnath Babu informed Baba,
�She should study in Bangla only, she would be unable to cope with the English
medium.� Bangla books were brought and the English removed. I had to rush through
the books, as the exams were round the corner. I didn�t know why, but just before
the exams, Debnath Pandit would appear at all odd hours � his hair ruffled, the
ink from the fountain pen in his pocket soaking almost half his shirt � and give
me a few questions to write, saying, �Study these answers really well.� Bas, after
learning these answers very well, when I went to take my exams I mostly found only
these questions in my papers. The exams got over, the results were declared. I had
come first. I became famous in college. The Principal called me to her room and
said, �You are the pride of this college. Continue to work hard we want really
good results in the final exams.� Baba was not really happy, though, on getting
the news. He noticed that many letters addressed to me were coming home. He asked
Dada, �Who are the people writing to Nasreen?�

�Penfriends.�

�Penfriend means what?�

In a disinterested tone Dada replied, �Friendship through letters.�

�What does that mean?�

Dada did not reply.

�What do they write in these letters?� Baba was very astonished.

�Who knows, I have no idea.�

�What do you mean you don�t know?�

�She doesn�t show me the letters.�

�Why doesn�t she? What is there in these letters?�

Dada was quiet.

�Whom does she write to?�

�I don�t know.�

�Don�t we need to know to whom this girl is writing, what she is writing, why she
is writing?�

�There�s nothing much. It is just normal friendship!�

Dada tried to cool Baba�s growing temper, but it didn�t work. Baba�s voice grew
steadily louder.

�What is the meaning of normal friendship?�

Dada stared dumbly at the white wall.

�Are they women or men? Whom is she writing to?�

�Both.�

�You mean she is making friends with men?�

Getting no reply from Dada, he huffed and puffed saying, �Does she want to get
married?�

Dada said, �No, not marriage.�

�Then what?�

�Just like that.�

�Meaning what? Just like what?�

�She just writes casually.�

�Why does she write casually? What is the need?�

�No, there is no need.�

�If there is no need, then why does she write?�

�I don�t know.�

�Why don�t you?�

Baba went on questioning Dada � his eyes red, swollen and ready to gobble Dada up.
To escape from the torture of this questioning, Dada excused himself by saying he
needed to go to the toilet, and went and sat there. Baba repeatedly took off his
glasses, and wore them; kept walking from one end of the verandah to the other and
rummaged amongst the books on my table. Every book, every copy. Under the table,
every fallen piece of paper there. Even under the bedsheets, pillows and
mattresses. He was looking for something.

After this incident all my letters stopped coming. They were now going to the
Notun Bazar address of Arogya Bitaan. Baba had wangled the postman into doing
this. I was sure of this the day Chhotda informed me that he found many letters
addressed to me at Aubokash, all opened, in Baba�s drawer at Arogya Bitaan. As
soon as Baba had left for the Bazaar, Chhotda had made this discovery. There was
only one thing that I had felt at that time, that this was wrong. Baba, being
Baba, did not think that there was anything wrong in this. But why should the
postman do this? That I would get no help from anyone if I complained, I was sure.
So I wrote a letter. In the Readers Page of Bichitra, the letter was published the
very next week. Letters for Aubokash, Amlapara were being delivered at 69, Rambabu
Road. The dishonesty of the Postal Department was crossing all limits etc� Two
days after the letter was published, an official of the Postal Department came
looking for me at Aubokash. In a long bound register he had come to lodge my
complaint. However, once he arrived, he expressed his own complaint instead. His
complaint was about my complaint. My letters were not going to some unknown
villian, but to my own father. The owner of Aubokash and of Arogya Bitaan was the
same individual. Therefore, according to instructions, the owner�s letters could
go from one address to the other. In answer to this I said, �But the letters are
not addressed to my father, they are addressed to me. I had not told the
postmaster to deliver my letters to Arogya Bitaan instead of Aubokash.�
p

�W
Wherever they are delivered, he is your father after all.�

In a soft voice I corrected him, �Yes, he is my father. He is not me. My father

and I are not the same, we are different.� The official went away. The problem
remained unsolved. Chhotda helped me out of this situation by allowing me to use
his friend�s stationery shop address. I informed my penfriends of my new address.
Chhotda faithfully acted as my postman. I was very friendly with him. We read the
Id Edition of Bichitra, stories, and novels together, that is, I read them aloud
and Chhotda listened. Most of the story books were also read in this way. Some of
these Chhotda did not like, and these I read by myself. The stories of the wicked
forest elf of my childhood were forgotten. I had given up reading Niharranjan
Gupta, Phalguni Mukhopadhyay, Nimai Bhattacharya, Bimal Mitra, Jarasondho ages
ago. I had nothing left of Saratchandra to read. I had even had enough of
Rabindranath and Nazrul. Michael, even Jibanananda had been consumed. From Shakti,
Sunil, Shamshur Rahman, Al Mahmud to the recent Nirmalendu Goon�s books, whatever
had been published, I had read. I wanted something different. On the way back home
from college, I stopped at the bookshops at the corner of Ganginar Par, and
searched for books. Prose, poetry, essays, all kinds of books attracted me. But I
didn�t have enough money to buy books. Chhotda rescued me from even this misery.
One evening he took me to the Public Library. As soon as I entered it, a wonderful
peace and calm embraced me. From the floor to the ceiling of the room, were
bookshelves. There were books all around. In the centre there were study tables;
there was pin-drop silence; one or two people were studying seriously. Purposely,
I spent the whole day in this clean, neat and peaceful temple-like room. If only
all the books in the library could be carried home and read today itself! That
very day I became a member and carried home as many books as I could hold in my
two hands. The books kept passing from my hands to Chandana�s and back to mine.
Once we�d gone through Sayyed Waliullah, Saikat Usman, Hassan Ajijul Haq, it was
Satinath Bhaduri, Naren Mitra and Jagdish Gupta. We returned books and got more.
We hungrily read all the books, as though very soon we had to take an important
exam on the books in the Public Library.
e

*
****

The exams were approaching. In refined terms the Higher Secondary, in colloquial,
Intermediate and in bookish Bangla �Uchcho Madhyamik� exams. Instead of three
days, now Debnath Pandit was coming home five days a week. He didn�t come to teach
me actually, only to beat me into a worthy person. Like Baba�s, Debnath Pandit�s
eyes strayed to the small bits of paper. One day a half-finished letter to a
penfriend fell out of my Maths book. Before I could pick up the fallen letter,
Debnath Pandit grabbed it, read it from top to bottom, and put it into his breast
pocket. What was this! He was behaving just like Baba. Was he now going to break
the firewood in the courtyard on my back, because of this letter! Every so often
he felt his breast pocket, and seemed to feel a kind of joy in ascertaining that
the half �finished letter still existed, and instead of flying away somewhere, was
still inside his pocket. It was the kind of joy that inflamed one, that made the
hair on one�s body stand on end, and settle down, that made the head throb and not
do so at the same time. Debnath Pandit was unable to teach. He kept shifting from
left to right, from back to front. His mind was restless. I finished the sums he
had given me; there were no mistakes. Suddenly he clutched the Physics book with
all his ten fingers as though the book had wings and would fly away if he loosened
his hold. Turning the pages, he began to ask me the most difficult questions. I
don�t know with whose blessings, but even these I was able to answer correctly.
With Chemistry, too, my fate was the same. After that, he suddenly pushed away the
Maths, Physics and Chemistry books with both hands and without any reason gave me
one great blow on my head, on the right side of my forehead. Why! No, there was no
reason for it. He said, �Why aren�t you doing the sums I gave you to solve
yesterday!�

�I have done them.�

�If you have done them, then why can�t you show them? Where is your mind?�

This was the golden opportunity to punish me for the half-finished letter. I held
the Maths copy before him. Even after doing so I got a sudden blow on my back. My
lungs felt the impact.

�How many times do I have to tell you to leave a margin when doing sums?�

This was first time he had mentioned a margin. Whatever. Then he came to the
actual topic.

�Who have you written the letter to?�

�Which letter?�

This time a slap landed smack on my cheek.

�As though you don�t know which letter? This one!�

He took out the half-finished letter from his breast pocket.

�Who is Jewel? Where does she stay? What does she do?�

�She stays in Dhaka. I don�t know what she does.�

�You don�t know? Are you fooling me?�

How could I fool Debnath Pandit? I didn�t have that kind of courage. Debnath
Pandit sat before me with his huge body, massive physique, arms like the trunks of
a banana tree, and fingers like hard, solid bananas. I tried, on the other hand,
to lie at his feet like a dying blade of grass, as lifeless as I could possibly
be. Tearing the letter into bits, he threw the pieces on my face and left the room
breathing fumes of anger. I sat alone, amidst Debnath Pandit�s beatings, Baba�s
scolding, Ma�s nagging, Chhotda�s sorrow, Geeta�s pride and Dada�s bossing. I
buried my face in books. The exams were approaching. I knew that, but that did not
prevent me from looking at Chhotda�s friends who visited our house. There was
Jyotirmoy Dutta�s son Babua Dutta. There was Tafsir Ahmed, son of the editor of
Takbir, so handsome one couldn�t take one�s eyes off him. Another reputed lady-
killer was Sohan, the D. C.�s son, who lived in the saheb quarters. Whoever I saw,
I not only fell in love with mentally, I even heard his personal thoughts in my
own mind, �Where will I get a pitcher, girl where will I get a rope, you are the
deep river, and I am the one who is drowning.� Yet not one of them bothered to
give me even a second glance, and I began to feel like the ugliest girl in the
world.

Just like Chitrali and Purbani stopped coming, letters from penfriends also began
to peter out. I only replied to some really good, poetic letters written in neat
handwriting. A final year student of the Technical University, Kamrul Hassan
Salim, wrote amazingly beautiful letters, as though he was writing of dreams from
another world. I selected Salim�s letters and kept writing to him from across the
seas which I had never seen. We were like two people alone in another world,
facing each other, and talking about our dreams. In this dream world there were no
people, no houses, only skies and seas. On the seashores were only multi-coloured
flowers, butterflies, and in the skies were all the seven colours of the rainbow,
soft cotton wool clouds and long tailed birds. It could have carried on this way.
But one day, suddenly, near the college gate a tall young man came and stood
before me. My hair was soaked in oil, tightly plaited, and I must definitely have
been looking like a ghoul. Of the two boys standing before me, one was Salim. As
soon as he came and introduced himself, I almost leapt away and quickly took a
rickshaw home, my heart thumping. Salim left for Dhaka that day and wrote back. He
had come to meet a friend at Mymensingh, and wanted to meet me once. That was why
he had come with his friends and waited at the college gate for me. He had
returned, disappointed at my not having talked to him. �Of course, I can meet
you,� this girl bold with words proudly replied. �Come and meet me.� But where?
That was a definite problem. There was a restaurant on Station Road, called
Tajmahal, where the poets of the city met. It was true, no woman went there alone.
I informed Salim, that I would meet him there. Chhotda had taken Geeta and me to
that restaurant one evening. Because there were �women� with Chhotda, we were
given a table behind a curtain. Whenever �women� came, this was the norm, go far
away, out of sight. The people at Tajmahal kept peeping at us. As soon as Salim
got my letter, he wrote back telling me on which day, and what time he was coming
to Mymensingh. The day I was to meet him, I dressed up and left the house on the
pretext of attending Chandana�s birthday. Salim was standing at the entrance of
Tajmahal. Controlling the palpitations in my heart with all my might, I entered
the restaurant, and had to sit behind the curtains. Although I sat opposite Salim,
drinking tea, I was unable to look him in the eye. To his questions I was almost
speechless, able to utter no more than yes, hmm, no and a couple of impersonal
words. I was only voluble in my silence. Although I used the personal tumi in my
letters, I realised I found it impossible to call him tumi to his face. I sat
there only till the tea lasted. As soon as the tea was over, I became restless. We
had drunk the tea, now what, except to leave what else could happen! The word
�Bye� kept coming to the tip of my tongue and receding. In one of my letters I had
used the word �Ahalya�. Maybe for this reason, Salim asked me, �What does the word
�Ahalya� mean?�

I did not reply.

He laughed and said, �Naked.�

Instantly the word that was coming and going from my tongue finally came out. I
said, �Bye� and left without demur. Salim was left behind, sitting in a state of
shock.

That very day Chhotda came back with the news. �It seems you went to the Tajmahal?
�

�Who told you?�

�It seems you were sitting and chatting with some fellow? The whole city has come
to know. You are really crossing all limits now.�
t

That I had crossed limits I understood very clearly. But this girl who had managed
to do so also felt herself to be extremely dumb and stupid. How come she was
unable to speak to Salim! By leaving the restaurant without any warning, what was
she trying to prove? Was she trying to say that she was not a bad girl, that, she
didn�t chat with boys! She was from a highly placed gentleman�s family, a good
girl, who avoided the company of boys! She had to meet Salim only because he had
come all the way from Dhaka, otherwise she would never have gone to such lengths!
What�s this! It seemed hearing the word �naked� had revolted her physically! The
next day she sent a letter with two takas in an envelope to Salim � �I am really
sorry, I forgot to pay for the tea. I am sending you the money.� This was possibly
to give him the message that she was not a sponger! Otherwise, two takas was not
such a big amount that if Salim paid for it from his own pocket, he would have
become destitute, therefore she just had to send him the amount by post from
Mymensingh to Dhaka!
M

Since he met me, Salim�s letters surprisingly became more passionate. There were
more waves in the sea. I was moving backwards, because his lips had not appeared
like lips to me but had appeared if not like a whole, atleast half a tandoori
roti. I gradually reduced my letters to Salim, and one day Salim, too, stopped
writing to me. No letters, none at all. After a very long time, suddenly I
received a letter from Switzerland written by Salim. It said if I ever got a
chance, I should visit Zurich. It seemed it was one of the most extraordinary
cities of the world. The name Zurich reminded me of our International Ludo game.
If you came to Zurich, you had to visit the hospital, and unless you got the
number five on the dice, you could not get out. Invariably my counter would reach
Zurich, and wait endlessly for the dice to roll a Number Five. I had almost
stopped writing to many others, not just Salim. Of course, before I stopped
writing, I always had thought the person on the other side must be a prince, must
be the most handsome and talented individual. At that time I had only a handful of
penfriends left, and I had not developed any relationship with them beyond
friendship. No one had shown an inclination to leap across Mymensingh on the
pretext of seeing me. Writing one of those ordinary how-are-you? I�m-well letters
to one of them, I had fallen asleep on Baba�s bed. I had finished my studies at
night, and my dinner, and had been writing the letter lying down with a pillow
under my chest. Hearing the sound of Baba�s footsteps, I had sleepily left Baba�s
bed and thrown myself on mine. The letter remained lying on Baba�s bed. In the
middle of the night, Baba pulled me out of my sleep and threw me down on the
floor. He then proceeded to take off his shoes and beat me up. Why was he doing
so, what was my misdeed, he did not bother to tell me. I was unable to gauge why
Baba had turned so mad. My inarticulate words, �What have I done, what has
happened?� were lost under Baba�s angry roar. He became a complete monster. He
caught my hair in his fist, and threw me into space. Then flew the hard Bata shoes
and rained blows on my back, shoulders, head, chest and face. Baba did beat us,
but he had never woken up a sleeping girl and beaten her up like this in the
middle of the night. Ma had tried to restrain Baba, but was pushed and thrown far
away, before he grabbed me again. He only stopped when the strength left his own
limbs. Ma picked me up from the floor, saying, �If only the man had some
judgement! He doesn�t even know that if you hit on the head, it can get damaged.
Instead of beating you like this, why doesn�t he kill and finish off at one go!
Then all the problems will be solved.� She took me to the bed. The whole night she
sat beside me applying fomentations on my wounds with swabs heated under an iron.
My eyes turned stony. There was no trace of sleep left in them, nor was there a
single teardrop. I figured out that my letter lying on the bed had instigated all
this. Baba may have flogged the skin off my back, even broken all my bones, but he
could not wipe out my belief that friendship was possible between boys and girls,
that apart from family and love relationships, merely friendly ties were also
possible, just like they were possible between two girls and two boys.

My address was now no more Chhotda�s friend�s stationery shop, but Post Box Number
6. Suspecting that his own letters were being removed from the stationery shop,
Chhotda had taken a box in the Post Office. We both had now begun to use that. I
had an invitation to contribute to the Personal Advertisement Column of Bichitra,
from the Section Editor. The request delighted me, but did not arouse any desire
to embark on the path of advertisements. Even if I had forgotten this world, the
people of the advertisement world could not forget me. I was no more, but I lived
in the advertisement page. In the New Year titles, a name was given to my lost
self. Some called me �scented rose�, others �Not a rose, but its thorns.� Hate and
love. Both sentiments kept me afloat, even though I did not know anyone of the
writers personally. Even when reminiscing, there were some who could not resist
mentioning my name. Plenty of letters came to my address. Most of the letters
offered friendship. Some blind admirers had also appeared. Shahin, junior to me by
a year, waited for me everyday with a flower in her hand. With the flowers there
were letters, she thought of me as a Devi, Goddess. The girl was rather shy. With
lowered eyes and face, she would come before me, with a warm heart and a frigid
body, I would remain speechless. The girl had no idea that her Devi was even more
diffident than she was herself! From Chattagram, a millionaire called Pahari Kumar
wrote letters in very neat rounded handwriting, on scented, blue-tinted paper.
Chandana was at Aubokash, the day the postman delivered Pahari Kumar�s gift
parcel. We were sitting and chatting in the fields, when the packet brought our
conversation to a halt. As this was a packet, and had to be hand-delivered and
signed for as received by me, so the peon had not gone to Arogya Bitaan, but come
home. Inside the big packet, was a smaller one, and only after a few more small
packets within, the final one revealed the gift. As soon as it was out, Chandana
jumped a foot away and screamed, �Throw it.�

�Why should I throw it? What�s happened?�

�Throw it. Throw it. Throw it right now. That bastard dog, he�s sent something
rotten, throw it.�

Not knowing what I was supposed to throw, I sat perplexed. Curiosity was consuming
me to such an extent that, even though I didn�t want to, my hands wanted to go
towards the present. Chandana�s hand plunged and removed my hand from the article.
The present fell from my hand, on to my lap, and then face forward on to the
ground.

�What is it?�

My ignorant eyes moved from the ground, to Chandana, and at Chandana�s nausea.

�Can�t you make out what it is?�

�No, I can�t. What is it?�

�This is a panty. Quickly, go and throw it away.�

I ran to the garbage pile and threw the gift along with the wrapping into it.
Nausea was creeping up in me as well. Chandana actually brought up her rising
nausea at the corner of the field. This had happened to Chandana before. About
porno magazines like Desire & Woman, too she said, �I read them once, I vomitted
in disgust. I washed my hands with Bangla Soap and then with Lux soap. While
eating Saala I was scared some of it might get into my stomach.� Those hands never
picked up those filthy things anymore. The world we dreamt of was a world where
nakedness did not exist. To Chandana, a man�s physique was something very ugly.
Yet she believed deeply in love.

Chandana had begun talking of Platonic Love. I asked her, �Now, what�s that?�
�This was love and romance, in which there was no wickedness or filth.� My two
eyes looked fascinatedly at Chandana�s two shining ones.

Chapter Seven

�SHENJUTI � EVENING LAMP�

Chandana suddenly left me after taking the Higher Secondary Exam. She left me all
on my own. She didn�t really leave me; she was forced to go to Comilla by her
father Subroto Chakma the man who was husband to her glum-faced mother Molina� the
man who had been satisfied when his craving for male offspring had been fulfilled
with the birth of two sons, after Chandana. Before leaving for Comilla, Dada had
taken Chandana and me to the Dhaka Board to pick up our certificates. We had to go
in the morning and return in the evening. In the afternoon, while taking us to
lunch at the Chinese Restaurant Tai Tung in the Motijheel, Dada said, �What,
Chandana, why don�t you keep your eyes and ears open?�

�Why, what is it that we haven�t seen or heard?�

�Aren�t you going to look out for a pretty girl for me? You�ve been studying in
college for two years!�

�We were so busy looking at the boys, we had no time. When were we to look at the
girls?� Chandana laughed. Excepting the men in her family, Chandana was the most
free with my elder brothers. Thinking of the Raja of Chakma, Dada sadly clucked
his tongue and said, �You made a great mistake, and will have to repent it in
future. You didn�t give a Raja any importance!�

Chandana laughed loudly.

Dada�s sorrow did not end there. �When we visited Rangamati, we could have stayed
as the Raja�s guests! Thanks to you we have lost this opportunity.�

Chandana laughed again.

�Who knows which Fakir beggar is written in your fate!� Dada said.

Telling us about Rangamati, she talked more about Cherag Ali rather than
Debashish. There was a Daroga, a sub-inspector of police, by this illuminating
name, which meant lamp. Cherag Ali said that his light glowed during both day and
night. After some time, Chandana became serious and said that recently, Cherag Ali
was glowing a little less as he had lost his job. Although it was a short sojourn,
Chandana and I enjoyed ourselves, being able to get away from the familiar
environment of Mymensingh. Before Chandana left for Comilla I had told her, �Don�t
go. If you go, how will I survive?� Chandana had the same query, but neither of us
had the answer to this question. Chandana had even told Subroto Chakma that she
would not leave Mymensingh, she would stay at Aubokash with me, and continue her
studies. He had not agreed. Chandana�s half-closed eyes were red on the day she
was leaving. She whispered in my ear, �You watch, I will run away one day and come
back to you. The two of us will live together all our lives.� From Comilla she
wrote two to three letters a day. She wrote long and lengthy letters, describing
each and every event of every day, every disaster. She penned her feelings, her
loneliness and the emptiness of each day. How, whenever she looked at the red
blooms of the Krishnachura tree, it reminded her of me. Reminded her of the life
she had left behind her, every word, every sound, every bud and every flower. She
wanted to regain her past life. I did not feel that Chandana had left forever. To
me she had left only to return. We would meet again and once again rock in our
cradle of happiness. Sitting once more in the stern of the boat, I would look at
the colours of the sky, while with lapping sounds Chandana would row far away, way
beyond the horizon. It would be a world where there would be no sin, viciousness,
jealously, hatred, cruelty, meanness, where there was no wrong, no discrimination,
no disease, no sorrow, no death. Here we would live with beauty, imbibing the
scent of purity, and love would never leave our side. Suffering from depression,
Chandana would write, �I am not feeling happy, as though I am above everything
that is worldly. Liking, loving, all these words seem very old to me. I am unable
to make you understand. I keep feeling I am not myself. I have been sad the whole
day. When a little touch causes the mahogany leaves to fall peacefully like a
shower of tiny flowers, I wish I could rest my head on the back of some jean-
jacket, and go for a Honda ride somewhere far away. I know, and how cruelly I
know, though I have never spoken of it to anybody, that for me these are only
empty dreams. Hurt me! Unless I have tears in my eyes I don�t stay well. Never!
Actually I cannot even tell you what has happened to me. Then they will know;
everyone will get to know. I am just restless, I am dying of anxiety, yet do you
know, you will never know the whole story, never. You who are my own, so close to
me, so close to my heart, I won�t be able to tell even you. Poor heart! This heart
is my biggest enemy. Just when everything is going well, just at that moment I
change. This thing, called heart, betrays me. I am not well, not at all, I want to
scream, I am continually being torn apart by a kind of jealousy and envy, and yet
I cannot make anyone understand. I can�t understand against whom I feel this envy,
why this rivalry. Is it that I want to be vociferous against myself? Do I not love
myself anymore? Who knows� suppose some blue eyed Greek youth, some Apollo had
spoken to me of love�! Everything is turning topsy-turvy within me. I do not feel
joy in anything anymore. I remember Sadananda in Ashami Hajir (Here Stands the
Accused) who groaned in some unspeakable torture. I think that I, too, am crying
in some equally unspeakable pain. I can�t bear this mundane life anymore. Will you
be able to uplift me on to some enchanting plain? My heart cries, who have you
left behind, dearest heart, that your life is over and you have not gained peace
as yet! Can you understand what I am saying? Can you? I want you close to me. I
only want you � how long since I have seen you. Let us leave this world and all
its emotional ties behind, and roam around with the ektara, monochord of a Baul,
the Hindu devotional singer. You will be the Vaishnavi. Both of us will pick tung-
tang sounds on the ektara, and sing songs like The bird tosses restlessly, it
can�t tear its chains or break open its cage, it dies tossing restlessly within.
Or Eyes are called mirrors, one day they will be lost, what I saw with my burnt
eyes, will be what is left behind.
e

Apart from writing long letters to Chandana, there was only one thing I did
sitting in the corner of the room, in the verandah, on the grass in the field,
under the early morning flowering Sheuli, horsinghars, in the shade of the Segun
tree. I wrote poetry. From various towns of the country, poetry journals came to
my address. From many districts of West Bengal too, small poetry periodicals came.
These were like a chain, one led to another, resulting in the whole thing
spreading. I sent my poems to small poetry journals and even to weekly magazines.
Somewhere or the other, the poems got published now and then. One day a pebble
dropped into the pool of my thoughts. Having no idea from where it came or how it
came I sat motionless next to the pond. The tiny waves in the pond gradually grew
bigger, till they lashed my feet, and my body got wet with the spray. I still sat
motionless. I looked benumbed, but within me a wish was peeping out like a bud. If
I tried, I could publish a poetry magazine myself. Could I not? I could. My mind
told me, I could. The sound of ululation from Dolly Pal�s house roused me. It was
growing dark all around. What name would I give the journal? What name? I did not
have to think for two or three days. My heart said, �Shenjuti!� Yes, Shenjuti it
would be. The Evening Lamp. As soon as I asked Chandana, she sent me her poem.
Even though school was over, my Bangla teacher Surraiyya Begum regularly wrote
letters to me. I got her to write a new poem. Through Chhotda I got poems written
by poets in the city. Under the dominance of my desire and the influence of my
happiness, I prepared the manuscript of Shenjuti. On the last page, I put some
bits of news � about literature, writers, from where some small literary magazine
was being published and by whom; was it good or bad, if so why bad or why good,
and all that. Dada said, �Print one of my poems.� From his poetry notebook I chose
the best poem. �Give my news also. Write that the Paata Magazine editor, Faizul
Kabir Noman�s first poetry book Parapar, Crossings would soon be published.� I
wrote that, too. Dada was pleased. But the time was approaching to bell the cat �
who was going to pay, who was going to go to the press, who would get Shenjuti
printed! Dada had not even begun writing any book called Parapar. But maybe
because I had still put in the news as per his request, he told me, �Okay, I will
pay for the printing of Shenjuti. After all, I know all the people at the press,
because of the printing of Paata.� My jingle kept ringing in Dada�s ear, �Oh Dada,
Oh Dada, you said you would get it printed, do so.�

�Be patient, be patient.�

�How much more patience should I have?�

�You must have more. Much more.�

�How many days?�

�Another few!�

I was unable to keep my patience. I became more and more restless everyday.
Finally I handed over the manuscript to Chhotda. After giving Shenjuti to a
printing press in Chhotabazar, I kept at Chhotda�s tail, �When will it be printed?
�

�It is going to take some time.�

�How long?�

�It will be printed next month.�

�Oof, so long!�

�You think the press has nothing else to do?�

�Will you take me to the press one day?�

�Why do you want to go? I will get it printed and bring it.�

This wish to go to the printing press was nipped in the bud by Dada, �Why should
you go to the press?�

�I want to see how the printing is done.�

�Girls do not go to the press.�

�Why not?�

�They don�t.�

�Is there any reason?�

�Girls should not go to the press.�

�Why not? What happens if they do?�

�There are problems.�

�What problems? People will stare?�

�Maybe not, but they will laugh.�

�Why should they laugh? What is there to laugh at? I am editing the magazine, why
shouldn�t I go to the press?�

�Editing can be done even at home. You don�t have to run to the press like a man.�

Dada was unable to dampen my enthusiasm. I went to the press with Chhotda. Somehow
I managed it. Black were the tables laid out dividing the room into columns.
Sitting at them, were people picking out each type-set letter from its case and
placing it on an iron sheet. For every word, however small, one had to reach out
several times to pick each letter. How did they know in which place which letter
was, how did their hands move so fast! I felt like spending the whole day at the
press, watching how letters were joined together to form words. The printing
machine was noisily printing beedi paper, incense stick covers, box covers for
ointments, wedding cards and political posters. Seeing the manuscript of Shenjuti,
the owner of the press, Hare Krishna Saha gave a smile, sensing a different kind
of task. His smile was different, too. He said he would print it soon. Every
format would cost two hundred taka. Not just that, more money was required to buy
the paper. I went home and began selling all the paper whether whole or in pieces.
Old Chitralis and Purbanis were put in the sun and dried in order to shake off the
termites. Setting aside my weakness for old Sunday Sandhanis and Bichitras, I sold
them all to the glassbottlepaperwala in order to collect money. I even managed to
get some money out of the knot tied at the corner of Ma�s sari aanchal. From here
and there I managed some more. Guarding this money like a miser, I took Chhotda
with me, chose paper from a shop next to Hare Krishna Saha�s press, and delivered
the paper to him. After this Chhotda bought the proofs home, and showed me how to
proof-read. Since he himself worked for a newspaper, he knew. I relied on Dada for
the money required to print the magazine. Though I did not get the money at one
go, I did get installments.

The day 500 yellow coloured Shenjutis came home printed I imbibed their beauty,
essence and aroma. Sitting on the bed, I began to fold the pages, pin them
together and keep them aside. I quickly pushed them under the bed on hearing the
sound of Baba�s entry into the house. Baba�s eyes could see under the bed as well.
According to Yasmin, Baba�s eyes were like a vulture�s; no one could possibly hide
anything from him. He knew what was going on in the house, even when he was not
there. It was impossible to guess who were acting as Baba�s informers and when. He
called Ma and asked her, �What is going on, what is the girl doing neglecting her
studies?�

In a disinterested tone, Ma said, �I don�t know what poetry magazine she has
printed.�
�What is a poetry magazine?�

�She writes poetry, prints a magazine.�

�What will she get out of a poetry magazine? Haven�t I told her to study? Who will
pass her in the medical entrance exams? Will she pass with poems?�

Ma had to bear the brunt, mostly.

�Where did she get the money?� Baba�s curiosity was brimming over.

Ma told him dryly, �Noman gave it to her.�

�Why did Noman give her?�

�She asked him. He gave her.�

�Do you have to give just because you are asked?�

�It was his younger sister�s wish, so he gave it.�

�What does Noman get out of it?�

�Does everyone look for profit? She writes poetry because she likes to. Noman too
used to publish a poetry magazine. Now Nasreen has taken it up.�

�I work days and nights to feed them. Is my hard work for them to waste their time
in all these useless activities?�

Ma said, �Why do you ask me? Ask your daughter.�

Baba never came to ask me anything. He caught hold of Dada, �Why are you inciting
her, just because she�s gone crazy, do you have to turn mad too?�

Dada mumbled, �I have not incited her.�

�Why did you give her the money?�

�I didn�t give her much.�

�But you did. If you hadn�t given her the money, could she have done all this?�

Dada swelled with pride and said, �No.�

�By writing poetry what do you get in life? Do you achieve anything?�

�No.�

�Then why does she write?�

�Just like that.�

�Does poetry give you food?�

�No, it doesn�t give you food.�

�Do you get clothes?�

�N
No, you don�t.�

�D
Does it give a home?�

�N
No.�

�D
Does it provide electricity?�

�N
No.�

Dada continued to answer softly with his head bent.

D

�You have seen the life of the people on the rounds of the city. Have you found
anyone who built a home by writing poetry?�
a

�N
No.�

�D
Do gentlemen waste their time in useless work?�

�N
No.�

�D
Does anyone except for the mad, write poetry?�

Dada did not give any answer to this one. Baba asked him the same question twice
over. He still made no reply. Leaving the silent Dada, Baba walked out, making
snapping noises with his shoes.
s

Baba kept his mouth sealed as far as I was concerned. He would speak to everyone,
but not to me. When Baba did not speak it also meant whatever money he was giving
would be stopped. I did not even have to go to college now, so I would not need
rickshaw fare. In a way I was relieved that I would not have to face Baba�s red
eyed, snarling teeth, abuses and orders to sit down and study for a while. This
was Baba�s habit to stop talking suddenly, without warning. This would go on for
many, many days. Except for the domestic help, he had stopped talking to almost
everyone in the house by turns. When talk resumed, he himself initiated the
process. He locked and unlocked his mouth at will; the key remained in his breast
pocket. Very often we found it difficult to figure out for what reason he had
stopped talking to a particular person. The reason for not talking to me this time
was Shenjuti. Not even a week had passed since he�d locked his mouth, when he
began writing letters addressed to me. Without opening his mouth, he put his words
into letters and began to send them to me blending the polite and refined with the
colloquial. The letter bearer was an employee of Arogya Bitaan, Salaam. Ma called
him by his full name. Salaam was one of the ninety names of Allah. It was
incorrect to call anyone directly as Allah, hence, if one added Abdus, or Abdul,
then the name came to mean Allah�s servant. Since man was in any case a servant of
Allah, Ma, therefore, called him Abdus Salaam, i.e. Allah�s servant. Ma had a
neighbourhood brother called Quddoos. Everyone called him Quddoos, Ma called him
Abdul Quddoos. After Abdus Salaam handed me the letters, Ma made me read out every
one of them to her. I read loudly, so that not just Ma, but everyone at home could
hear me. The letter was of ten to twelve pages. It began with a description of the
advantages of obeying a father�s orders and restrictions, and ended with complete
disappointment and desolation. In between there flowed a stream of moral advice.
The final signing off was the usual, �your unfortunate father!� I read the letter
alright, but did not bother to pour over the books required to be studied for the
entrance exams. I didn�t do so because I didn�t want to. Even though I did not
spend any time on the kind of study Baba wanted me to do, I did spend my days and
nights on a different kind of reading and writing.

Just a few days after copies of Shenjuti were sent to various poets and little
magazines, plenty of letters poured in. With the letters came poems. They had to
be read, corrected and set aside to be printed in the next issue. I had made
Shenjuti a trimonthly. But I wished I could print it the very next day. It was
unbearable to wait for three long months. There were so many letters that Baba
told Ma in my hearing, �Hasn�t she stopped writing here and there to her
penfriends as yet?� The penfriendships here and there stopped alright, but the
poetry writing here and there did not. It continued. One day he carefully removed
a copy of Shenjuti which was lying on the table in the verandah. After eating
lunch, he read every poem in Shenjuti, while lying on his bed in the afternoon.
After reading it, he put it into his pocket and went out. What was about to happen
was something I was unable to gauge. At night, he called Ma, made her sit next to
him and read out one of the poems from Shenjuti, and told her, �Look, here the
poet is saying that paper is earth, the pen is the shovel, and writing poetry is
to dig your own grave. The poet has spoken the truth, don�t you think? The poets
dig their own graves. That is something a poet himself has said.�

Baba did not get any rejoinder to his letters. He came home with a dark face, and
left in the same way. My tall, fair, curly haired filmstar, Uttam Kumar like Baba,
kept within himself, Lord knows how many scoldings and abuses, all waiting to
burst forth. After all, silence was also one of his many moral lessons. Since I
was not weakening in spite of his attacking letters, what he did next was quite
unique. He pasted a paper onto his door, on which he had written,

I am no more able to bear so much wrong

Was this what was written in my fate, all along,

My children have all gone to the dogs

Secretly I weep as I die drop by drop.

After reading Baba�s poem, I used some rice starch to stick a paper on the red
glass of his red and blue windows. On the paper was written,

What is wrong that I all of a sudden have done?

My days and nights are spent

Sitting at Aubokash, going nowhere

I do not even take a step beyond the doorway.

When Baba returned home, I remained curled up in my room. Keeping my ears open for
the reaction did not help. Baba came home silently, and as silently left. After
his departure, when I went to check on the state of the paper on the window, I
found another paper posted next to mine, on which was written:

�Staying at home doesn�t always make one virtuous

The man here gets to know, which is obvious

The happenings at Aubokash always reach his ear

That wishfully a life is being destroyed without fear.

 Penfriendship has never lead to success

And illiteracy only causes life�s pillars

To shake and undergo stress.�

After reading Baba�s missive, I wrote again in big, big letters. While writing
Yasmin�s head would just not move away from mine.

I know that, as though I don�t.

However, one thing I do not condone.

That beating is the only way to mould

Do fathers feel great pleasure?

When daughters weep and tears roll!

Baba returned by dusk and spent an hour in his room without calling anyone. After
asking Ma for a glass of water, and whether any groceries were required at home or
not, he left again. I sat in my room cowering in fear. My heart was thumping.
Ultimately how explosive would this cannonade of public poetry prove to be, who
knew! As soon as Baba left, I came out of my coil of fear.

Baba had this time pasted his poem, on the purple glass of the window.

The core of a father�s heart hurts when daughters weep

The bond between them only a father knows how deep

Today he is present, may not be so tomorrow

Hence on his daughter his wish is to generously bestow,

Education and culture and to guide her onto the path of truth

A path universally approved.

What else, would a father bless his daughters with, forsooth.�

*****

This dialogue encouraged me tremendously. Everyone at home came to the window to

read the poems pasted on the glass. Leaving Dada�s gifted diary in which I wrote
poems, I got completely involved in this game of poetry on the window.

Is there no truth in Tagore?

Would anyone succeed in dismissing Nazrul of yore?

And Sukanta? Absolutely outstanding;

Does poetry follow the path of lies?

If so, then I will give an undertaking

That path, I will not tread,

I will not increase anyone�s dread.

As insignificant and trivial a person

As I

Only knows

That for jewels I do not die.

My evening lamp should be lit,

That is my most urgent desire.

As soon as one window was covered, the poems were being pasted on the next.
Reading this one, Ma said, �Cut out �as trivial and insignificant a person as I.��

�If I cut it out, what can I fill it with?�

�Write �as extremely intelligent a person as I�.�

The words were not cut, because Baba�s footsteps could be heard. Baba nowadays
came home rather frequently. Apart from calls of nature, even to drink a glass of
water he came across all the way from Notun Bazar to Amlapara. The purpose, of
course, was poetry. It sometimes even happened that within half an hour of writing
a poem, he returned without any rhyme or reason. He checked whether anything new
had been pasted on the doors and windows of his room. Without any need, he would
pass by my room, and glance in to see if I was there or not. We never came face to
face; he avoided that and so did I. During these periods of mutual silence, this
system of avoiding even the sight of each other was taught to us by Baba only.

Rabindranath wrote poetry without a thought.

Zamindar�s lives could after all be spent doing nought.

Does poetry really behove a student life?

This unfortunate struggles rather hard for children and wife.

Does he get the fruits of his strife?

Do any of them at all think of their father?

I do not see any such respect or honour.

How much I urge them to become worthy persons.

Yet there is still no awareness or perceptions.

Time waits for no one.

There will be none to stand by you, when father�s gone.

In student life, there is nothing called leisure

Repeatedly I have pointed this out, as I do even now in greater measure.

Neglect will only ruin your life.

Seeing this, the pain will be no one�s but mine.

*****

Baba took quite sometime to write this verse. From Salaam, we got the news that
Baba now took pen and paper to Arogya Bitaan, and sat scratching his head.
Patients kept sitting in the waiting room. He would be scratching, writing,
throwing and re-writing. Later, after telling his patients to wait for a little
more time, he would make a round of the house. The round was to basically paste a
poem on the window.

Reading this poem Ma snorted, �Hmm! What tough time does he have running this
household? In seven days, he shops once. For that woman�s house, fish and meat are
bought everyday. It�s not that he doesn�t earn a good sum. What does he give you
all? Has he ever fulfilled any of your desires?�

Inspired by Ma I wrote,

How much do you spend on us really!

Half the time we seem to go hungry.

For Id we get clothes, sometimes not even this,

The thoughts in our minds never come to our lips.

All around us girls talk so much

In our house alone, in dread, we live as such.

Hope however still lurks in our hearts,

Baba�s love will surely someday wash away our sad thoughts

We will then be able to rise so high,

Maybe even touch the sky

To the other side of the horizon,

We will one day fly.

Reading the poem Ma said, �Why have you written about flying away?� Dada read it
loudly and said, �Nicely written.� After this, Baba wrote nothing more. That there
was a lot of difference between the world of poetry and the world of reality, was
brought home to me one day by Baba�s screaming call for me, �Nasreen.� As always,
I stood before Baba with head and eyes both lowered. He, too, as usual snarled at
me and said, �What do you think you�re doing?�

I was silent.

�Can you spend your life chatting the whole day?�

No reply.
�C
Can�t you understand that a donkey like you can never pass the medical?�

No reply.
N

�You write poems? Do you think you alone can write poetry? Everyone can. Ask the
maid Malleka; she too can write.�
m

From the �donkey� a sound emerged, �But Malleka doesn�t know how to write.�
F

�So what, she can speak can�t she? Did not Lalan Fakir recite poetry orally? Did
not Hachhon Raja?�
n

No reply.
N

�I am giving you my last warning. If you don�t get admission into Medical College,
your meals at home will be stopped. Have you found out when the Dhaka University
entrance exams will commence?�
e

No reply.
N

�The architecture entrance exams are next month. You will have to go to Dhaka to
take the exams. Sit down and practice your maths immediately. If you don�t pass
your exams, try and visualise for yourself what is in your fate.�
y

Silently digesting Baba�s advice, I left his room with my head still bent.
However, I didn�t sit down to Maths, but to celebrate. Celebrate the joy of going
to Dhaka by train.
t

Jhikir jhikir Mymensingh, in Dhaka I will dance and sing.

In Dhaka I will dance and sing, jhikir jhikir Mymensingh.

Baba had himself asked me to take the architecture exam. What more could I have
possibly asked for? If I talked about studying Bangla at Dhaka University, I might
lose this opportunity of going to Dhaka altogether. Baba would never have agreed
to send me for the architecture entrance exam, if MA Kahhar�s precious son Farhad
had not told him that �architecture was a good subject.� Farhad had been sitting
for many years in the final year at the Technical University. Just before the
exams, he would invariably start vomitting. Every year, doctors came and gave him
medicines before the exams. He took the exams, but had never passed. So what, his
opinion still mattered. Architecture was a good subject, not just good, Farhad had
emphasised that it was even better than medicine. His reasoning was that no one
but a doctor would marry a lady doctor, so this was the problem of women studying
medicine. What ever argument Farhad might have given, it would not have been
accepted by Baba. He could never believe that any subject in the world was better
than medicine, be it for a girl or boy, or even a dog, cat, worm or insect.
Gesticulating with his hands and feet, Farhad had told Dada, �Arrey Mia, Mister,
you can even work from your home. You don�t even have to go out. Suppose you
design a rich man�s house, a Government building or even figure out a new design
for the Parliament House, you get a crore sitting at home. You need not work for
the rest of the year, if you so choose.� �Architecture is a good subject,� was
something even Chhotda said. �Arrey, isn�t our Rafique studying the subject there!
� Rafique was studying the subject, hence it must be good; if he hadn�t, maybe the
subject wouldn�t have been so good. Just because Chhotda�s friend was studying
architecture, he smiled displaying his black gums to such an extent that one would
have thought everything, i.e., the A to Z of architecture was at his finger-tips.
One had to attend classes for seven days before joining. The classes were taken by
final year students. His friend could give me �even free coaching.� What was
necessary now for admission into architecture was proficiency in Maths. On my
table were piles of little magazines. I realised I would not be able to find my
Maths books. Possibly all my Maths notebooks too were no more at home. They had
been sold by the ser, in order to buy the paper for Shenjuti.

I informed Chandana that I was soon to become an architect. Chandana was taking
the Dhaka University entrance exam, but she would be studying Bangla Literature.
We would be together in Dhaka, two birds who would break their chains and fly
about freely in the air. We would look at life with both eyes, run on our own two
feet.Our dreams seemed within our reach . Our wings seemed to be alight with
layers of joy.

***

For Shenjuti�s second issue, Chandana had sent a poem called �Youth, the Name of
an Enchanting River.�

In the boundless waters around me,

Play a number of handsome youth.

A storm rises in Draupadi�s breast

Resulting in an endless animated frenzy,

In which they are plundered and ruined utterly�

Obviously Chandana while sitting by the window, had been looking not only at the
red blossoms of the Krishnachura, and the falling Mahogany leaves, but also at
handsome young men. She had even gone and met one of them without really thinking
things out in her mind. She had given a very graphic description of that meeting,
that exchange of glances, that fluttering of the heart. The handsome boy had
wanted to hold hands, but Chandana had carefully removed hers. She had only liked
the exchange of glances, and this much had been enough to keep her wrapped up in a
strange rapture for the rest of the day and night. I thought there was nothing as
beautiful in this world as love. I listened to tales of love with complete
absorption. In my imagination a Prince would come flying on the back of the King
of Birds. �It is now the time for me to love, I too can let flow a flood of love,
if I so wish�� I kept writing poems like this, as well.

Rudra Muhammed Shahidullah, one of Dhaka�s up and coming poets had sent a poem for
Shenjuti. Removing the Bangla nasal signs from one of his words, I kept his peom
�You Copper-metalled Shepherd� aside, to be published in the next edition of the
magazine.

Pipes do not play again and again, they play just once

Copper-metalled shepherd

Krishna, why don�t you sound your pipe even once?

Your loneliness and grace resound around you. Your lost illusions

Hover about you day and night, like inaccessible strains

Yet your pipe remarkably still silent remains.

With his poem Rudra had sent a letter, a letter written in red ink. He was keen to
be introduced to the Editor of Shenjuti. He wanted to address her as tumi, because
he thoroughly disliked the formal address �apni�. He wanted to know why Shenjuti
was yellow in colour. The answer was simple� the light of the evening lamp was
yellow coloured, hence yellow. The next letter effortlessly addressed me as tumi,
as though he was someone very close to me! Since the capacity to make people close
through letters was part of my character, I was not surprised.

Poems for Shenjuti were coming from the cities, towns, villages, market-places,
roads, lanes, nooks and corners of two districts. From Kolkata, Abhijeet Ghose,
Nirmal Basak, Chaitali Chattopadhyay, Jibon Sarkar and many others were sending
poems. I printed them, not looking at the names but the poems. If the poem was
good, even if the poet was new, or belonged to some remote village, I did not
bother. I noticed that all around spellings of words were changing. The spoken
word was being brought into the written language. Many alphabet and rolling vowels
were being dropped by poets like Rudra. Even punctuation marks were changing, in
some cases adapting the English ones. Although I found these changes strange, I
welcomed them in Shenjuti. After all, language was no decrepit pond that would
remain unmoving. In Shenjuti�s �Tidbits� column, I gave news of other little
magazines, their addresses as well, so that anyone reading Shenjuti would also be
able to contact atleast 20-25 other little magazines. Not just news of little
magazines, but also of where poetry meets were being held, who was writing and
how. Whose book and which book was appearing soon. Shenjuti�s publicity was that
�Any unadulterated poetry lover was unquestionably a claimant of Shenjuti.
Shenjuti�s bright glow would wipe out all the darkness in the world of poetry.
Shenjuti was eternally true and beautiful. For Shenjuti one had to pay only four
quarter taka coins.� Not that anyone was really paying those 4 quarters to buy
Shenjuti. This magazine with no advertisements was being published out of my
personal funds, and I was sending copies to everyone who wrote poetry or published
poetry journals. Sending copies also made quite a hole in my pocket. �Read poetry,
buy poetry magazines and poetry books�, this was the request I was making to the
ordinary public through Shenjuti. I could not rest till I had converted the whole
world into a world of poetry. I had really got addicted to poetry. It was my
companion all day and all night.

�At home, all alone I sit down to worship poetry, offering flowers and sandalwood
paste with my hands

Unaccountably I spend the whole day vainly sitting idle.

At the door ungrateful words wink and laugh at me insultingly

In the silvery moonlight, words of critics and vilifiers await their opportunity.�

Reading Abhijeet�s long poems written in blank verse, I seemed to have moved far
away from metrical measures and versification measures, on a stream of
timelessness.

Rudra had sent his recently published book of poems called Upodruto Upokool
(Troubled Shores). I read the poems in the book aloud, and called Yasmin to read
them as well. The air at Aubokash rang with the words of Rudra�s poems and was
infused with the scent of his poetry. On our lips was poetry. In our hearts was
poetry.

I still smell dead bodies in the air.

Even today I see the naked dance of death on this earth.

 In my dreamy sleep I still hear the pitiful cries of outraged women.

Has this country forgotten the nightmare and the bloodshed?

In the air was the smell of carcasses.

On the earth were stains of blood.

Those who tied their fates and hearts to this blood-soaked soil,

And found in the wounds of their ragged lives a forbidden dwelling place,

Today their love for this dark cage, keeps them awake in the cave of night.

The flag of nationhood has once more been grabbed by the old vultures

Those who were covered in bloody shrouds and eaten by dogs and vultures,

Were my brothers, my mother and my beloved father.

Freedom is the dear one whom I have won, after losing all others.

Freedom is the invaluable harvest bought with the blood of my beloved people.

My raped sister�s sari is now my blood-soaked national flag.�

Rudra�s poems made me sit up. Made me stand up. Made me pace up and down the
verandah. Such honest words, strong and forceful statements, could not but attract
me. Rudra�s poems were the kind which had to be read aloud, recited before a room
full of people, out in the grounds, in a public meeting. Poetry recitation was not
something new for me. Dada was taught by Ma in his childhood, and when I grew up I
was trained by Dada. I had now started instructing Yasmin. Yasmin had put her name
down for the school recitation competition. Not only the school, but the
Mymensingh District Literary and Cultural Festival was also on, and she had
entered her name in the recitation event there as well. On the slated days she
went and recited and came home with all of three prizes. From the hands of the
Mymensingh District Magistrate she was given bulky volumes of the Rabindra-
Rachnabali, Gitobitaan, collections of Nazrul and Tagore. She even began singing
songs from the pages of Gitobitaan all by herself. She had a wonderful voice, and
hearing it I always said, �She should have a harmonium.� There were no musical
instruments at home. Dada�s fiddle was lying broken, and Chhotda had sold his
guitar to buy Geeta a sari. Baba did not like songs and music. To ask him to buy a
harmonium for Yasmin was to invite two slaps on the cheek. Yasmin�s dreams of
singing had to blow away with the wind as of then. It was better to recite poems,
to read poetry; at least no instruments were required.

When my head was full of Shenjuti, and my heart full of poetry, Dada took me to
Dhaka to take the architecture entrance exams. I was taken to the hostel room of
Chhotda�s friend Rafique in the Technical University. He was to help me with the
entrance exam questions, even if they were only slight hints about the kind of
questions to be expected. Rafique laughed gloomily and said, �Your exam is
tomorrow; what can I show you today?� Still he made me sit down, gave me a pencil
and paper and asked me to draw a simple straight line with one stroke, so also a
circle. After I had done so, he said, �Draw a picture of this room.� After I did
that too, he said, �You have a fairly good hand.� With that good hand, I took the
exam, drawing whatever I was asked to draw. However, I could not solve any of the
ten sums asked. How could I possibly have, after all, instead of practicing my
Math, I had practiced my poetry. It was a two hour exam, but after an hour I came
out of the examination hall telling Dada in a lifeless tone, that I was not going
to pass. After a few days the list of students who had qualified for the viva, was
hung up next to the Technical University office. Surprisingly, I got to know that
my name figured in the list. I would have to go to Dhaka to take the viva voce, so
our suitcases were packed. But Baba put an end to our trip by saying, �You don�t
have to go to Dhaka.�

�Why, why was there no need to go to Dhaka?� If I didn�t go to Dhaka, I would be

unable to take the viva, and if I didn�t I would not get admission in the
architecture course! I was stunned, and sat before Baba�s unmoving, fixed statue,
with a mountain of questions in my mind.

Baba said in a grave tone, �You do not have to study architecture.�

The architectural masonry of my own dreams came crashing down all of a sudden.
With a heart full of cracks, I sat extremely depressed.

I did not have to study architecture, �because I had to study medicine.� My name
had appeared in the list of those who had qualified the medical entrance.

Chapter Eight

The Company of Loneliness

What Baba brought into force at home, did not always remain in force for years to
come. The strings were in his hands, he could loosen or tighten them as and when
he wished. One fine day he suddenly dropped some of the strict rules he had made.
Seeing no more letters from penfriends arriving for me, he at least did not try to
wangle the new postman to take away my letters. The new postman was again
delivering letters home as before. The practice of doling out groceries from the
locked kitchen cupboard also ebbed. It was not always possible for him to come
from Notun Bazar in time for every meal to be cooked. The cupboard now remained
open. Ma, as before, was once again submerged in the sea of domesticity. When
Jori�s Ma left, Ma had brought Malleka from the slums behind Nanibari. Malleka
left even before the month got over. After looking for two days here and there,
and not finding anyone, Ma caught hold of Halima, a street beggar from the
neighbourhood. Halima, along with her mother, was eventually installed in the
house. Out on some errand, Halima encountered some glassbottlepaperwala. That
�wala� had said he would marry her, and her happiness knew no bounds. Ma gave
Halima a colourful sari and a new lungi for the paperwala son-in-law. The married
Halima left the house very proudly. Halima�s Ma remained alone in our house,
coughing away, the whole day long. It became difficult for her to do all the
housework singlehanded. She frequently had fever. The day clots of blood appeared
with her cough Ma personally took her to the hospital and got her admitted. Before
two weeks were over, Halima came back to Aubokash. What happened? �My husband did
not give me any food.�

Halima went back to scouring utensils, washing clothes and mopping the floor.
Every so often she would say, �He troubled me so much I could not even sleep at
night.� We were eager to know what kind of troubling she meant.

�He would cry out �glass-bottle-paper� in his sleep. Since he spent the whole day
calling out �glass-bottle-paper�, in his sleep, too, he thought the night was
d
day.�

This Halima, within a few days, accepted another marriage proposal from some other
�w
wala� she met on the streets and left Aubokash.

We got used to the constant comings and goings of these drifting poor. No one ever
discussed who was coming or going, why he was going or where to. If there were
some maids, Ma got some respite otherwise she had a tough time. The whole problem
was Ma�s. Whether there was help or not, we never suffered any discomforts. We
remained unaffected. Ma�s eagerness to find help was always more than ours. Once a
man, wearing a hitched up lungi and a torn vest had come into our grounds. I
suspected him to be a dacoit at the very first sight. If he wasn�t a dacoit then
why was he carrying a da or chopper in his hand?
w

�W
What do you want?� I shouted standing at the window.

�C
Can I do any work for you?�

�W
What work?�

�C
Cleaning and cutting with my da.�

I ran to give Ma the news, �A dacoit has come. Says he does work with his da. You
know what that means! He kills people with his da.�
k

Ma was grinding some spices. She said, �Tell him to wait.�

M

I didn�t turn that way at all after that. Ma left her grinding and opened the door
to go into the grounds. Quite happily she brought the man inside the house, and
got him to clean the jungle behind the tinshed. She then not only gave him a
plateful of rice with daal to eat, but also a piece of fish. Ma had no fears at
all. Inspite of so many robberies in the house, Ma still did not think anyone was
a thief. Ma heard about dacoities but still never thought anyone was a dacoit.
When the man was wolfing down the meal, Ma said, �What Mia, don�t you have any
daughters? Say around 12-13 years of age?� Ma was afraid of employing any young
girls. That is why when she asked for a girl, she never wanted to cross the age
group of 12 or 13. If she was to consider an older woman, then she should not be
less than 40.
l

The man said, �Apa, eldersister, I have only one son, no daughter.�
T

�H
How old is your son?�

The man could not give the age. Placing his left hand on his waist, he showed �He
is as tall as my waist.�
i

�P
Put him to work. What do you say? He can at least run errands.�

The man was so taken with Ma�s behaviour that he brought his son, Nazrul, over the
very next day. Nazrul would stay and be given meals. His father too could come and
see his son, whenever he was working with his da in the neighbourhood. Whenever
the man came, Ma gave him food to eat. The man would take a look at his son and
leave in a happy frame of mind. Nazrul stayed for as long as two years in this
house. After which he ran away one day. When two months had passed, Nazrul was
persuaded to return to us by his father. Once he had finished all his chores at
night, he would come inside the room and act like the Raja in a Jatra, an open air
opera. He acted alone. We were his audience, his listeners. Once in a while he
would hold our hands and make us stand before him to act as his Rani. So what if
she had no dialogues. �Kire Nazrul, what will you become when you grow up? Will
you take part in Jatras?� Nazrul�s eyes would be shining as he answered, �Yes.�
Initially Nazrul did not know how to cook. He couldn�t even wash the clothes.
Later he learnt everything. When he grew as tall as his father�s chest, he was
taken to work with the da, by his Baba. The day he left, Ma collected whatever
money she had tied in her sari aanchal, and any change kept under her mattress,
amounting to about 12 taka, and gave it to Nazrul�s father. When she had no help
in the house, Ma went to the slum behind Nanibari. If she found no one there, she
went to the banks of the Brahmaputra. Poor people dwelt there in their shanties on
the embankment built with broken barriers and thatch roofs. If not in one home,
one always found someone to work in another. If even that didn�t work, Ma would
get beggars coming to the house to do some work, give them lunch, and put more
rice in their bowls. If all failed and there was just no one to be found, then
Baba would send for someone from his ancestral village, Nandail, to manage the
mandatory chores. Mostly they were Baba�s own relatives. They were not very
distant either, quite close actually. His own sister�s daughter. Baba�s two
younger sisters had been married to farmers in Nandail itself. During illnesses,
the sisters came to this house, to their doctor brother, and went home taking
their medicines. The sons of the sisters had grown up and would now come by
themselves. They would come for monetary and other assistance. They would stay and
eat for two days in this house. Baba would call them and after questioning them on
the state of the estates owned by them, would disburse both advice and funds. The
sisters came with a marriageable daughter. They had found an eligible groom, but
the boy wanted a job. He was not interested in working on the farm in the village.
The bride�s rich Mama stayed in the town. If that Mama could get him a job, he
would marry her, otherwise not. Baba looked here and there for a job and found him
one. However, if a daughter brought a complaint to Baba that her husband was
beating her, Baba said, let him. Let the husband beat her, if he gave her a little
daal and rice to eat from his earning, she should keep quiet and continue to look
after her husband�s household. This was the advice she was sent home with. When a
husband gave Talaq to his wife, and married for a second time, Baba was out to
take away the husband�s job. Baba gave his niece Sufi�s husband a job of binding
books at the Cadet College. A bonny baby girl was born to Sufi. Soon after, the
husband beat Sufi, threw her out of the house and married again. Sufi came, fell
at Baba�s feet and cried. Baba said, �Go and work in your co-wife�s house, and
stay alive.� Sufi stayed in the co-wife�s house for a long time. Finally, because
the husband stopped feeding her, she returned to her parents� home. With her
pretty baby daughter, this �extra-troublesome burden� continued to stay in her
parents� house, her lips permanently sealed. She was brought one day to town.
People thought Sufi was the maid. No one at home even corrected this notion, that
she was not the maid. Sometimes we also forgot that Sufi was our own cousin,
Baba�s own niece. That was because Sufi worked in the house just like a maid.
Whatever clothes were given to the maid, on Id were given to Sufi as well.
Whatever leftovers she got to eat, Sufi got the same.
W

After the harvest, when family members visited from Nandail, they would always
bring pittha, rice cakes, with them, mera pittha, Dada pounced on it whenever he
saw it. This mera pittha one could slice and fry, and eat with jaggery. Sometimes,
they bought the horned catfish or Magur, swimming in big vessels of water. Ma was
happy whenever anyone brought something. After cooking and while serving the fish,
she would say, �The fish were very fresh; must be from the pond.� If anyone
brought chilli pitthas, Dada alone ate half of them, sitting on the chair in the
inside verandah swinging his feet. Baba�s elder sister was quite well-off. In the
Kashirampur village of Nandail, she lived amidst plenty of landed property. Her
children were all educated. The second son of his eldest sister, Rashid, studied
in a college in town. He studied in college, living in our house. Many of Baba�s
relatives had stayed at Aubokash while studying. Baba was more keen to educate his
fraternal nephews than his sister�s sons. There was an endless stream of visitors
either seeking jobs, or ill, or for studying purposes. Whoever came got a place in
the tinshed. There was a spacious sleeping arrangement made there for villagers to
come and stay when in town. On Ma�s shoulders lay the responsibility of cooking,
serving and feeding her husband and children, along with all members of Baba�s
extended family. Ma never shirked this responsibility, or did a shoddy job of it.
Even uninvited visitors from the village who arrived home late in the afternoon,
were served meat and fish by Ma, however small the portion. Ma was like a
magician. She would cook one chicken, and was able to feed everyone at home twice
a day. Even on the next morning, I would see some meat had been kept aside to be
eaten with the Rotis. Beef was cheap, so Baba very often bought it and sent it
home. Whenever I ate it, slivers of meat got stuck between my teeth, and the whole
day was spent poking between my teeth to extricate them. Ma kept aside bones for
me. Big bones with less meat, these pieces I could still manage. Chicken was more
expensive. It was tasty as well. However tasty the chicken and keen the desire to
eat it, no one had been able to make me behead one. Many times it happened that Ma
was busy, and no shop assistant was forthcoming to behead the chicken, the Dadas
were missing, so Ma would tell me to do the beheading. In the courtyard I had to
hold up the skin of the chicken�s neck, say Allahoo-Akbar and cut it till the
blood spurted out. I had taken the da many times. I had even picked up the chicken
by the skin of its neck. I had brought the da close to its neck. But I had never
been able to perform the act. It had never been possible for me to behead a live
chicken. Seeing a beheaded chicken leaping all over the courtyard in pain, the
pain inside my chest too leapt up in a similar fashion. Dada felt no pain in
watching. Dada seemed to enjoy the torment of the chicken. I had told Ma often,
�That chicken had to give its life for us to enjoy a good meal! �Ma said, �Allah
has made them to be man�s food. If you sacrifice them in Allah�s name, there is no
sin.� Ma had said there is no sin, but when it was proposed that the big white
farm chicken, named Jhumjhumi by her, which had walked around the courtyard for
four months, should be killed, because it bit people, she said, �A pet chicken
should not be killed.� Ultimately though, the chicken was beheaded. Ma not only
did not taste a single piece of meat, dressed as she was with a burkha covering
her clothes, she left the house to go to Nanibari. She left before she had to see
the piteous spectacle of Jhumjhumi leaping in torment about the bloodied
courtyard. At Nanibari she ate a satisfying meal of rice and greens. She kept
thinking that Jhumjhumi must be cursing her.
t

*
****

After staying in Dhaka, and visiting Burma and Korea, Geeta may have been someone
whom we looked at with amazement, but Ma never forgot that she was her daughter-
in-law. Ma had thought that if not much, by handing over some household
responsibilities to the daughter-in-law atleast, she would get some rest. Ma�s
hopes were in vain. Geeta did not even step anywhere close to the kitchen. Geeta�s
splendour was now much greater than ever before. Her high heeled shoes sounded
much louder now when she walked. She had cut her hair shoulder length. She had
plucked her eyebrows completely, and with a black collyrium-pencil had instead
drawn two bows in their place. Her facial makeup was also much more elaborate than
before. She stylishly applied red and pink lipstick, and coloured eye-shadow,
matching her saris. She wore prettier and more colourful saris than before. She
went on outings more often. Like before, Yasmin and I, continued to observe Geeta
a little amazed, somewhat entranced, slightly hurt, with some understanding and
some lack of it as well.
s

Chhotda had fixed three lights on top of Ma�s dressing table. Under the bright
lights Geeta looked fair in the mirror. When she stood all dressed up, she was the
splitting image of the Durga idol decorating the Golpukur Par idol-making shop of
Sudhir Das. The only difference was that one was ten cubits or a forearm tall and
the other two. Whenever Geeta got the chance, she told us stories of Dhaka.
Stories of Rahija Khanum�s three children. Soon we were well versed in the
characters and habits of all the children. When we heard her stories of Burma and
Korea, we began feeling these countries were just in the next lane after Amlapara.
As before, Ma cooked and fed the whole household. �Afroza get up, eat something�,
was a line I heard Ma calling out every so often. Since Baba had given up hope of
Chhotda ever taking up something academic again in his life, he had instructed him
to sit at Arogya Bitaan. He would get 250 taka as pay. Chhotda jumped at this
offer of a job. Since he took up this job, his attacks on Dada�s medicines almost
came to an end. He passed his days in a light mood. He spent his evening,
pleasantly chatting with his friends at the Golpukur Par adda. As soon as the
sound of the black gate announced Chhotda�s departure Geeta would run to the small
gate used by the sweepers under the Sabri banana tree, and peep through a hole in
it, standing with her plump pitcher-shaped buttocks aslant. Through that hole was
visible the house directly opposite where Dolly Pal stayed. Geeta watched to see
whether Chhotda ever glanced in that direction even mistakenly. Dolly Pal, married
and a mother now, was back at her parent�s home following a Talaq. Chhotda never
looked at Dolly Pal anymore but the Burma-Korea returned Geeta�s suspicions were
still not dispelled. Everything that Geeta did, including her running under the
Sabri tree to watch Chhotda out of curiosity, made us curious as well. We were
quick to pick up the words uttered by Geeta. Most of the language Geeta used to
abuse the servants was the kind we had never heard before, nor did we understand
its meaning. When Amena was slow to bring the water she had ordered, Geeta would
say, �That woman has not brought the water. What is she doing? Has her bigar got
roused or what!� Yasmin immediately began using the word bigar here and there,
without knowing its meaning.
w

In this house there was no lack of love for Geeta. At Id, Dada bought Geeta a silk
sari, for Ma there was a cotton one. Ma preferred brown or red coloured saris, but
Dada bought white saris with borders for her. According to Dada, Ma looked like a
mother, only in white saris. Whatever sari was bought for Ma, she always gave it
to Yasmin and me, to wear first. Once we had worn them, not just worn but really
used them to our heart�s content, did Ma wear them. Ma was deprived of many
things, but she was not aware of them. After wearing even the white sari, if after
two days someone came crying from the village with a tale of woe, she would give
it to her. Ma heard many new stories about Razia Begum from Geeta. Geeta�s lame
aunt was a great friend of Razia Begum. This aunt called Henna was the same one
who at one time used to tutor Yasmin and me. Razia Begum had become the Matron of
an orphanage in Notun Bazar. Geeta�s Henna Masi too worked in the same orphanage.
The more Ma heard about Razia Begum, the more she got mad at her. This mad Ma
would sit with a face full of bitterness when Baba entered the house. If Baba
vented his anger, she did too. One day, Baba took out his whip from under the
mattress, beat this angry Ma till she was soaked in blood, and left her fallen in
the courtyard. Like a beheaded chicken, Ma tossed about tormentedly, crying out
for mercy. Blood spouted from all over her body and the crows on the trees started
cawing noisily and rousing themselves flew away to another area. The sight was
inhuman, so we did not want to see it, and instead Yasmin and I sat with our door
closed. None of us had the strength or the courage to snatch the whip from Baba�s
hands. We remained turned to stone. Five minutes after Baba left the house,
Chhotda returned. Seeing Ma fallen in the courtyard and groaning, he ran out of
the house immediately. Straight to Arogya Bitaan. Picking up the wooden three-
cornered name plate with Doctor written on it from the table, he fell on Baba
screaming �Why did you beat my mother? I will kill you today.� All the people in
Notun Bazar gathered there on hearing his screams. Some people caught Chhotda and
held him back. Very little happened there. Only Baba�s forehead had swollen up
slightly on one side. Nothing more. Chhotda had hoped for blood, but even though
his wish was not fulfilled, he had to quieten down.
h
At home, extricating herself from the mud and slush in the courtyard, in an
amazingly quiet voice, Ma said, �Let�s go Afroza. Take me where I need to go.�
Wearing a burkha over her blood-stained sari, Ma left with Geeta. She actually
went to the courts, signed the Talaq papers and returned home. Caressing Yasmin
and my heads she said, �Stay well. People do lose their mothers don�t they? Think
I have died. Your father is there, and your brothers. They will take care of you.
Work hard at your studies.� With these words she put whatever little belongings
she had into a little packet and left for Nanibari. Before Ma left, Baba had
become quite friendly with Geeta. Baba would call Geeta aside and get all the
household news from her. This was Baba�s eternal habit. He always had one spy
appointed in the hope of getting all the secret news at home. Normally the
servants acted as good spies for Baba. This time of course the spy was of a much
higher status than of a servant. She was possessed of great intelligence as well.

That Ma was not there was something I did not feel the day she left. I had even
suffered from a kind of secret delight in the notion that with Ma gone, I would
have even more freedom to make noise at home. After a few days, not just in my
bones, I felt her absence right down to my very bone marrow. I realised that there
was no one to scrub my body and give me a bath, no one to spoon-feed me, no one to
tie my hair. If the clothes got dirty, no one cared. Whether I ate or not, no one
bothered to find out. In the evening there was no one to recite a string of
limericks. Ma would know I was hungry before I knew it myself. She would always be
anxious to feed me. Now, whether I was hungry or not, it made no difference to
anyone. After Ma left, Baba had sent for his younger brother Motin�s wife from
Nandail, to look after the household. She was grossly fat and had a jet-black
complexion. Motin had married her when he was working for BDR in Rajshahi. When he
had visited us with his wife, we had suppressed grins on seeing her. �She looks
just like a maidservant!� No one went near this �maid�, but Ma happily exchanged
her joys and sorrows with Motin�s wife, as though she were a very old friend of
Ma�s. Seeing us stifle our giggles Ma had said, �She worked in a Mess. So what?
She�s a very simple person.� Whether �simple people� were maidservants or fakirs
on the streets, Ma liked them. Motin�s wife cooked and fed us all. But who could
possibly replace Ma! Who else would be anxious and worried about us as Ma! Serving
us with greens like Kalmi Shaak she would recite, �Kalmi creeper, Kalmi creeper,
when the waters dry up, where will you be? I�ll remain, I will. Beneath the soil.
Just let it rain, I�ll pop up you�ll see.� There was no end to Ma�s limericks. She
was able to easily recite any limerick she may have read when she was a child. She
knew so many that sometimes I used to think I should write them all down, just in
case she ever forgot them! Ma must have forgotten her limericks by now; after all,
she didn�t have to feed anyone anymore while reciting them. If she was in a happy
mood she could repeat the dialogues of films like Deedar, Shobar Uporey, Harano
Sur, Sagarika, Baiju Bawra, Deep Jele Jai, by heart. Breaking the still silence of
the night, she would sing in a golden voice, �The moon is still awake in the sky,
but I have come to know you are close by�!� Now day and night, the still silence
of the night reigned in the house.
o

Yasmin came back from school and shouted, �Where�s my lunch?� Motin�s wife said,
�There�s none.� �No lunch, what do you mean? It has never happened that I have
returned home from school and got no food.� That was true, it had really never
happened. Lunch had always been served by Ma as soon as we returned from school.
Yasmin shouted the house down. Coming to the conclusion that Motin�s wife was not
being able to manage, Baba handed over the complete responsibility to Geeta. The
altercation that Baba had had with Chhotda was wiped out automatically. It was as
though a two, three or four cornered wooden object had never hit Baba�s forehead.
The orders Geeta gave were carried out by Motin�s wife and Amena obediently. The
days carried on in this fashion. The days may have gone on as usual, but Yasmin
and I could not feel the same. Geeta ran around with us on the terrace, started a
dance school in the house, took us to see films, but somehow something seemed to
be missing. As soon as he returned, Baba would call Geeta to his room. We guessed
he asked her all the details about the household and his children. He would have
also been checking to see whether anyone was causing any problems.

Geeta would undoubtedly assure Baba that she was running everything flawlessly,
that everything was well arranged and in good order. Even though it was banned, I
told Yasmin one evening, �Let�s go to Nanibari and see Ma.� Yasmin jumped at the
suggestion. Disregarding our fears, when we reached Nanibari in a rickshaw, Ma
came running. She hugged us and wept aloud.

�Why are your faces all drawn? Haven�t you eaten?�

We nodded our heads, �We�ve eaten.�

Ma made us sit close to her and asked us all the minute details of what we had
eaten, who cooked, who cared for our clothes and who made our beds. She personally
fed us fish and rice and wiped our mouths with her sari aanchal. She carefully
combed and plaited our unoiled and knotted tresses. Taking us aside she asked us
whether Baba said anything about her. I shook my head. Baba had said nothing. I
hid the fact that Baba constantly told us, �There is no irritating woman in the
house, now you must eat your own food, study by yourselves, understand things on
your own.� Ma said she was fine, Nana had bought her a sari, she had no lack of
food here, and everyone was very fond of her. Ma repeatedly told us that in these
last few days, both Yasmin and I had lost a lot of weight. Ma�s streaming tears
wet her cheeks and soaked her chest.

�Do you feel sad without me? Do you cry �Ma, Ma� for me?�

Yasmin and I exchanged glances. If we said, �We don�t,� Ma would be hurt. So we

didn�t. Ma held our silent selves to her breast and said, �No, don�t cry, if you
feel like crying chat with Geeta, or play �Name, place, flower, fruit�. Don�t cry
any more.�

We nodded our heads. �Okay.�

Ma probed us with questions.

�How�s the cooking?�

�Not good.�

�Why not? Motin�s wife is not a bad cook.�

�She puts too much chilli�

�Tell her not to put so much.�

�I found a hair in my greens.�

�Tell her to wash the Shaak well.�

�Okay.�

�Ma, won�t you ever go back again?� I asked trying to hide the pain in my voice.

Nani was poking her teeth with a toothpick. After spitting out, she said, �Why
should she go? Grow up yourselves. Then stay with your mother. Idun will not go to
that house ever again.�
Ma said, �Noman has money. If he takes a separate house, then I can stay.�
M

After staring for a long time at the courtyard disconsolately, Ma spoke again,
�Y
You�ll see Ma; he will bring that Razia Begum home this time.�

�Does your father say anything? Does he say anything about bringing Razia Begum
home or anything to that effect?�
h

I shook my head, �No.�

�D
Does your father eat at home?�

�H
He does.�

�D
Does he like the food?�

�I don�t know.�

�D
Doesn�t he say anything?�

�N
No.�

Ma sat ashen-faced. Her eyes had dark shadows under them, her cheeks were stained
with tears. She just sat like that. When we left, she stood next to the pond at
the back like a faded rose, whose petals would disintegrate as soon as it was
t
touched.

Since Geeta was running the household, it was expected that she would see to it
that the maids and servants did not shirk their jobs, that the scouring of the
utensils, washing of clothes, mopping of floors etc. was continuously done by her
orders, whether the fish was to be cooked with potol, a kitchen vegetable, or
shaak, or the daal was to be thin or thick, how many measures of rice was to be
cooked etc., would be decided by her. While Geeta was playing boss and was in
Baba�s good books, one day her younger brother, named Shishir Mitra, pet name
Tullu, came to meet his sister. After that he came quite frequently. Geeta would
call him into her room, give him things to eat and chat with him in whispers.
Yasmin and I kept Tullu�s visits a secret. Geeta had now become a Mussalman after
marriage, so it was an unwritten law in our house that no contact with any Hindu
household could be maintained by her. When Geeta took Chhotda with her to visit
her parental home, it too was kept secret.
h

Dada visited Nanibari to meet Ma, partook of
home with his lips reddened with betel juice
betel-leaf case. Chhotda, too, took his wife
his in-law�s place in Peonpara and met Ma at
said �Why don�t you bring Ma back?�
s
Nani�s fabulous cooking, and returned
from the paan he had taken from her
to visit his friends, dropped in at
Nanibari on the way back. To both, I

None of them made any reply. Neither Dada, nor Chhotda. They were quite happy.
Aubokash without Ma did not appear to be unbearable to them as it was to us.
A

Dada had bought a motorcycle, a red coloured 100 CC Honda. He had bought it but
didn�t know how to ride it. Kept in the verandah room, the Honda was cleaned by
him twice a day. All the time he was at home, he would sit on his Honda, start the
engine making weird noises and would go a couple of feet forward and backward
within the room. He would admire himself constantly in the Honda�s driving mirror.
This was the first time any engine-propelled vehicle had come home. Once, Baba had
had the sudden desire to buy Zulfikar Akanda�s old car. Akanda Lodge was adjacent
to M A Kahhar�s house. Baba had even given an advance of 50,000 taka. At that time
we all had begun mentally driving that white Volkswagon. However, having found
some fault in the engine, Baba did not finally buy the car. He did not even get
back the advance; it seems one couldn�t. On the purchase of the Honda, Baba began
to supervise the arrangements for it as well. The verandah door was to be kept
shut at all times, so that no one could steal the motorcycle. At night he
personally began to lock the door from inside. This red Honda bought with so much
enthusiasm, which had yet to enter the roads, was picked up by Chhotda, who asked
me to ride pillion. Chhotda, too had never ridden a motorcycle ever before. He had
learnt to drive Baba�s hospital jeep in Ishwarganj. That was all he knew. The
Honda stalled 30 times within a half-mile distance. People on the roads stopped 30
times to watch us. A girl had got onto a Honda; that was what they were staring
at. In this town, if a woman sat on a Honda, it became a topic of jest or
curiosity. Yet in this town, Nitu rode her own bike. Nitu, a student of Vidyamoyee
school, took her sister Mitu to school everyday, riding pillion on her bike. She
was the wonder of the town. Sometimes I wished I could be Nitu, and ride my bike
in the streets of the town, without caring for anyone. When Yasmin talked of Nitu
and Mitu, I listened to her fascinated.

Dada finally learnt to ride the Honda, and began to use the bike for office work
in the town and in the cities outside the town as well. One day he gave me a ride
on the Honda saying, �Come, I�ll show you the mountains.� Unexpected pleasure
broke the windows, rushed into my world and flooded it. As soon as we reached the
shores of the Brahmaputra, dark clouds began to race across the sky, as though
they were burning the sun to ashes, and causing black fumes to emerge from the
burnt sun. It began to rain. We were in a crowded passenger boat in the downpour,
Dada�s Honda, Dada, me and my fear of death. Even though I was sure I was about to
lose my life this morning in a sinking boat, I still did not give up my wish to
see mountains for the first time. Once we reached Shambhuganj, and crossed the
noisy bus-station, the Honda raced away towards deserted areas. My hair and dress
were blowing in the breeze. It was as though this was not Dada and I, but two
butterflies flying away. As far as the eye could see, there was no habitation,
only marshland, swamps and paddy fields. I was singing songs in my croaky voice
with full-throated ease and reciting poems by heart. Dada was telling stories real
and imaginary from the vast storehouse within him. When we were kids, Dada used to
tell us lots of stories. How many stories could one person possibly know! If Dada
began telling us old stories we would get irritated. We used to press him for new
ones. One day he called us saying he had a very long story to tell us. It was a
new one. After our meals, we got under the quilts, creating the atmosphere for
story telling, all ready to listen. Dada began, �In the village of Achinpur lived
a wood-cutter by the name of Allauddin. One afternoon after eating a hearty meal,
he wore a new lungi, hung a thin towel from his shoulders and left his house.
There was a vast field; nothing could be seen anywhere. Allauddin was walking
across that field. He kept walking and walking.

�Then?�

�Then what?�

�What happened next? Where did he go?�

�He hasn�t reached anywhere as yet. He is still walking ��

I was keen to know whether Allauddin had reached some river bank or some banyan
tree. But I never got to know, as Dada that night would not tell us anything more
than Allauddin�s walking. As soon as I woke up the next day, I asked Dada, �What
happened after that? Where did Allauddin go?� Dada said, �He�s still walking.�
Still walking?�
S

�Y
Yes, still walking?�

�W
Where will he go?�

�T
That you will learn later. Let him go first.�

After a week had passed, Dada still said, �He�s still on his way.� When he would
reach, where he would reach, what would happen after that, Dada told us nothing.
He wouldn�t even start another new story. Obviously, he was still telling us one.
Even after a month, Dada said Allauddin was still going. Yasmin and I were deeply
worried. �What do you think? What will happen to Allauddin finally?� Yasmin was of
the belief that Allauddin would die of hunger enroute. What Dada thought, he never
disclosed. Dada�s Allauddin never reached his destination. We, too, never heard
any more stories from Dada. Right now, I wished our journey, too, would never end.
After Tarakanda Phulpur, we crossed some un-tarred, tarred and broken roads till
we came to the Kangsa River. This river had a very strong current. It appeared as
if the banks on either side would disintegrate any moment and be swallowed by the
river. Two boats had one deck, on which buses and trucks were loaded, and the
river was crossed by tugging ropes. While we crossed the river, Dada explained
what high tides, low tides, and punting poles were all about. He made me
understand the relationship between the river and the life of a boat. Once we
crossed the river, we raced at even greater speed. We passed by paddy fields, jute
fields, roads covered with paddy laid out to dry, birds coming and pecking at
them, people�s homes, courtyards, fields all the way till we crossed Halwa Ghat,
and went further into the hinterlands. Here the paddy fields were sown and
harvested by Garo women. Watching them walking with their babies tied on their
backs, we reached a beautiful hospital at Joyram-Kurai. An Australian had built
this hospital for the Garos. Dada spoke to the Australian Doctor, Neal Palkar. He
gave him the medicines. I was standing on the verandah of the hospital looking at
the mountains. On the other side of the mountains was India. From Bangladesh
clouds were floating towards India, birds were flying from that side to this. I
asked Dada, �If I cross the mountains and go to the other side!� Dada said, �No,
you can�t go; that is another country.� Leaning on the side of the mountains, was
the other country, India. I felt I could hear India�s heart beat, I could hear her
breathe. India was so close, so very close; I wanted to whisper something into her
ears. I wanted to say �Why did we part ways? Are you not part of us?� On the way
back from the mountains, Dada stopped and talked to many people. He stopped at two
pharmacies. We were given tea and sweets. Although we had not eaten the whole day,
we had no pangs of hunger. One of the men at the pharmacy took me to meet his
family living in the house behind. I talked at ease with the wife, and even took
their baby on my lap and asked its name. Once we were out of there, Dada said,
�Bah, you have certainly improved. You don�t normally speak to people. I saw you
talking today.�
t

I laughed and said, �I was reading a few pages of Dale Carnegie in the morning.
May be that�s the reason.�
M

Dada roared with laughter. We floated again in the air.

D

At one time, I asked Dada, �Achcha Dada, you seem to treat everyone so well, talk
so pleasantly to all, whether it is to that Nishibabu, that hat on head,
stethoscope hanging around the neck quack doctor who cycles along the muddy paths,
the chemist Najmul or with that doctor who has spent his life time in that
hospital in a forest bereft of any human habitation � have you learnt Dale
Carnegie by heart?�
C
Dada laughed and replied, �Dale Carnegie actually came to meet me. After observing
my life, he went back and wrote his instructive treatise.�
m

The shacks by the wayside sold tea in tiny cups. To quench his thirst for tea,
whenever Dada would stop at the shacks, he would say, �Don�t drink tea, tea wears
away your insides. Haven�t you seen the stains that remain, in empty tea cups?
However much you try, those stains just never go. Your heart will waste away just
like that if you drink tea. Like the tea cup your heart too is getting ruined. It
is becoming hideous. One day it will turn into a sieve.�
i

Ma mixed ginger in black tea, and that tasted far better than the tea served in
village bazaars, full of milk and stale-smelling. Yet I happily drank this tea
served in the shacks. Of course I drank it only because I was away from home. The
outside attracted me. The village fields full of yellow mustard flowers and the
village markets full of various shacks selling wares, were very enjoyable to look
at. My fears of dying in a boat capsize disappeared as I watched the stunningly
beautiful colours of the sky, while crossing the Brahmaputra. When we reached
home, we were covered entirely with dust, to the extent that if we tried to speak
our teeth could feel the dust particles in our mouths. The hair was all knotted
with the dust. I was looking, according to Yasmin, like a ghost. Whether I looked
like a ghost or a witch, this trip had given me immense pleasure. Almost till
midnight, Dada was rebuked by Baba, �I thought atleast you had some sense in your
head. You took this girl out on the motorcycle. What are people going to say?�
h

Lying in my bed at night, and looking at the beams, I told Yasmin, �Suppose I am a
mountain, and half my body is India, the other half Bangladesh. My right hand
cannot go to the left, and my left hand cannot come to the right. But if you are a
bird, you can fly across. A bird has more freedom than a man.�
b

Baba got to know that we had gone to Nanibari. Baba called me and said, �Your legs
have grown too long. Next time I hear you left the house, I will break your
shins.� Baba�s threats did not work. I kept visiting Nanibari. I told Ma. �Ma,
come home.� Nani said �Your saying means nothing. Send Noman or Kamaal. Send your
father. If your father comes to take her, she might go.� Drawn-faced and dried-
lipped Ma said, �Why will their father come? Even seeing his daughters� suffering
does not make him say anything. If he brings Razia Begum home, no one else but
these two girls will bear the brunt!�
t

On the way to and fro from Nanibari I saw a printing press in the name of Aziz
Printers. Halting the rickshaw, I got down and asked them the unit cost of
printing a dummy-sized, 23� x 18� format. After which I took money from Dada,
bought paper, and gave it to the printers. I then sat in the press myself to
proof-read the second issue of Shenjuti. Muhammed Aziz was the name of the owner
of the press. Dada knew him, and went once in a while personally to check
Shenjuti�s progress. One day, after paying up the rest of the printing cost, Dada
brought Shenjuti home. This time Shenjuti was on white paper. Taking a copy in his
hand, Dada said, �Na, the printing is not good. From next time onwards get it
printed at Jaman. Jaman is the best printing press. Paata was printed at Jaman
only.� When Dada remembered his one time journal Paata, his eyes shone with
happiness. The literary magazine called Paata that Dada and his friends published
was really very beautiful. Paata�s stationery was printed on lovely transparent
paper. Their letters, application forms for membership, even receipts for
membership fees all carried a design in its transparency. Dada had even now
preserved the Paata stationery as memorabilia. Once in a while he would pull it
out, dust it and caressing it with his hands would say, �You�ll see, we will
publish Paata again one day.� Of the three who published Paata, one was Sheila�s
brother. Since Dada fell in love with Sheila, her brother Chikan Farhad had
stopped seeing Dada. The other, Mehboob, had gone mad and was now chained up in a
mental hospital. Dada could publish, why one, even ten magazines if he so wanted,
but he could never again use the name �Paata�. Paata was not Dada�s property
alone. Dada was only the joint editor; the actual editor was Farhad. Dada used to
say, �What did Farhad do? I was the one who did all the work!� He may have got
satisfaction by saying that, but he never got the right to name another magazine
Paata. Dada wanted to publish a magazine called Paata once more. When Farhad heard
this he informed Dada that he would file a case against him.
t

When I was immersed in Shenjuti a horrifying incident occurred at home. Yasmin had
grown a small pair of wings on her back. Growing the wings was not horrifying,
what occurred because of the wings, was horrifying. Yasmin�s wanted to fly not in
order to cross the Bangladesh-India border, but only to secretly cross the
boundaries delineated around her existence. A good-looking neighbourhood lad
called Badal, of the same age as Yasmin, used to stand on the road when Yasmin
went to school. One day he plucked up courage to come forward and talk to her. To
avoid being spotted talking on the road, Badal asked Yasmin to meet him the next
day in the Botanical Gardens. Yasmin was so keen to break out of the restrictions
imposed on her that as soon as school was over, she got on a rickshaw and went
straight to the gardens. Badal had gone there with an uncle of his. The uncle,
Badal and Yasmin went around the garden, admiring the plants, appreciating the
variety of flowers blooming all around, watching the river, unaware that a
neighbourhood boy had seen them and had run to inform Baba. Baba went without
wasting a moment to the gardens and brought them back. Catching Badal by his hair,
Baba brought him home, tied his hands and feet with a strong rope, and whipped him
the whole afternoon in the verandah room. Badal�s wails had the whole
neighbourhood trembling, but Baba did not care. He pushed the half-dead Badal out
from the house and straight into the hands of the police. He filed a case of girl
kidnapping against Badal that very day. The police tied a rope around Badal�s
waist and look him away. When his son returned from jail, Badal�s father, Samiran
Dutta, left the neighbourhood. Not just Badal, Baba had whipped Yasmin too, behind
close doors. Not an inch of her body was spared from black and blue bruises. A
raging fever started, and clumps of hair began to fall from her head. After this
incident, very often Yasmin would come home from school, and sit around
disconsolately. Her classmates had begun to say, �It seems you were running away
with some boy?� Mymensingh appeared to be a very vast town. But when people picked
up juicy pieces of gossip like, �Rajab Ali�s younger daughter had run away with a
boy,� and laughed about it and it came to my ears. I realized how small the town
was really and how narrow the peoples� minds were. If Baba had not made such a
huge issue out of the incident, Yasmin would have come home from the garden. If
she had been asked, �Why are you late from school?� she might have answered, �I
had gone to Rinku�s house.� Rinku was her friend, so visiting Rinku after school
was not such a great offence. That day Yasmin�s curiosity about Badal was not as
much as her interest in seeing the gardens. Once she had seen the gardens, her
desire would have been satisfied, and she would have kept her joy at having
secretly broken her bonds to herself. No one would have looked with hatred at
Yasmin accusing her of having �run away with a boy.� She would not have thought
herself such a great sinner, and not have tried to hide herself desperately from
the eyes of others.
t

Geeta had given Tullu something in a sack. A very tiny piece of news. But it
reached Baba�s ears. Baba was in his room stamping his feet. A whisper could be
heard. �What is she giving him?�
h

�D
Don�t know, may be rice,� said Amena.

�H
How many days has Tullu come?�

�Many days.�
�W
What does he do when he comes?�

�S
Sits and chats.�

�W
With whom?�

�W
With his sister.�

When Baba thought deeply about something, he would take off his spectacles with
one jerk. He would sit with his head bent. In moments his eyes would turn red. He
would pace up and down the verandah. His hands at the back. Sometimes at his
waist. Once in a while he would pull back his head full of black curly hair. He
would sit on a chair, then move it noisily and get up. He would then sit down
again. Whenever we saw Baba like this, the only thing all of us at home could do
was to wait, because we knew very soon an explosion would take place. This time,
however, the explosion did not occur. In a quiet voice he called Dada into his
room and told him, �Go and get your mother back.�
r

When we went to fetch mother back, Ma did not look shocked, as though she was
expecting this to happen. On Ma�s wan face, a smile appeared. Ma could never hide
her joys. Her happiness shone like dust grains from her eyes, lips and cheeks.
h

*
***

Baba looked askance at Ma�s presence in Aubokash. He did not say a word. But Ma
never forgot to arrange Baba�s meals on the table. The way Baba wanted the
household to be run, she now ran it even more efficiently. The floors in the house
shone, the courtyard sparkled. Baba�s room was bright and arranged in an orderly
way. The clothes-stand had washed clothes, neatly folded. The sheets on the bed
were clean. Before Baba came home, his bed was made, with the mosquito net hung in
readiness. Our hair was tied up, with ribbons in flower-knots at the ends. We got
our food before we felt hungry, and water as soon as we asked. We got coconut
water, without asking. Wood-apple sherbet, half-ripe guavas, ripe mangoes,
blackberry mix, pomegranate pips were put into our hands and brought to our
mouths. Ma�s presence gave us all endless comfort.
m

Chapter Nine
C

Learning Medicine
L

That year, no medical college entrance exam was held. Admissions were done on
merit basis, according to the results of the SSC and intermediate exams. Anyone
having more than 1200 marks in both exams was eligible. I had more than 1200 marks
in both my exams. However, since I had less than 1300-1400 marks, I did not get
Mymensingh, my first choice. Instead I was being sent to Sylhet Medical. In a
second, Baba went into action. I was made to sign several application forms. He
told Dada to get ready. Dada took me along, and we boarded a late night train. The
train stopped at Akhaira station in the morning. We had to change trains there for
Sylhet. At the station I got lost amidst the crowd of Paaniwalas, Beediwalas,
Badamwalas, Jhalmuriwalas, Bananawalas, Biscuitwalas. Dada pulled me out and made
me sit in a waiting room meant for women. I sat surrounded by women, some in
burkha, and some without, a few ta-ta, aa-aa, howling kids, apart from f�ces,
urine and vomit. In their midst, sat I, a gentleman�s daughter, wearing ironed
clothes. The train which left Akhaira station for Sylhet had people boarding it in
a continuous stream. They pushed against each other in the rush. Lungi-clad
people, pyjama, pant clad, people with naked feet, or, with shoes, hatted and
hatless � with suitcases, trunks and sacks together in the crowd. Because I was a
woman, I was given a seat. As my brother, Dada too got a place next to me so that
my body did not come into contact with any other man�s. People with tickets for
third class sitting in this second class compartment, did not try to get seats.
They rested their bottoms on the floor, some with seats before them, others facing
the hot �loo� wind coming through the open doors. In the corner a group of
cowering women huddled in a heap, sporting pins on their noses, and bolts on their
lips. With their tickets in their pockets, the second class male travelers were
talking loudly. Even though I was listening intently, I could not decipher a word
of what they were saying.
o

�O Dada, what language are they speaking?�

�The Sylhet dialect is beyond any non-Sylhet to decipher,� said Dada. After which
he casually haggled over the price, before he bought a packet of peanuts which he
proceeded to eat with a pinch of spicy powder and a lot of concentration. Despite
the heat, the crowd and the cacophony, I was delighted that I was going to a new
town. Dada pointed through the window at a field some distance away saying, �Can
you see that field. On the other side of this field is India.� I wished I could
run across the field and see what India looked like, what the Indian sky looked
like. The train passed close to the mountains and their falls showered their water
over it. It moved alongside the tea gardens, passing through deep dark forests. I
put my hands out of the windows and overhanging branches and leaves touched my
fingers as we passed.
f

The minute I stepped into a new city, fountains of joy filled my heart. This was
not Mymensingh; it was another town, it had another name. In order to convince
myself I repeatedly read the signboards. Station Road, Sylhet. Old Bazaar, Sylhet.
Dargah Road, Sylhet. Dada had been here before, so he was aware of how to go about
things. Here, the rickshaw-walas had to be addressed as drivers. They got angry if
you called them �rickshaw-walas�. Climbing on to a squarish rickshaw, we entered
the city. We ate a terribly hot chilli meal at a small restaurant and went to
sleep in a hotel. This was the first time in my life that I had stayed overnight
at a hotel. Dada slept soundly in a torpor. From the next room or verandah, the
grating sounds of talk and laughter were causing my hands and feet to recoil into
my stomach. I was sure the people would very soon break through the door and enter
my room, chop me into pieces, tear me into shreds and eat me, and ruin me
completely. I kept calling Dada in trembling tones, low tones, high tones and
weeping tones. Nothing woke Dada from his sleep. With one leap I reached Dada�s
bed and shook him awake. Sleepily asking, �What happened?� he turned over and went
back to sleep. With a fluttering heart I curled up in one corner of Dada�s bed,
and couldn�t sleep all night. When the streaks of light began to enter the room at
dawn, and the grating sounds from outside had subsided, my heart stopped
f
fluttering.

�W
Were you scared at night?� Dada asked.

�Y
Yes.�

�A
Arrey dhoor! What is there to be scared of?�

In the morning after taking admission in the Medical College and submitting the
transfer certificate, we boarded the train again. The whole night we passed
through deep dark forests, and I felt eerie sensations in my body all night long.

When we came back from Sylhet, Baba bought white Tetron cloth and ordered two
aprons to be stitched for me. I would have to wear aprons to college. To the
college in my own town, my father�s college, not the college which took two days
to reach, but the one just after the rail-crossing at Ganginar Par, past my old
residential school after the Chorpara turn, that college. If the rickshaw-wala was
young it would take 15 minutes, if old 25. The Sylhet chapter was closed, it was
now Mymensingh. According to orders I wore the apron to college, under it I wore
my dress and pyjamas, no need to trouble to wear the odhna, no one bothered to
know whether it was there under the apron or not. This circumstance gave me great
joy. There were no restrictions of the odhna. Anyone, boy or girl, whatever
clothes they wore, had to wear the white apron over it. The apron had collars like
a coat, pockets, and a belt at the waist � I felt thrilled when I wore it. At
college all the faces were unknown. Mostly they were from Dhaka and stayed in the
Hostel. Only a handful of others and I were from this town. I was someone who had
only studied in girls� schools and colleges. I was not used to seeing young men.
But here, whether in class, in the corridors, grounds, or staircases, I had to
walk before slanted eyes, smiling eyes, bent eyes or wide open eyes, and it
frightened me. Uneasiness kept me tightly bound. The classroom, to which the new
students were taken for the first time, had Dissection Room written on its door in
white ink. A stink made me wrinkle up my nose and eyes, as soon as I entered the
room. My intestines began to churn and spit accumulated in my mouth. In an effort
to stifle my nausea, I held my breath, but there was a limit to how long one can
keep from breathing. As soon as I let go, the smell struck my nose, and from my
nose traveled to my stomach, back and legs, right up to my toes. Dead bodies were
lying on tables, and around them were standing white-apron-clad boys and girls.
Not just standing, they were actually bending over them and sniffing as though
corpses had the scent of magnolias. These bodies, at one time had laughed, cried,
loved someone, even screamed when pricked by a needle, and yet now that they were
being cut and torn, and their chest muscles were being parted to lift out their
hearts, they could not feel anything at all. A sensation of cold death began to
flow down my spine and spread to all parts of my body. One day we, too, would die
one by one and, like these bodies, become totally insensate objects. Abandoning my
group, I left the room and death physically accompanied me. I walked in the
corridors and death walked with me. I sat under the eucalyptus tree outside and
death sat beside me.
d

On the second day the whole class was divided into four groups. The head, the
chest, the limbs and the abdomen. I was given the abdomen, or may be the abdomen
got me. Bas, now cut up the corpses and learn all about the abdomen, whatever was
in the lower belly, place it on a tray. Choose an empty corner, the Cunningham
book was available, one would read, one would listen, another understand, one
would question, one had to support and another raise objections. This group study
may have suited others, but it certainly did not suit me. The hostellers had
chosen their permanent companions for study, I had no one � permanent or
temporary. I was alone. I came alone from home by rickshaw, after class I went
home alone, and studied by myself. Baba had bought me some huge books, which had
big coloured illustrations in them. When I turned the pages to look, Yasmin stared
wide-eyed at them. When I studied, sixty percent did not enter my head, another
fifteen percent entered my head but came out promptly, and the other 25 percent
did not come anywhere close to me. Gray�s Anatomy Book pleased Ma the most. Ma
knew the names of all these books earlier itself. When Baba was studying she used
to arrange these books on the table, and hand them over when he asked. In Baba�s
time, the books were not so big in length and breadth. In my time they had begun
to resemble heavy rocks and the trunks of trees. When I was bent over my books,
whether I was studying or not, Ma would silently leave lemon sherbet, or fried
puffed rice, muri, or even ginger tea on my table. At home I was getting an
abundance of love and care. Before I left for college, Ma would comb my hair, iron
my clothes and apron and place my sandals close to my feet. But as soon as I
reached college, my state became pitiful. I could not answer a question, nor do
the dissection. The girls from Dhaka, living together in the hostel, had made
friends amongst themselves. They walked in groups, laughed in groups, and answered
heaps of questions asked by the master all together. I was rescued from this
pathetic state by a bespectacled, sunken-cheeked, oily-haired boy called Sujit
Kumar Apu. He said, �Come on, let�s study together; my house is close to yours.
What do you say, should I come over in the evening?� With Apu, I began studying
the abdomen. The very first day we had to study the genitals. I had to sit with
Cunningham�s book wide-open at the shameless illustration of the genitals, while
Apu described in detail which nerves under which muscles traveled till where and
which route the arteries took to finally reach their destination. Ma brought tea
and biscuits for us. After returning home at night, Baba would rest his body in
the easy-chair, and call, �Let�s see what you are studying. Bring your book!� I
held open Cunningham�s genitals illustration before Baba. This was what I was
studying, this was what was being taught in class. Baba though embarrassed,
covered it up well by taking shelter under the English language. After telling me
a few things in English about genitals, he immediately changed the topic. Almost
everyday after college, Apu came to study. As soon as he got involved in the
minute details of the sexual organs, I would stop him and ask him about other
things. �Achcha, how would it be if we brought out a literary journal in college?�
I would ask Apu�s uncle. Pranab Saha was a noted limerick-writer in the town. Apu
himself wrote verses. Hearing the proposal, Apu would get very enthusiastic. Bas,
writing a �The End� to my group studies I got busy with literary studies. I had
seen a wall-magazine composed of poems, stories and limericks hanging in college.
To begin with, let me start a wall-magazine atleast! Just like I concentrated on
my studies before an exam, I put my full attention to Krishanu, Fire. But who was
going to hang it up in college? Apu was so grateful that I had taken one of his
limericks, that instead of reaching college at eight, he was there by 7.30 am and
hung up Krishanu on the wall. Students passing the corridor stopped in front of
the magazine and read the articles. I watched them from a distance. The cultural
week had commenced in college. The wall-magazine was also going to compete. I told
Apu to collect articles from our classmates. Very slowly a few articles came to
hand. Whether poems, limericks, stories or essays � I had to polish them up to
some standard before publication. Removing whatever change there was in Baba�s
pocket I bought paper, pen and brushes and sat down to create another wall-
magazine Amrita, Ambrosia. I worked the whole night, with the Amrita papers spread
all over the drawing room floor. At that time I could do anything I wanted. After
all I was a medical student; so what if I also liked to write poetry and such-
like. All this �frivolity� would fade away one day.
l

I got over many things, but not my childishness. Apu was going home to Netrakona
by train. Since train journeys attracted me like a magnet, I tried to get some of
my casual girl friends to join me on a trip to Netrakona with Apu. Apu promised he
would return in the evening. Leaving the road on the left that went towards home,
we went right, to the station from college. The coal-driven train started on its
journey emitting black smoke and a jhikir-jhikir sound. I was very happy while the
train was moving. Whenever it stopped, I felt sad, and put my neck out of the
window to look at the engine and pray earnestly for jhikir-jhikir. After reaching
Netrakona, we ate at Apu�s house, and then toured the town�s grounds, finally
reaching the station to catch the train back to Mymensingh. There were trains
coming in every minute, but they were all going towards Mohanganj, not towards
Mymensingh. Dusk descended and the darkness from the sky fell on my chest like a
stone. I lost the courage to imagine the scene that would take place at home.
Seeing the hostellers completely unconcerned, I wished I had their luck. I wished
I, too, could lead a life free of home and angry red-eyes. The train finally came.
It hardly moved at any speed, ultimately reaching Mymensingh at ten o�clock at
n
night.

I spent the whole journey trying to make up excuses to give at home, but none of
them sounded plausible enough. Throughout the way the moisture in my mouth, throat
and stomach gradually sank towards my lower belly. Since I was the only one with a
problem, the others came forward to find a solution. Apu would escort me home,
saying he had taken me and some others to visit Netrakona so �the fault was his!�
This solution did not sound good to me. Finally, I took all of the girls with me,
saying they too were with me. I had not gone alone for fun with a man, but had
gone on a kind of picnic with a whole group of girls. This senseless train had got
us all late, thankfully Apu was with us � Ma understood. That time I got away.
Luckily, Baba had not returned home. Even if he had, may be he wouldn�t have
exploded, because that night he had got news of his mother�s death. Baba�s Ma, my
Dadi. Dadi visited us once in a while at Aubokash when she accompanied Borodada.
Dadi was dark, but beautiful. She had very sharp features. Ma believed that this
Dadi was not Baba�s own mother. Baba and his elder sister were children of this
Dadi�s elder sister. I had asked Borodada, Dadi and Borophupi about this secret
several times, but had never got an answer. Even if she wasn�t his own mother,
Baba was very fond of her. He sent her saris, medicines for her ailments and when
she was bed-ridden he went personally to Madarinagar to see her. Baba decided to
go to his village home for Dadi�s obsequies, to be performed on the fortieth day
after her demise. With dancing eyes he asked Yasmin and me, �Ki, want to go to the
countryside?� At this hint of an invitation we leapt with joy. Yasmin and I had
never been to the village home. Dada and Chhotda had gone during the war. Carrying
Dada�s camera in my hands, we left with Baba for the village early in the morning.
After the strenuous travel by boat, bus, rickshaw, and in the end walking, we
ultimately reached the house. Somehow, we never felt the strain at all. What could
be greater fun than to be able to go out of doors! Seeing any new place, village
or town, was something I liked. My joy at visiting Nandail�s Madarinagar was no
less than my joy at visiting Dhaka. In the afternoon people in great numbers came
for lunch � the poor people of the village, and all Baba�s poor relatives.
Everyone was made to sit in the courtyard, and served on plantain leaves. Baba
personally served everyone. I look pictures of Baba in all kinds of poses. All the
villagers, children, women and men collected in the house to see us. To them
anyone visiting from town was a bundle of surprises! The house was made of bamboo,
with a thatched roof and mud floors. Around Borodada�s room had been built Imam
Ali, Riazuddin and Abdul Motin�s rooms. They were all living together with their
wives and children and were reasonably well off. In Borodada�s room was a big
chest. He slept on a bed laid out on top of the chest. The whole day he sat and
wove nets to catch fish. His eyesight was failing. But he never thought of going
for treatment to the town and staying at Aubokash. Nowadays one could just not
cajole him into going to town at all. At this age he had no wish to leave his
ancestral home and go anywhere. Baba showed us all the green paddy fields
stretching right till the horizon. He had bought them all himself. So much land,
so many cows, such a large granary full to overflowing at home, yet no one led a
fancy lifestyle. They wore the cheap blue lungis available at the local
Madarinagar Bazaar. They slept on cots in huts and ate roasted egg-plant and a
thin daal with their rice, they sat smoking their hookahs on the verandah, as
though all the worries of the solar system were hovering a foot above them,
causing their faces to be etched with irritation. The wives were also clad in
coarse cotton saris. A fifteen year old looked twenty-five, a twenty-five old
looked fifty. Yet the people of this house were thought of as wealthy by all other
houses. They had never spent their wealth on themselves. All their wealth was
saved to buy more land and was spent in their fixation with cases each brought
against the other. For this house, Baba was a God. Whoever amongst them had turned
into a Raja of the Yakshas like Kubera, and had only guarded the wealth he could
not use, had done so with Baba�s wealth. Everyone followed Baba�s orders, and did
whatever he told them to do. Whose son would go to school, for whose daughter a
groom had to be found, Baba decided everything. He also paid the school fees and
the wedding expenses. He told Riazuddin that he would put his son through school
in town, once he had finished at the village school. Anyone coming to study in
town meant they had to stay in the tin shed in the courtyard of Aubokash.
Riazuddin�s eldest son Shiraz, while staying at Aubokash and studying in the town
school, had one day in the blistering heat of a desolate afternoon, stripped
Yasmin, then only about 9 or 10 years old, naked. Jhunu khala who was visiting,
had been walking near the tin shed. Peeping in, she had seen the naked sight. As
soon as Baba got the news, he returned home, broke whatever fire-wood was in the
courtyard on the backs of Shiraz and Yasmin, and threw Shiraz out of the house on
that very day. Shiraz rented another room in the town, passed school, and soon got
admission in college. At Dadi�s obsequies, Shiraz had come to this house, but even
after so many years since the incident, he did not have the courage to come before
Baba. Dadi was buried next to the house itself. Planting a sapling at the head of
the tombstone, Dada returned to town with both of us by evening. On the way, he
unabashedly described the unbearable poverty of his childhood. He asked us to try
and understand his achievement in having worked his way from such a humble birth
and upbringing to his present status and wealth. He told us that we should also
always look upwards, we should progress higher by studying and working, so that we
really became worthy human beings. We should not waste our time in luxuries,
comforts and indolence.
c

In college the Students League, Students Union, Jashod National Socialistic

Students League, Students Group etc., political parties, were bringing artistes
from Dhaka and organising fabulous new colourful music concerts, to entertain us.
Each group was busy competing to hold functions more splendid than the others. One
group brought Khursheed Alam, the other Firdaus Wahid. Not just musical concerts,
political leaders were also brought from Dhaka to deliver long political speeches.
Mahmudur Rahman Manna came for the Jashod function and spoke continuously for two
hours. I listened engrossed. Whichever leader of whichever party spoke, I was
fascinated. When we had such good leaders, I thought why did the country have to
remain in the hands of a military dictator like Zia-ur-Rehman? Yet when I heard
the student group speeches, I thought the country was on the right track; that
there was no way it could go any better. As soon as the colourful music festival
was over, the college was hit by election fever. The Chhatra Sansad elections.
Various kinds of people asked for votes. I had to nod at all of them and promise
to vote for them. The candidates even started coming home. It seems if they came
home to request, it was like a confirmation. Whether for votes or for any other
reasons, young people were constantly coming to look for me. This was a completely
new experience for me. The first year classes were going on in a dilatory fashion,
so I took this opportunity to prepare the third issue of Shenjuti for publication.
I spent more time at Jaman Printers than in college. This Shenjuti was bulkier
than the others. What was special about this issue was that the words Lady Editor,
Taslima Nasreen, normally printed on the first page, were relegated to the end of
the last page in small print. Instead of �Lady Editor� there was printed �Editor�.
After reading Shenjuti from beginning to end, Dada finally stopped in shock,
�There are still some typographical errors. Instead of �Lady Editor�, they have
printed �Editor�.�
p

I laughed and said, �That is not an error. I have done this purposely.�

�W
What are you saying? Are you a man?�

�W
Why should I be a man?�

�D
Don�t you believe in genders?�

�Y
Yes, I do.�

There is something called masculine gender and feminine gender, you know that?�
T
�I do. But I do not like this Lady Editor, Lady Publisher etc. etc. Both men and
women can be editors. Some words have incorporated some unjustified gender
distinctions which I do not want to use. I want to call who writes poetry a poet,
not a Lady Poet or Poetess.�
n

Dada threw away Shenjuti saying, �People will call you crazy.�
D

*
****

As soon as I got to know my classmates, I barely exchanged two words with them,
before I proposed that we set up a literary society, called Shatabdi Chakra
Centenary Circle. I even told the girls whom I knew only casually. The bookworms
were not keen to join, but those who were not bitten by the book bug at all,
jumped up enthusiastically. Bas, collect donations, just jumping will get no work
done. I proposed that a small committee be formed, which could get down to proper
work. Since Amrita had got the second prize, I was very keen that from Centenary a
poetry journal like Shenjuti be published. As soon as an idea arose in my mind, I
plunged into action. Of course all my plunging was silently done. Whoever could
write in pure Bangla I would find them and say, �Write a poem.� �I don�t know how
to, Baba!� they would say. �Arrey, you can. Life is a poem! You are living life,
so why can�t you write about it!� After strictly editing the poems that came in, I
published a small poetry journal. I went myself to Leefa Printers at C. K. Ghose
Road and got it printed. Leefa was Chhotda�s friend�s press. Leefa kept its rates
low, but did the job alright. I named the journal Roadh, Sun. I went to the press
in the Sun, saw the proof, and came back home soaked in the Sun. After Roadh, next
came Apu�s desire. Bringing a two page long limerick, he said it wouldn�t be a bad
idea if a journal of verses could be brought out by Centenary. That, too, will
happen; after all, what have limericks done that they should be omitted! Jhan-Jhan
was the name of the journal of verses, which also was published within a few days.
However, I had to cut Apu�s limerick to half a page. I did not have the money to
print a journal which included such long verses. I spent all my scholarship money
on Centenary. The members were very irregular in paying their fees. I had barely
got over my enthusiasm for polishing immature poetry into proper verses and
publishing them, when a new interest brimmed over, theatre. Chhotda was then
spending most of the nights and half his days with a drama group. Mymensingh
theatre was enacting new plays every so often in the town. Chhotda took me to see
the rehearsals once in a while. Just when the theatre bug was giving birth to a
hundred others in my head, Partho, my classmate, one day like open sesame,
revealed the contents of his trunk. Out of it came a play written by Samaresh Basu
called Aborto, Whirlpool. This was not something that college students could
stage; real actors were required. Bringing the manuscript home, I handed it to
Chhotda telling him to tell the theatre to enact it. By that time I had already
read Aborto. While reading I had visualised different members of the Theatre
Company in the roles of the male and female characters. In my imagination, the
curtains were being drawn on a gigantic stage in the indistinct light of twilight.
From out of a room came Geeta. Geeta would best suit the role of Mangala�s mother.
She was calling anxiously, �Mangala, Mangala.� The theatre group eagerly took up
the play and began rehearsals. Almost every evening at rehearsals in the theatre
hall whenever I said, �Ooh, no you�re not doing it well, go back a little, scratch
your head while speaking, because now Mangala�s father is confused. Achcha � you
will have to incorporate the regional accent a little more into your dialogue.� Of
course, completely immersed in the play, anyone would have thought, I must be the
Director of the play. One day, Farid Ahmed Dulal, who directed most of the plays,
said, �From what I can see, you seem to be doing all the directing, so what do you
say, why not become the Director officially?�
s

�M
Me?�
�Y
Yes. You.�

Hiding my face in shame, I said, �Are you mad! I have no experience of theatre at
all. This is my first ever.�
a

I didn�t think one could learn theatre direction by watching a few plays on
television, or making Chhotda take me to see some at the Mymensingh theatre hall
or reading some in books. But when the responsibility really fell on me to direct
the play, Chhotda told Partho to come as well. Partho took up the task with great
enthusiasm. Almost every night, rehearsals were held in the broken old Mymensingh
theatre hall. It was a story about a poor family in the village. Geeta was cast as
the heroine. Of course this was not Geeta�s first role as heroine on stage.
Earlier with various dance groups she had performed as Nakshi Kanthar Meye,
Chandalika and Chitrangada. The new singing star Sohan who had joined Mymensingh
theatre had been cast in the role of the hero. A little boy was found to play the
part of Mangala. There was tremendous enthusiasm in each one of them; they were
bubbling with earnestness and inspiration, and if required, they were even
prepared to rehearse any time, night or day. After rehearsals at night, Partho
sometimes went back to the hostel or spent the night at Aubokash. The day Aborto�s
first show opened at the townhall, I was stunned to see the sets. The person, who
had been given the task of creating the sets, had done an eye-catching job. An
actual mud shanty, with actual trees planted in real earth and authentic fishing
nets adorned the stage. The show was on for three nights. People bought tickets
and came to see the play, and surprisingly the 300 capacity hall actually filled
up in a matter of minutes. The whole huge affair happened as though in the
twinkling of an eye. The theatre group of Mymensingh was quite well-known, and
their best and most successful play was Aborto. On the posters printed for Aborto
were the names of its two directors, Ishita Hossain Partho and Taslima Nasreen.
w

The play could have been staged for a long time in this way, but Geeta got a call
from Dhaka. There was to be a dance concert on television, so Rahija Khanum had
called her to perform. There was a shortage of girls at the Bulbul Academy, so
Rahija Khanum had immediately asked Geeta to come from wherever she may be. Geeta
danced all over Dhaka. Whenever her dances were telecast, the whole household sat
down to watch the program. Ma did not abuse her anymore as a dancing-woman.
Geeta�s life was full of mystery. In a moment she could empty out her life, in the
next she could fill and renew it. On stage, Geeta�s acting was amazing. Lord only
knew whether on the stage of life, too, it was all an act. A lot of her life was
hidden inside Geeta�s trunk. Various things were kept in it, many things necessary
to keep secret. When she left the house, she locked her trunk and went. I was very
keen to see what all was kept in it. Till then I did not have anything which
needed to be kept secret. Everything was open, spread out for all to see. I wished
I too had a secret, something only I knew. Before Chhotda had fallen in love with
Geeta or married her, I had been to their house. Actually it was to visit Henna
Mashi, the Mashi who tutored us. I had seen Geeta�s trunk then, it was kept next
to the pillow, on the narrow cot in which she slept. After the wedding, from her
parental home, if nothing else she had brought her precious trunk at least.
Finding the trunk unlocked one day, I discovered a whole pile of things in it.
Chhotda�s 30-40 paged letters, small pieces of jewellery, a coin purse, and what
caught my eye most were the cotton wool covered brassieres. I had crossed
seventeen years of age, but I had never tried on this one garment. Ma always hid
her own brassieres, under her saris or petticoats. She never hung them out to dry
in the courtyard. Behind the tinshed, where even dogs and cats did not venture,
she spread them out in the sun and brought them in dried, as though they were some
terribly forbidden articles. I called Yasmin aside, so that no one would either
hear or see us. Using whatever knowledge I had about the forbidden article at my
disposal, I said, �Just go to Ganginar Par, and buy me one of these things. Take a
rickshaw both ways.� After giving her the money, I sat in the verandah awaiting
her return, so that as soon as she came I could whisk the article out of sight
before anyone could notice. That evening I wore the brassiere bought by Yasmin,
and sat quietly. Just as there is fun in acquiring forbidden things, there is fear
too. I didn�t want anyone to come near me, to detect that I was wearing something
new that day. But I was then so friendly with Chhotda, that as soon as he returned
home he would call for me enthusiastically. I had to invariably read some story
book, and he would listen while eating, and resting, lounging almost half asleep.
I was that day sitting in a huddle, repeatedly pulling my dress up at the
shoulders, so that no tell-tale strap of the forbidden garment peeped out under
any circumstances. Chhotda came in and giving me a whack on my back said, �What�s
happened to you? Why are you sitting all by yourself?�
h

The whack on the back brought on all the trouble that it could possibly bring.
Chhotda laughed uproariously and said, �Kire, it seems you are wearing a
b
brassiere!�

At the top of his voice, Chhotda informed the whole household, �Nasreen is wearing
a brassiere.�

Within fifteen minutes of my wearing it, everyone at home came to know what I was
wearing. I pushed myself against the table as my head bent lower and lower over my
books. The sorrow of having my secret revealed caused the pages in my books to get
soaked. Ma came and said while caressing my head, �Why didn�t you tell me you
wanted to wear a brassiere? I could have bought one in your size for you.�
w

My face, head and ears flushed with embarrassment. Once normalcy returned after
the brassiere incident, Ma told me that she had worn one for the first time, two
years after her wedding. Baba had become so incensed that he had thrown it away
and angrily stated, �You wear fancy garments that wicked women wear! Is there no
end to your desires?� Wearing a brassiere was being fanciful and fashionable, many
obviously thought so. Women in the villages spent their entire lives totally
ignorant of what was called a brassiere. Baba was a village boy; he was not used
to seeing any extra accessories under one�s clothes.
t

There was one thing in college that attracted me like the forbidden fruit of
heaven mentioned in the Quran. That was the college canteen. I was very keen to
sit and talk while drinking tea, like all the other boys. Even though I wanted to,
I myself was very often a stumbling block in the fulfillment of my wish. An editor
of the Neighbourhood, also a writer of wonderful poetry, Haroon Rashid, whose
poetry I was a great admirer of, was waiting at the canteen for me. He had come
from Dhaka to Mymensingh to meet me, but I did not have the courage to enter the
canteen, or to face some unbearable beauty. While I stood hesitating, a sweet-
faced boy left the canteen in front of me, and the opportunity to daringly call
him from behind and stop him had also slipped from my hands and smashed into
pieces. These incapacities were being inwardly nourished by me alone. I couldn�t
think of myself as anything but a useless cowardly woman. I knew that the boys
mainly went to the canteen, either happily bunking class, or in the break between
two classes, or if a class was not held for some reason. If the girls got a break,
they either went and relaxed for sometime in the hostel or went in groups to
secluded places to spread out their heavy books and study. Girls very rarely went
to the canteen. If they did, they were only seniors with their boyfriends, or in a
group. I wanted to be able to go to the canteen too. Like the boys I, too, wanted
to be able to go at any time to the canteen and call for tea. As soon as it came
I, too, wanted to enjoy the cup of tea in complete relaxation with my feet resting
one on top of the other. Since I could not manage to fulfil my wish, I looked
around for a companion. Whichever girl I asked in class, slipped away. Finally
Halida agreed. A beautiful girl, with melancholy eyes, belonging to a house in
Dhaka�s Indira Road, she spoke pure Bangla. As soon as I entered the canteen with
her, I saw pairs of male-eyes devouring us. A first year student I had walked
boldly into a male meeting place. Gauging our courage, they began speaking in loud
tones, as though their every word would shake each pore of our bodies. That was
the beginning. Later, after I became friends with Habibullah, the canteen almost
became my home. Habibullah, too, belonged to Dhaka. A year senior to me, he had
secretly watched me for a long time. Then one day, blocking my way he said he
wanted to be my friend. If you want to be a friend, you will have to be one who is
on completely informal �tu,� �tui� terms. The very next day I addressed Habibullah
as �tui�. Although he was stunned, according to the agreement, he too had to call
me �tui�. After this Habibullah stuck to me like glue. I found him waiting for me
before entering a class and as soon as I left one.
b

�W
What�s up, don�t you have a class?�

�I do.�

�G
Go to class, then.�

�D
Dhoot, I�m not feeling like it. I won�t attend class.�

�W
What will you do?�

�L
Let�s go have tea.�

�B
But I have class.�

�H
Hai Sir�s class, isn�t it? You don�t have to attend that one.�

�W
What are you saying?�

�A
Arrey, come on now.�

As it is I was always ready to dance, and here was the beater of the drum offering
his services. We went and sat in the canteen. In the canteen there would be
supplies of tea and shingara, a savoury snack made with flour and a filling of
potatoes. Habibullah�s friends would come. Beginning from anatomy the adda would
end up with politics. We walked around the college premises proudly and
confidently. Whether I was between classes, or bunking some unimportant class,
wherever I went, there was Habibullah. He even began to come home in the evenings.
If Baba came home, Habibullah would stand up and greet him �Salaamaleikum, Sir.�
Baba would go into the inner rooms with a serious face. Inside he questioned Ma
and got the reply that the boy was my friend. Being a Professor of the College
this was one place Baba got stuck. He could hardly shoo away any college student.

*
****

The sports season had begun in college. I had given my name for Carrom and Chess,
and happily began to play. I lost in Carrom, not that there was any reason to win,
considering the last time I had played was way back in Nanibari! In chess, I beat
a keen chess player, a champion of last year, and progressed steadily. Ultimately,
a game I should have won, I gave up out of sheer impatience, and became the
Runners-up. I found even the gallery classes unbearable. I didn�t understand 80
percent of what the professors were saying or wanting to say. The practice of
exiting the class was quite common here, something I had never seen before in
school or college. One left the class after giving proxy or through the back door
because the class was not to their liking. I too began to get out. Till then girls
sat in the front rows with their bottoms glued to their seats. They gulped down
every word their professors uttered. It seems only naughty boys left class. So I
fell into that category, only not a boy, but a girl! The freedom of leaving class
was also something I began to enjoy. In Muminunissa College, Gagan Darwan didn�t
let us out before five o�clock in the evening. Thankfully, here that stifling cage
did not exist, whatever else there might have been. If I wanted to go to class, I
did. If I didn�t, I didn�t. There was no such system that one had to enter college
by 8 am or 9 am. Once I got the hang of this system in the Medical College, I
sometimes left for college in the afternoon. Ma would be surprised, �Where are you
going at this time?�

�To college.�

�What college do you have at this time?�

�I have class.�

�Your college commenced at eight in the morning.�

�Yes, it did. But so what! The class at eight I didn�t attend.�

�What will you do going to college now?�

�I�ll be attending the 1.30 p.m. class.�

�You can�t go wherever you want, at anytime you choose.�

�Your experience is only till school, you won�t understand all this.� I really
liked the system. Go to class when you want, if you don�t, give proxy and come
out. The word proxy was used much more in college. One may not attend classes, but
without a certain percentage of attendance, one couldn�t take the exams. Friends
gave false attendance. In every class, when the names were being called out, all
you had to do was say, �Yes, Sir.� It didn�t matter at all who was saying it.
Whether Toffajoler was answering for Mojammel, or vice versa, who was there to
actually find out! By bending one�s head and saying, �Yes, Sir�, one present
friend in a way saved another absent one. This present when absent, would be saved
by the earlier absent, who would now save the present absent.

I was busy with the fourth issue of Shenjuti. Letters, poems, literary magazines,
books etc. came in from Kolkata. Nirmal Basak had sent the �Toy of Time,� Abhijit
Ghose�s �Lonely Man� appeared before us. Their poetry journal Sainiker Diary,
�Indrani� we received regularly. Poems had been sent by Mohini Mohan Gangopadhyay,
Kshitish Santra, Chitrabhanu Sarkar, Shanti Ray, Biplab Bhattacharya, Birendra
Kumar Deb and Pranab Mukhopadhyaya. From various parts of Bangladesh, poetry came
in continuously. I arranged all the contributions by Alamgir Reza Chaudhury, Ahmad
Aziz, Khalid Ahsan, Jahangir Firoze, Minar Mansoor, Mohan Pathan, Rabindranath
Adhikari, Ramesh Ray, Haroon Rashid, Sajjad Hossain and many others. Chandana�s
poem was called �Hearty Rifle.� I had named mine �My Heart is Oppressed by the
Privations of the Bourgeoisie.� Everyday ten or twelve literary magazines in both
Banglas arrived. I saved them for tidbits of news. Ten pages were used for these
tidbits. I informed Chhotda that for the fourth issue of Shenjuti, we would need
advertisements. It was to be published as a book, with what could be called
�greater body�. Chhotda managed to procure two advertisements from People�s
Tailors and Tip-Top Confectionery. From Bengal Enterprise, Dhan arranged for us to
use their zinc logo as an advertisement on the last page. It would be in the form
of a book that was clear, but who would do the jacket cover? To design it, I asked
Chhotda to find an artist. At Golpukur Par, Pulak Ray, the brother of Terracotta
artist Alok Ray, was known to come for adda. From him Chhotda came to know that
Alok Ray was not in town. So there was no alternative but to wait for his return,
as Chhotda did not know of any other artist. As a consequence, I myself sketched a
woman�s face and sent Chhotda to make a block out of it. After that there were
reminders, �Come on, why is it taking so long, go get it.� I just couldn�t stand
any kind of delay. I wished I could do everything that very day itself. This
wanting to do things right away was in Ma as well. Ma got a yard of white tetron
to make caps for the boys of the house, just before Id. She had cut out cloth for
two caps, but when she wanted to cut the cloth for the third, Ma couldn�t find the
scissors. She couldn�t find them even after she had looked around her and in all
the other rooms. She finally took up her kitchen chopper, boti, and cut the cloth
with it instead. Chhotda said I had no patience. The people at Jaman Printers,
too, said the same thing. I, however, did not think I was short on patience,
instead I thought the people were rather laid back and inefficient. For work that
could be done in five minutes, they took over five days. I didn�t like sitting
around. I didn�t even like spending too much time writing poetry. If I took time,
I kept feeling the poem was tying me up in chains. I felt claustrophobic. After I
finished one poem, I liked to start a new one. I did not like spending days and
nights over one either. I was unable to rewrite and polish too much somehow. What
I had written, was final. I had seen the patience of one person that was
Boromama�s father-in-law. A short fair person, he looked like a Sanyasi, hermit,
who had just emerged from some Himalayan cave. After his wife�s demise, he had
written a poem called �Pangs of Separation,� and given it for publishing to Dada�s
Paata journal. In the 341 worded poem, 286 were either conjuncted letters or words
with ro, jo, or re in them. He had taken a whole year to write this poem. After
Dada had published it in Paata, he brought the same poem a little revised for
printing in the second issue. When even this revised poem was published in the
second issue, he still continued to pester Dada morning and night to publish yet
another revision of the same poem in the third issue. A time came when no sooner
did Dada see Boromama�s father-in-law�s sweet face at the black gate,
than he would disappear into the bathroom for atleast an hour.
t

After class I mostly went back to Jaman Printers rather than home. Jaman Printers
were located next to a clear lake opposite the Rajbari School. The house next to
the printing press had a high wall around it. Khurshid Khan�s house. Man, Dhan and
Jan were Khurshid Khan�s sons. Dhan�s elder brother Man was there during Dada�s
Paata days. Later the responsibility had shifted into Dhan�s hands. Dhan was an
impossibly amiable and witty man. He wore very clean, elegant clothes. Whenever I
entered the press, he called me to his room and made me sit down. He offered me
tea. He chatted about all kinds of things. Khurshid Khan was East Pakistan�s
Governor Monayem Khan�s younger brother, Muslim League by lineage. Yet no one
looking at Dhan would be able to make out that he was a bearer of the family�s
political affiliations. There was no topic which he could not discuss profusely. I
was mainly a listener. Dhan would say once in a while, �How is it that you are a
literary person, yet not a word can be heard from you? I avoid mixing with many
poets and writers, because they are so talkative.� Retaining a slight smile on my
lips, I continued to listen to Dhan�s discussions on anything and everything, till
I could collect whatever portion of Shenjuti had been printed, and return home.
After proofreading I would return with it the next day. I began to make friends
with the workers in the printing press. When I entered the press, I noticed that
there was a look of peace and calm on their faces. �Hello Apa, how are you?� the
workers covered in ink, would ask me every time. Even if Dhan was not there, they
made me sit down and brought tea for me. I watched the men working at close
quarters, learnt how the machines worked and tried my hand at the job. The workers
laughed at my antics. The ink stained my body as well. The printing press was now
no more a place which I did not understand. The day Shenjuti was printed I went to
make the payment to Dhan before loading the big packets on the rickshaw. He said,
�I think you must be having excess money. Go, go. I won�t starve if I don�t take
this negligible amount.� The fourth issue of Shenjuti was printed with a white
cover, and green pages. Whatever cover paper was saved, I made into writing pads
for Shenjuti. On the right hand top corner was printed. �Taslima Nasreen,
Aubokash, 18, T. N. Ray Road, Amlapara Residential Area, Mymensingh.� No resident
added �Residential Area� to the tail of Amlapara; this was totally Dada�s
creation. Dhaka�s posh localities like Dhanmundi were called Residential Areas.
There were no shops or markets in Amlapara, only homes, so why shouldn�t it be
called a Residential Area? There was undoubtedly some logic in the argument.
c

As soon as Shenjuti had been distributed in all directions, I again became

restless. How could one not do anything! I called the members of the Shatabdi
Chakra, and proposed that we organise a function, a welcome to the newcomers. A
fresh batch of students were joining college, we would welcome them. What would we
do in the function? We would have everything � dance, song, poetry, theatre. Work
was divided amongst the members, some were to decorate the stage, others to rent a
mike, get invitation cards printed and distributed. Everyone got down to work,
with a lot of enthusiasm. Anupam Mahmood Tipu, who advertised in the personal
columns, wrote for the cine�magazines, had a sweet smile, excellent handwriting
and was a good artist as well, took charge of the stage decoration. I caught hold
of a classmate of mine from Muminunissa, Ujwala Saha, who kept in touch with
singing, to render the opening song. The rehearsals for the function began, some
were acting in a play, or reciting poetry, elocuting, or singing. The President of
the Chhatra Sansad (Students Union) called me and said that no groups could
welcome the newcomers before them. It was not very difficult to frighten a small
group like ours! After exchanging a few argumentative statements, I retreated and
allowed the Chhatra Sansad to go ahead. The second freshers welcome was the
responsibility of Shatabdi. I got the invitations for the function printed. Haroon
Ahmed, Professor of Anatomy was asked to chair the function. He was more than
ready to do so. It seems he too wrote poetry, and was keen to read out one of his
poems at the function. I had heard that Nirmalendu Goon now stayed in our town.
His wife, Neera Lahiri, was a year senior to me, and they had rented a house close
to college. After hunting everywhere in Shewratola we found Goon�s house. The
rooms were flooded with rainwater. With his feet up on a chair, he was sitting on
the verandah with a small transistor pressed to his ears, listening to the cricket
commentary. The room was full of water. After handing him the invitation card, and
requesting him to read his poetry at the Shatabdi function, we came away. Whilst
Nirmalendu Goon was there, there was no need to import any poet from Dhaka. For a
play, I caught hold of Chhotda�s friend Farid Ahmad Dulal. He promised to prepare
a one act play for the show. I was restless about the outcome � would anyone
actually turn up to see the function? But many spectators arrived, and the
function was held. Some said it was excellent, and some said that the poetry
readings could have been reduced and the play should have been enacted midway,
rather than at the end. Others were very excited, when was the next Shatabdi
function going to take place? I didn�t know when, I was then whirling in a wild
wind. Like autumnal clouds my heart�s sky, too, was entirely covered with the tune
of Ujwala�s song, �A stream of happiness is flowing through the world.�
o

Geeta wrote from Dhaka asking Chhotda to come to Dhaka. It seems there was a job
interview somewhere for him. Chhotda went to Dhaka immediately, and returned to
Aubokash after seven days. He had secured the job, thanks to Amanullah Chaudhury.
If he hadn�t pressurised the top brass of Biman, this job wouldn�t have happened.
�There could be no one as great as Amanullah Chaudhury,� was a statement which now
kept popping out from Chhotda�s mouth like popcorn. To become a steward with
Bangladesh Biman, he would go to Dhaka for training. He planned to rent a house
and stay there itself. It was farewell to Aubokash, Baba-Ma, brothers and sisters.
Chhotda�s voice did not tremble to say bye-bye, but the very word farewell made my
head throb and my heart felt as though a hundred horses were riding over it. Every
time I heard the word I found myself in a scene. A desert, where for miles not a
soul could be seen, the only person was me, all by myself. I wanted only a
mouthful of water, the shade of one tree, the sight of just one person, but was
getting nothing. But the smile on Chhotda�s face remained. Tirelessly he continued
to describe the importance of a steward.
t

Ma informed Baba, �Kamaal has got a job.�

M

�H
How could he have got a job? He is illiterate,� said Baba.

�Education is not in his fate. He got married very young. Now he wants to run a
household. You tried your utmost, but he just couldn�t concentrate on higher
s
studies.�

�W
What kind of a job is it, may I know?� Baba was curious.

�Crew for Biman. It seems it�s a very good job, he will be able to go abroad as
w
well.�

�Oh my sad fate,� Baba said with a deep sigh, �I tried to put one son through
medical college, he didn�t qualify. He went to do his masters at the University,
but returned home without taking his exams. Another son got a star in his SSC, but
left studies and now has taken up the job of feeding people. People in the plane
will shit, urinate and vomit and my son will clean it all up. Was this the job for
which I hired five tutors to teach him? Was this the job he secured a star in his
SSC for? Good, people will ask � Dr. Rajab Ali, what do your two sons do � I will
have to say, one son roams around, the other flies around.�
h

Just when I was on the friendliest terms with Chhotda, he was leaving. Chandana,
too, had left just when she alone was the one and only unparalleled being in my
world. I remained alone where I was; everyone else kept coming and going. Chhotda
promised to come often to Mymensingh, and take me to visit Dhaka frequently.
Although I knew that now I had the opportunity to visit Dhaka, my heart did not
stop �feeling depressed�. I may not have screamed and cried like Ma, but I did
cry secretly. My close relationship with Chhotda was because of literature. Dada�s
knowledge of literature was limited to Rabindranath and Nazrul. In the field of
literature, theatre and music, Chhotda�s moving around constantly and may be some
other factors had given him much more varied literary knowledge. Hence his company
had given me more joy. We had read huge thick volumes together. I had read and
Chhotda had listened, or Chhotda had read and I had listened. I was losing not
only my audience but also my reader. I was losing the opportunity of accompanying
Chhotda to cultural and literary functions. I noticed that Chhotda had no pangs of
loss. In fact, there was the joy of receiving. He was about to get a job in Dhaka,
a good job, a well-to-do household, an independent one. After living long years
with uncertainty, he was now about to get complete, flawless certainty.
w

*
*****

Like Habibullah, another person blocked my path one day, but not with the
intention of friendship; the purpose was different. Within the college grounds, in
a Shyamganj accent he informed me that he was Shafiqul Islam�s brother, and that,
like his brother, he too wrote poetry. He was standing for election to the new
Chhatra Sansad, and wanted me to do so as well.
C

�M
Me?�

�Y
Yes. You.�

�I am not in politics.�

�There will be no question of politics. You will be standing for the post of
literary member, with the responsibilities of editing the college magazine,
organising functions and such things. You are qualified to do so.�
o

�B
But you have to canvass for votes! I can�t do all that.�

�You won�t have to ask for votes. You will win anyway. I can tell you with
conviction, that our whole panel will get elected.�
c

�I won�t have to canvass, sure?�

�N
No, not at all.�

�O
Okay then.�

From the compound I took a rickshaw with the intention of going home. Following me
all the way in flashes, was Helim�s smile spreading from ear to ear, white teeth
in a black face.
i

The next day Habibullah caught me in a vice, face dreadfully dark. �What�s up, I
never knew you were a BNP activist!�
n

�I
I, a BNP worker? Who said?�

�E
Everyone is saying so.�

�W
Who is everyone?�

�Don�t you know who everyone is? Aren�t you standing for elections from the BNP?
Yes or no?�
Y

�S
So that�s it! Yes, I am, but I am representing no party.�

�Is there any party worse than BNP? Students pick government parties so that they
can reap advantages from it.�
c

�W
What advantages?�

�Passing their exams, what else?� Habibullah took off his apron, hung it around
his neck and said, �Go, and withdraw your name today itself. If you must stand,
stand from the Jashod.�
s

Habibullah himself was a member of Jashod, Chhatra League. His very close friend
Tahmid, also Jashod, a good be-spectacled boy, came running. It seems he had told
Habibullah that even though I belonged to no party, if I stood from Jashod, why
literary member, I could stand for literary editor. They were willing to bend the
rules for me. So, instead of making me a member as junior students were normally
made, they were ready to be generous enough to make me the editor. Tahmid showed
me a list of Jashod members. He said, �These are all students who have secured
academic positions. And Anees � Rafique of BNP have spent 4-5 years in the same
class.� If one was a member of Jashod at that time, it meant you were superior.
Even in the Chhatra League I found a whole crowd of failures. Good students were
either Jashod Chhatra League or Union members, or were not members of any party at
a
all.

I searched out Helim that very day and told him, �Please cancel my name, I will
not stand for election.�
n

�W
Why, what has happened?�
�I don�t understand anything of politics. The boys are saying I am representing
the BNP.�
t

�Arrey, silly girl, the kids of Jashod are turning your head. You are not a member
of BNP. But you are standing from BNP, because this time they are going to win.
You are standing in the interest of the college, not the party. Can�t you
understand this simple fact? Now if you contest from the Chhatra League or Jashod,
there is no question of your winning.�
t

I kept quiet. I couldn�t raise my voice. I understood very clearly that if I were
to throw back a big �No�, Helim would be very disappointed, and I felt very
uncomfortable at the thought of distressing anyone. I looked at myself from
Helim�s point
H of view.

�Also, all the leaflets have been printed. Now it will be impossible to cancel
anything. It will become a scandal.�
a

I remained silent. Rafique Chaudhury and Aneesur Rahman, two prominent leaders of
the Chhatradal came home and very sweetly made me understand that my contesting
the elections did not mean entering politics; it meant promoting the college
literary activities.
l

The season for fresh elections began. The college walls were plastered with
posters. There were blazing speeches on the dais, leaflets scattered all over the
benches in classrooms, at short intervals various contestants from different
parties were to be seen meeting people in classes, corridors, in the canteen,
laughing and speaking, asking for votes. I felt I should vote for every
contestant, from every party. The president of the Chhatradal Aneesur Rahman
offered me a cup of tea, and after giving me a huge smile, said, �Come along, lets
go out on election publicity.�
g

�I
Impossible.�

Rafique Chaudhury said, �You are a party girl, you can�t afford to be so shy!�
R

I was a party girl! Others, too, said the same thing. This reputation got attached
to me. On the day of the elections, I went to college, and voted for all those I
thought were deserving for the various posts from the Chhatra Union, Chhatra
League and Jashod, and returned home. The next day I got the news that the Chhatra
Dal, meaning Anees-Rafique group�s entire panel, had won. Last year the Chhatra
League had won, this time Chhatra Dal. Now what was to be done? We had to go to
Dhaka to meet the President of the Nation.
D

I had been feeling dull. The thought of going to Dhaka brought me back to life. We
went in a group to Dhaka by bus. The group was also to come back in the same bus.
I was all a tremble with sharp excitement at going to Dhaka, and to meet Rudra.
After meeting Zia-ur-Rahman, Helim escorted me to Chhotda�s house at night.
Chhotda lived in a single storeyed yellow house on Azam Road in Muhammadpur. He
had rented it jointly with Faqrul mama. After studying graphic arts in Dhaka,
Faqrul mama had taken up a minor job. Seeing Chhotda�s house and family life I
felt happy but also felt sad. I was sad, because Chhotda now stayed so far away
from Aubokash. I felt happy that Chhotda�s dream had finally come true, the dream
of getting a good job. Chhotda was very enthusiastic about his job. He was sure
there was no job like his. He could go abroad at any time, and the pay too was
plentiful. The next day he took me to a dentist who it seems was a friend of
Chhotda�s. Like Chhotda had friends in every nook and corner of Mymensingh, he had
them in Dhaka, too. The friend extracted my teeth giving me a lot of pain. Chhotda
was always very alert about teeth. He had got his first geometry box in the senior
class in school. He would use the compass in it to extract hidden pieces of meat
from between my teeth, saying, �If you don�t clean your teeth, they will all
fall.� I felt Chhotda�s extra care about teeth had inspired the dentist to extract
even my good tooth. �It is better not to have teeth than have rotten ones,� he
would say crinkling his nose. Pressing cotton wool into the roots of my extracted
teeth, I returned home. I was in Dhaka, yet would not be able to meet Rudra � the
pain I suffered because of this far exceeded the pain of the tooth extraction.
p

After returning to Mymensingh from Dhaka, I shouted at the top of my voice to all
at home, �I have shaken hands with Zia-ur-Rahman. His grip was so strong, the
bones in my hand were about to crack!�
b

�H
He�s an Army man! So he is physically very strong,� said Ma.

Ma�s disinterested face remained fixed before my eyes, as did her unconcerned
words. I thought, he certainly had more strength. It was this extra strength he
had exercised in order to come to power. Secretly the dissatisfaction with Zia had
been growing in the Biman Bahini. Guessing that at any moment a coup could take
place, thousands of Biman Bahini people had been killed without trial. He had
rehabilitated many enemies of peace who had been hiding in holes. He had made a
traitor like Shah Aziz the Prime Minister. Religious politics had been banned in
this country. Now, that ban had been lifted. The snakes were now coming out of
their holes waiting to bite as they had done in 1971, siding with the Pakistan
forces and killing lakhs and lakhs of Bengalis. Treating the constitution as their
patriarchal property, they took over as circumcisers themselves, and converted the
constitution to an Islamic one. As when the Quran is read, you have to start with
the name of Allah, �Bismillahir Rahman Irrahim,� so too the name of Allah had been
placed at the beginning of the constitution. Even if the people of Hindu,
Buddhist, Christian and all other faiths had been beaten up with shoes, there
could not have been, I felt, a greater insult to them. Secularism had been blown
away from the constitution with one puff. There was no doubt he had more strength.
I went and washed my hand in the bathroom with soap. Let it go away, let this one
black touch be wiped off my hand for ever.
b

Rudra came to Mymensingh to meet me and said, �I don�t understand you at all, it
seems you contested the elections from the BNP? Why didn�t you tell me earlier?�
s

�I didn�t.�

�W
Why not?�

�D
Do I have to tell you everything?�

�D
Don�t you have to?�

�N
No.�

�O
Okay, do as you please. You have lost all respect and honour!�

Hardly had all the noise of the elections subsided, when classes resumed in full
tempo. I had ascended from the lower abdomen to the chest. On one side I had to
cut up dead bodies. On the other I had to study everything about the heart soaking
in formalin on a tray. After dissecting the dead, when I returned home and sat
down to a meal, my hands still carried the smell. Even if I used up a whole bar of
soap to wash my hands, the smell did not go. I had gradually learnt to live with
the smell. One day, when I had almost finished my meal, I spotted a piece of dead
flesh at the corner of my hand. I had forgotten to wash my hands before eating.
The day I carried a heart home in my pocket, everyone at home looked at it with
noses and mouths covered, but wide-eyed. I happily placed the heart on the table,
and opening the Cunningham book, began to study. I even showed them all which was
the atrium, the ventricle, from where the blood came in, from the top to the
bottom, then from there it went upwards and to all parts of the body. Ma�s eyes
shone with great delight.
s

�Well, now my Ma has become a doctor, what do I have to worry about anymore, my
treatment will now be done by my own daughter,� Ma said.
t

Dada asked, �Is this heart a man�s heart or a woman�s?�

D

�I don�t know.�

�I
It looks small. It must be a woman�s.�

�W
Who told you women�s hearts were small?�

�W
Won�t it be a little different?�

�N
No, it won�t be different.�

Yasmin standing at a safe distance from the heart said, �Bubu, is this what is
called the soul?�
c

�May be it is known as the soul. But this is the heart, not the soul. The work of
the heart is to pump blood and supply it to the whole body.�
t

�T
Then which is the soul?�

�The soul is the mind. Suppose I like someone, my nervous system will get the news
first. The head is the abode of all the nerves, not the chest. The throbbing sound
that can be heard in the heart is because the nerves in the brain are disturbed.�

Yasmin looked with unbelieving eyes at the organ, the heart.

Y

With Habibullah I shed all inhibitions and spent hours talking about any subject.
By developing an easy and free relationship, I was happy that I had been able to
prove that boys and girls could be friends, and not only through letters.
Habibullah�s unrestricted comings and goings at Aubokash had gradually become a
common sight. Whenever Ma thought of relieving herself of worries, by hinting at
this relationship developing into marriage, I would break her empty dream by
saying, �Habibullah is my friend, just a friend, nothing more. Our friendship is
like the one between Chandana and me, do you understand!� I don�t think my reply
made Ma very happy. Habibullah was good-looking, very polite and well-behaved,
both of us were about to qualify as doctors, there could not be a more ideal
match. Even if Ma didn�t say so in as many words to me, she definitely muttered
them to all others at home. If even a hint of any of these words reached my ears,
I scolded her and told her to shut up. I was sure our relationship was pure
friendship. So was Habibullah. Traveling with him on the same rickshaw did not
cause me any flutters. It was like traveling with Dada, Yasmin or even Chandana.
Habibullah knew that a relationship was developing between me and Rudra. At every
opportunity, I would recite Rudra�s poetry to him. But one day Habibullah stunned
me by coming home and starting to address me as �tumi�. It seems he did not like
the more casual �tui�! Any amount of asking why he didn�t like it, did not elicit
any reply, only a bashful laugh. I was not able to interpret the laugh at all. The
laugh not only made me uneasy, it also frightened me. I got up from before him,
and lay down in the darkened bedroom, hugging my sorrow to myself. Habibullah
continued to sit on the sofa in the drawing room, and writing a long letter he
handed it to Yasmin. Yasmin switched on the lights, and left the letter for me to
read. Written in English, the essence of the letter was that our wonderful
friendship could disappear at any time, but if we could give it a permanent
status, then there was no question of it getting lost. He had thought over it
himself, had even questioned himself several times, and the only answer he had got
was that he loved me. Couldn�t I take this relationship beyond just friendship? I
read the letter and recoiled with the pain of a broken dream. Insult and shame
began to tear me to pieces. Pulling myself away from that sorrow, I followed my
growing anger step by step, finally walking into the drawing room. Tearing the
letter into shreds, I threw the pieces at Habibullah�s face, and screamed, �Leave
this house immediately. Let me never see your face ever again.�
t

Habibullah, a polite, gentle, handsome, budding doctor, a diamond amongst jewels,

stood for a long time, before leaving. Later he tried to tell me many things in
college, but I never gave him an opportunity. He even knocked at my door several
times but I did not open it.
t

Abu Hassan Shahriyar, who had made quite a name for himself as a limerick writer,
was my classmate at Medical College. I had, however, never spoken to him. One day
he left a chunk of dead flesh in my apron pocket unknown to me. With it was a chit
of paper, on it was written a limerick. I was very annoyed at Shahriyar�s
behaviour. I could not believe that anyone could be so wicked in the world of
literature. A few days later, this same wicked boy got so fed up of dissecting the
dead that he left his medical studies, and went away to Dhaka. However wicked the
boy may have been I became convinced that it was possible to leave medicine and go
elsewhere. However, while Baba was alive, this would be impossible for me; this
was something I knew very well. The dream of studying Bangla at Dhaka University
that Chandana had had, did not get fulfilled because of Subroto Chakma. When she
was collecting all the necessary documents for admission to Dhaka University, she
found she hadn�t picked up her SSC mark sheet. I had collected the mark sheet from
the Residential Adarsha Balika Vidyayatan, recently converted to Mymensingh Girls
Cadet College, and sent it to her. Just when it appeared that if not this month,
then definitely by the next month her admission would be complete, Subroto Chakma
got her admitted to Chattagram Medical College on a tribal quota, to fulfil his
own dreams. Chandana wrote from Chattagram that she did not like dissecting the
dead. She was also seriously thinking of someone handsome, left behind in Comilla.
That handsome person was writing regularly to Chandana, the letters were the �I
will not be able to live without you� variety. Fed up with the smell of the dead,
Chandana took an overnight decision to leave Chattagram for Comilla in search of
the aroma of the living. One day she suddenly wrote from Comilla informing me that
she had married the �will not be able to live�. If I had heard instead that
Chandana was dead, I think I would have found the news more believable. Whoever
else it might suit to marry, it certainly did not suit Chandana. I didn�t think
there could be any news worse than this in the world. The horrendous hairy hand of
loneliness gripped my throat in such a vice that I found my breath gradually
stopping. I ran to the terrace and hid myself away from everyone. I had had a
skyful of dreams along with Chandana. How could I see the whole world collapsing
over those dreams? On the pile of rubble I stood empty handed, all alone, so alone
that suddenly I could not even feel my own existence. Even when darkness and dew
drops showered down on my head, I still felt nothing. After a month had passed, a
letter came from Chandana�s father Dr. Subroto Chakma. It was addressed to me
only. It said that for the way Chandana had insulted him, he would definitely take
his revenge, somehow, anyhow. He atleast had no desire to allow Chandana to
continue to live on this earth. After remaining stiff with fear for two days, I
wrote to Subroto Chakma to forgive Chandana, accepting that she had done wrong,
and one day would surely realise her mistake. Subroto Chakma did not reply. But
after a month I again, received a letter from him. He had invited me to Rangamati,
for Chandana�s funeral obsequies. He actually observed his own daughter�s
obsequies. A daughter who had abandoned her faith could not be acknowledged by
him. A Buddhist girl, she had run away, and married a Mussalman boy. Such a
daughter was dead for him as far as he was concerned. Hearing this frightening
decision of Subroto Chakma, I felt really sympathetic towards Chandana. I wished I
could with all my own strength wrest her from the clutches of that handsome
villain, and bring her back to safety. My heart told me Chandana was not well. She
was suffering, crying. I too did not like spending the whole day pouring over
thick books amidst the stench of dead bodies and the pungent smell of formalin. It
did not take long for my reputation as a �bad student� to spread in the college.
Utterly embarrassed, I went to college, and came back. One day, the Principal of
the college, the tall, fair, smiling Moffaqurul Islam, called me into his room.
Swallowing his smile and extinguishing the shine in his eyes, he took out a typed
letter from an envelope. I recognized the letter. I had got a copy of this letter
a few days ago.

�Y
You are Dr. Rajab Ali�s daughter, aren�t you?�

No words emerged from my throat. I nodded my head.

N

Looking at my voiceless throat and eyes lowered in fear and shame, Moffaqurul
Islam making his own tone sound as harsh as possible, said, �Is your brother�s
name Noman?�
n

I nodded my head.

�I
Is your other brother�s name Kamaal?�

I again nodded my head.

�I
Is Kamaal�s wife�s name Geeta?�

Again the head.

A

�Y
Your younger sister�s name is Yasmin?�

The head.
T

Moffaqurul also nodded his head. It meant he had tested the truth of the letter he
was holding in his hand. Moffaqurul Islam had no idea that I had already read the
letter. A crazy man called Abdur Rahman Chisti had sent me a copy of this letter
himself. This man used to send me copious letters. He had been a pen friend for a
few days. In those copious sheafs of his letter, there used to be everything
beginning from fairy tales to difficult essays on the world�s trade policies. Most
of it I never got down to reading. When suddenly the same man offered his love one
day, I stopped writing to him. After that came this threat. If I did not respond,
he would harm me in this manner. He would directly write to the Principal of
Mymensingh Medical College that everyone�s character in my family was stinking. My
father had slept with Geeta, my sister slept around here and there. I of course
was another one. I had slept with Chisti, why only Chisti, I had slept with all
his friends as well. My two brothers, too, were in the same boat. They pounced on
a girl as soon as they saw one. Etcetra etcetra. Only stories of sleeping around.
Moffaqurul Islam, I guessed, had believed every word of the letter.
M

Heaving a deep sigh, I said, �This is a baseless letter. I know about it. A man
named Chisti has written it. I did not agree to his proposal, so he is taking his
r
revenge.�

Ridicule was writ large on the face of the respected Principal. A crooked smile
played on his lips.
p

�Y
You think you are very smart, don�t you?� he asked.

I did not answer.

�D
Do you think I understand nothing?�

I still did not answer.

�I will not keep an undesirable girl like you in this college. I will give you a
transfer certificate very soon.�
t

I now got thoroughly shaken up. The Principal�s room, the Principal and the letter
all started swaying before me. My simple honesty had not been accepted by the
Principal. What he had accepted was a mischievious rumour mongering letter, a
letter which did not bear the name of the writer, and on which there was no
signature. The writer of the letter was a person the Principal did not know. But
this unknown person�s words were considered the truth by the Principal, not the
words of the girl he knew. Coming out of the Principal�s room I noticed I could
not speak to anyone, I could not hide the pain in my tearful eyes. Without
attending the rest of the classes, I went straight home. I lay down on my bed with
my face to the wall. When Yasmin came I told her the whole incident. Moffaqurul
Islam�s daughter Sharmeen, studied in Yasmin�s class at Vidyamoyee School. It was
very easy to get the names of all members of her household from Sharmeen. It was
even easier to write a letter, to paint each character black and to post the
letter to the address of the Principal, Mymensingh Medical College. By this, he
would atleast learn what is meant by a rumour mongering anonymous letter. Not just
my hands, but my mind as well was impatient to teach him a lesson. But once I�d
collected the names, I was unable to write the letter. I did not feel inclined to
write. Muttering the words �a dog has done a dog�s job, it has bitten the feet
�� I tore up the letter I had sat down to write.

Although I went to college, I could not concentrate in class. If while walking

down the corridor I encountered Moffaqurul Islam, I passed him as though no one
was there, and it was vacant space. Normally, if any Professor came before one,
one had to raise one�s hand in Salaam. I had never liked this rule. I avoided it
in any case. Because I avoided it, my reputation as a discourteous student spread.
As I didn�t even bother about this bad reputation, I was known as a comic,
laughable creature. It seems one had to Salaam if one wanted to pass one�s exams;
that was what was being whispered about. I kept my nose, ears, face and mind far
away from these whisperings. I attended all the important classes, and left
college straightaway. On the way back, , I bought books on politics, society,
literature from the bookshops. In the evening along with Yasmin, I went visiting
here and there. I attended good discussion sessions at the Public Library. There
was always something going on. When there was nowhere to go, I went to Padmarag
Mani�s house and talked about poetry. Or to Natakghar lane where my old school
friend Mehbooba�s house was. Sitting on a cool mat in the sunny courtyard, we
would drink tea and eat muri, while talking about life�s simple and uncomplicated
facts. Otherwise we went to Nanibari, to the long-left-behind world on the other
side of the railway line. We spent time in that solitary secret world with the
small baby sparrows, old torn kites, blue balloons and the weed-covered pond and
bead necklaces and came back. Ma would say, �The way you two girls just go out by
yourselves, what will people say?�
y

�L
Let them say what they please.�

�You all think yourselves very daring.�

�We are not doing anything wrong.�

�If your father comes to know, he will break your legs and make you sit at home.�

Saying �Let him break them,� we moved away from in front of Ma. I found Ma�s
nagging extremely irritating.

***

Chandana no more wrote as frequently as before. What she wrote was all about her
in-law�s house. Unlike the way she did earlier, Chandana spoke of dreams no more.
She did not write poetry either. She had changed a lot.

Some casual friends from school came visiting to chat, to eat. These girls from
Dhaka who had left their homes and family atmosphere far behind, and were staying
in hostels, were seeking to find �a close peaceful abode,� and food which tasted
like their mother�s cooking. Time began to fly with these friends.

Again poetry got me involved. The intoxication of getting Shenjuti printed began
to glow brightly. Upturning a sack full of skeletal bones over my innumerable
literary magazines, poetry notebooks and Shenjuti manuscripts, Baba declared, �As
far as I can see, you will not be able to qualify as a Doctor even in ten years.�

Chapter Ten

Viewing the Bride-to-Be

When he started working, Dada began to slowly change the d�cor of Aubokash.
Removing the cane sofa-set from the drawing-room, he placed a wooden set with soft
mattresses. He also installed a four-legged television set in the drawing room. He
got a huge bedstead made of segun, teak wood, with a most novel headboard,
displaying a man and woman lying naked under a grape tree. On the two sides of the
headboard were minutely carved drawers. When each piece of furniture arrived in
the house, we would look at it from a distance and up close, touching and without
touching. He brought a dressing table with a mirror as well; that too was huge,
with all kinds of carvings. A lion-legged ten-seater dining table arrived. So did
a gigantic crockery cupboard with a glass front. Thanks to the arrival of so many
heavy pieces of furniture, there was no place left to walk in the rooms. Dada very
proudly informed us that all the furniture was made of teak wood and designed by
him. Whoever came home looked at Dada�s furniture in amazement. They had never
seen such furniture anywhere else. Drawing the design himself, Dada got another
green coloured steel almirah made. His greatest delight was that such a piece
could not be found in any other house. That was true, there couldn�t.

Dada converted the room opposite the drawing room into his office. He placed in it
a table with drawers; and arranged all the Fison Company papers and medicine bags
on top of it.

The whole purpose of getting all this furniture made was that Dada was to get
married. A bride would come, and find a fully furnished home, in fact �a ready
household.� He had bought expensive china ware and arranged it in the cupboard,
and the key remained in his pocket.

Relatives went around looking at Dada�s decorated room and left saying, �Noman now
has everything. Now all he needs is a wife.�

****

Dada had been looking for a girl to marry for quite a few years. Girls were shown
to him, but he did not like any. Various families sent proposals, and proposals
were sent to many others. He would take along either a relative or friend to see
the bride-to-be. Every time before leaving he went through elaborate preparations.
He spent an hour bathing, using up a whole bar of soap. After his bath, while
singing a song completely out of tune, he applied Pond�s cream and powder on his
face, and olive oil on his feet and hands. Then apart from all the nooks and
corners of his body, he generously sprayed perfume all over his chest, back and
whatever parts of the body were reachable by his hands. Normally Dada was very
stingy with his perfumes. At home only Dada had a storehouse of perfumes.
Sometimes before going somewhere, if I asked, �Dada will you give me a little
scent?� First he would say, �There isn�t any.� If I grumbled, he would ask several
questions about where I was going and why. If he liked the answer, he would take
out a perfume bottle from the secret hiding place in his room and say, �This is
Earthmatic,� or �This one is Intimate, Made in France.� Dada had to mention the
�Made in�. Then after pouring out hardly a drop he would say, �Ish, quite a bit
poured out!�

�I couldn�t even see what you poured!�

�Arrey, in that drop itself, 200 taka was spent.�

When Dada was not at home, I searched for the bottle of perfume in his secret
place � inside his shoes. I never found it. He had kept it in a new hiding place.
Just like a mother cat picked up its kittens by the scruff of their necks and
shifted them from place to place, Dada, too, kept changing the hideouts of his
perfume bottles. Anyway, he took ages over dressing up. He stood striking various
poses in front of the mirror and looking at his reflection. He asked us, �Ki,
aren�t I looking handsome!� With one voice we said, �Of course.� There was no
doubt that Dada was handsome. He had thick black hair, a sharp nose, big eyes, and
long eyelashes; even in height and breadth he was an extremely good-looking man.
Wearing polished shoes and a suit even in summer, Dada would leave the house to
see a prospective bride with a bright smile on his face, and every time he would
return with a gloomy face. Every time the gold ring in his pocket remained there
itself; it was never given to any one.

�Ki Dada, how was the girl?� I would ask.

Dada would wrinkle up his nose and say, �Arrey Dhoor!�

Everytime, he would make everyone sit in the drawing room of the house while he
described the flaws in the girls he had gone to see.

***

Baba once sent Dada to see the daughter of one of his acquaintances. Dada went and
saw her. On his return home, Baba sat down with Dada and asked, �Did you like the
girl?�

Dada immediately wrinkled up whatever it was possible to wrinkle up on his face

and said, �No.�

�How come? The girl was educated!�

�Yes, educated.�

�She had passed her B.A.�

�Yes, she had.�

�Wasn�t she fair to look at?�

�Yes, she was fair.�

Wasn�t her hair long?�

�Yes.�

�The girl wasn�t short!�

�No, not short.�

�Her father�s an advocate.�

�Yes.�

�He was the President of the Bar Council for a long time.�

�Yes.�

�He had two houses in the town!�

�Yes.�

�Good lineage.�

�Yes.�

�The girl�s uncles all have good jobs. One is the manager of Sonali Bank.�

�Yes.�

�One of her cousin brothers stays in London.�

�Yes.�
�Which of her guardians were there?�

�The girl�s brother and father were there.�

�The elder brother or the younger one?�

�The elder.�

�The elder brother just got married a few days ago, to some very rich man�s
daughter. The bride�s father was a District Judge.�

�Yes.�

�Their house must be quite nicely done up.�

�Yes. They had expensive sofas etc. in the drawing room.�

�They do have a television surely!�

�Yes.�

�What did they offer you to eat?�

�They served three kinds of sweet and tea.�

�What was the girl�s conversation like? Her manners and behaviour?�

�Quite good.�

�Ladylike surely!�

�Yes, ladylike.�

�A docile and quiet girl?�

�Yes.�

�Then why didn�t you like her?�

�Everything was fine, but ��

�But what?�

�Her lips ��

�Lips meaning?�

�Her lower lip was not flat, it was raised. I hate the sight of girls who have
lips that pucker up.�

�Hmm.�

***

The search began for a flat-lipped girl for Dada. News of a girl came. She lived
in Tangail, but her sister�s house was in Mymensingh, in our locality itself. The
girl was brought from Tangail to her sister�s place. The date was fixed to view
the bride-to-be. Dada dressed up as usual and took me and Yasmin with him to that
house. The girl�s sister opened the door and made us sit inside. She even mouthed
a few pleasantries, like, �You�ve just joined medical, haven�t you?�

�What�s your name?�

�Yasmin! My niece is also called Yasmin.�

�My daughter studies at Vidyamoyee School. Today she has gone to her Mama�s
house.�

�Nowadays it has really become very warm, and during these warm nights the
electricity too has been going off!�

�Achcha, what would you like to have, tea or something cold?�

In the midst of this inconsequential chatter, the event of consequence took place.
With a tray of tea and biscuits, Dano entered the room. Three pairs of eyes were
directed unblinkingly at her. Dano laughed shyly, and sat down in a chair. Tea was
being drunk, and along with it the meaningless banter continued.

�The Bindubashini College in Tangail is not like it used to be; it had a great
reputation at one time.�

�The chum-chum made by Porabari has become smaller in size, yet more expensive!�

�Dano is a very efficient girl. When she visits me, she takes over all the work.
Tidying up the house, cooking, she does everything. She is interested in gardening
as well. She stitches her own clothes, doesn�t give them to a tailor.�

�Do you know Qader Siddiqui�s house in Tangail? Very close to it is Nath Babu�s
house; I go there once a month.�

As soon as we had smilingly taken leave from that house, I asked, �Ki, did you
like her?�

Two pairs of eyes were observing Dada�s nose, eyes and lips.

�She had beautiful eyes,� said Yasmin.

�Her lips were definitely flat,� I added.

Dada�s nose now crinkled up, �Too flat.�

People at home were informed that because Dano�s lips were too flat, Dada had not
liked her.

After a few months the news came that Dano had been married to the famous Tangail
Muktijoddha, freedom fighter, Qader Siddiqui.

On hearing this, I told Dada, �Ish, look what you missed, you should really have
married her!�

Dada said, �Luckily, I didn�t. She must have been already in love with Qader
Siddiqui.�

*****
In any case, the news of any beautiful girl�s marriage made Dada depressed. He
kept lamenting aha, aha, as though some wonderful long-tailed bird had just flown
out of his reach in a jiffy. After Dilruba�s wedding, Dada in an almost tearful
voice had said, �The girl was an absolutely true copy of Sheila.�

�What do you mean by was! She still is Sheila�s true copy.�

�She is married now! So what if she is still ��

�Hmm.�

�Didn�t she have a sister? Lata! Lata too was a beauty.�

�She wasn�t, she still is a beauty.�

�Achcha, can�t we send Lata a proposal?�

�But she is much younger than you.�

�Actually, that is true.�

�I have also heard that someone is in love with Lata.�

�Then forget it!�

Dada had seen every beautiful girl in Mymensingh by turns. They were either
studying in college, or had passed there IA/BA. Yet he had not liked any of them.
This time Jhunu khala said, �Come, I�ll show you a girl in Dhaka. She is beautiful
and has just joined Dhaka University.�

�She lives in Comilla and her father is a College Professor� Jhunu khala brought
more news.

�The girl is very devoted to me, she is constantly calling me,� �Jhunu apa, Jhunu
apa.� She stays in the room next to me, in Rokeya Hall,� Jhunu khala said with a
forced smile.

�Tell me whether she is pretty,� was Dada�s question.

�Very pretty.�

Dada�s legs swung from left to right at great speed. �Her lips are flat I hope!�

�Yes, flat.�

�Not too flat again I trust?�

�No, not too flat.�

It was decided that in an icecream shop in Dhaka�s New Market, Lovely and one of
her friends would sit, and Dada could see her from a distance. If Dada liked her,
then matters could be carried forward. Dada went to Dhaka, and after walking
around New Market reached the icecream shop at the appropriate time, and saw the
girl. Telling Jhunu khala, �I think she�s squint-eyed,� he returned to Mymensingh.

In all the towns around Mymensingh, Tangail, Jamalpur, Netrakona, everywhere Dada
had gone to see girls. He had come back with a gloomy face. The next was Sylhet!
He was going to Sylhet to see a girl. The proposal had come from a colleague of
Dada�s. I obstinately insisted on going to Sylhet, too. My obstinacy worked. Dada
took me along with him, when he left for Sylhet. Throughout the train journey he
kept saying, �Girls from Sylhet are usually very beautiful.�

I said, �The girl does appear beautiful in the photograph.�

�Yes, she does appear to be so. But all flaws cannot be always detected in a
photograph.�

***

We spent the night at the Fisons Company Supervisor, Munir Ahmed�s house on
Sylhet�s Dargah Road. It was a huge, beautiful house with a garden. As soon as we
entered the house, I became restless. �Dada, let�s go and see the town.�

Dada was not at all in the mood to do so then. He kept taking the girl�s photo out
of his breast pocket and putting it under a bright light. He showed me the
photograph as well, saying, �What do you think, just look carefully once more!�

�I have already seen it so many times!� I said.

�See it again. If you look again something or the other will be found.�

�Dhoot! Did we come to Sylhet just to sit in a house! Come on, let�s go out for a
little while atleast!�

�Your patience is really limited Nasreen,� said Dada in disgust. �We have
journeyed so far. My body is covered with dust. I�ll have to have a bath.�

�What will happen if you don�t have a bath? Have one when you return.�

�Her nose seems quite okay, what do you say!� Dada�s eyes were on the photograph.

I sat at the window and looked at whatever little of the outside was visible. If
only I could go out alone in the city! I could have taken a rickshaw and gone
around seeing everything by myself!

The next day we went to see the girl. The father of the girl was a Police Officer,
and the girl was a graduate.

�Everything was good, really fair complexioned girl, but � her front two teeth
were a little raised. Rejecting the girl, Dada took me along to see the Mazaar of
Shahjalal. I was not interested in seeing any Mazaar. I would have preferred to
take a hooded rickshaw and enjoyed going around the city and getting to know its
character and behaviour much more.

Thousands of people thronged the Mazaar. There were many standing on the shores of
the lake feeding the black fish. Coming up to catch the food in their mouths, the
fish would then dive back into the water! Bah! Dada said, �Do you know why people
feed these fish? If you do, it seems you get a special passport to Heaven. Hazrat
Shahjalal personally persuades Allah and makes efforts to ensure Behesht, Heaven
for the feeders.�

Afterwards Dada gave me his shoes to hold, saying, �Stand here with my shoes,
while I go and see the inside of the Mazaar. Shahjalal�s tombstone is there.�

�Take me as well.�
�No, women cannot go there.�

Dada went up alone to the tomb at the higher level. I stood and stared at it
amazed thinking, if women went there how did it cause problems, and for whom!

While returning to Mymensingh by train, I told Dada, �So you didn�t like this
Sylhet girl either.�

Dada said, �Sylhet girls are normally very pretty.�

�Then why didn�t you like her?�

�I did.�

�But you said she had buck teeth.�

�Arrey, not the toothy one!�

�Then who did you like?�

�Munir�s brother�s wife.�

�What are you saying?�

�Did you see her lips? Those were the kind of lips I wanted.�

�Will you marry her then?� I asked with my eyebrows raised upto my forehead.

�How can I marry her? She is already married!�

Dada looked despondently out of the window for a long time and suddenly said, �Did
you see the black beauty spot on top of her lips?�

�On top of whose lips?�

�Munirbhai�s wife�s lips.�

�You had come to see the police officer�s daughter. Talk about her beauty spots.
She had one on her cheek.�

�I didn�t even see the spot on her cheek. Actually one shouldn�t look too long at
women with buck teeth. The eyes really get strained.�

***

Dada�s preferences worked even in the matter of names. Once, a proposal was sent
to a girl because Dada had found out that her name was Nilanjana. He was
absolutely dying to see Nilanjana.

�This girl has to be beautiful.�

�How do you know that?�

�How can someone who has such a lovely name be possibly ugly!�

Of course after seeing Nilanjana, Dada only said �Chhi, Chhi� the whole day. Dada
rejected a beautiful girl as soon as he heard her name was Majeda, so going to see
her was far from possible. His opinion � �I feel nausea as soon as I hear the name
Majeda. Girls wth such names have no business to be beautiful.�

All of us at home had almost given up hopes of Dada�s marriage. Only one person
had not given up hope, and that was Dada himself. He seriously believed that very
soon he would marry the most beautiful girl in the country.

This belief of his allowed him to continue to spend his life happily and
enthusiastically. He had bought a music cassette player. The earlier one, �Made in
Russia�, which he had won as a second prize in the Udayan Competition, was kept in
Baba�s room. One night, when Baba was not home, and the door was locked from
outside as he was wont to do, a thief broke the iron grill on the window and stole
it along with another big one �Made in Germany�, which Chhotda had given for
repairs and brought back without any. Boro mama had asked Dada to participate in
the Udayan Competition. He had, in a way, even told him the questions and answers
to be asked in the competition. He had told Dada to be very sure not to tell
anyone at the function that Boro mama was related to him. The first prize was a
trip to Moscow, the second a cassette recorder, the third a camera. No one knows
how far Boro mama�s influence worked, but Dada was thrilled to get the second
prize. With great joy he returned home with the recorder and after buying a whole
load of music cassettes, began to listen to them. Till then even Dada was someone
who had not progressed beyond Hemanta, Manna, Sandhya, Satinath and others. After
the robbery, the house was without music for a long time. After buying the new
machine, Dada bought many cassettes of his choice from Dhaka. This time there was
Firoza Begum�s Nazrulgeet. Falling in love with Firoza, he devoted himself to her
songs. Increasing the volume of the recorder, he would call us close, and singing
completely out of tune along with Firoza, he would intermittently cry �Aha! Aha!�
in his excitement. Explaining Firoza�s love for Kamal Dasgupta he sang, �Is this
your last offering, the pain of separation � look how long she is drawing out the
tune in the words. The day Kamal Dasgupta died, Firoza sang this song sitting
before his coffin.� Listening to the song, Dada�s eyes would become wet.

This attraction to music dissipated a little when he hired a machine called a VCR
from Amrito�s shop. Amrito had started a new Video shop at Golpukur Par. He was a
very handsome boy. He was almost on the brink of marrying Jyotirmoy Dutta�s
beautiful daughter. A bright green light of success was shining on Amrito�s
business. Very often for a night or two, Dada would hire the VCR and watch all the
Hindi movies available in the market. When initially two or three VCRs had come to
Mymensingh, there had been great excitement. High priced tickets were sold and
movies were shown whole night in darkened stairways and closed houses. Chhotda had
once taken me to one of his friend�s house to see movies on the VCR. However, it
wasn�t my cup of tea. I had returned home before the movie was over. That was my
initiation into VCR-viewing. Later when the hiring of the VCR and watching movies
reached a pinnacle of excitement, Dada actually bought one of his own. After which
he not only sat up whole nights and days watching movies, he began to swallow them
whole. Initially, I too sat before it. I was amazed. �Who left Dharmendra a horse
in the middle of a field? Just a moment before there wasn�t any! Why did Hema
Malini suddenly leap up and start singing a song? Did anyone sing songs while
dancing on the streets?� My remarks buzzed around like a fly, hovering over the
other viewers who remained absorbed. Unreal action movies were not to my taste at
all. But Dada, whatever kind of movie it was, sat before the screen with his
backside glued to the seat. However, I selectively watched movies which had no
violence, no unbelievable storyline, and no laughable unrealities. Amitabh-Rekha
became my favourites. Even more than them I began to like Shabana Azmi, Smita
Patil and Naseerudin Shah. Showing contempt at my taste, Dada said, �Don�t get
those dark moralistic films anymore. We are looking at slum life everyday, we
don�t need to see it on the screen as well.�

After watching any director�s, any actor�s, any picture, Dada one day got caught
like a Putti fish, in the net of one movie. The name of the film was Mughal-e-
Azam. He went almost mad in his love for the film. The movie would play non-stop.
He began reciting the dialogues by heart all around the house. He showed the movie
to everyone at home more than once. From Nanibari, Nani, Hashem mama, Parul mami,
infact even Tutu mama and Sharaf mama were called in to see the movie. Hashem mama
was a great fan of old films. Given half a chance he would go around singing Hindi
and Urdu songs of films seen in his youth. Dada had failed to pull and push Fajli
khala into watching the film. Fajli khala did not look at the television as it
would be a gunah, a sin to do so. If Ma got a film, she forgot about gunah. It was
impossible for her to resist the temptation to see Mughal-e-Azam, so she had
temporarily buried Allah and His orders and directives under her pillow and had
come to see the film.

After which she had read her Ashar or Eshar namaaz followed by raising her hands
in supplication to Allah, imploring that she be forgiven for her gunah. Ma was
sure that Allah was very benevolent, and forgave all devotees who were sorry for
their sins.

Whenever a guest came to the house, instead of tea and biscuits, Dada would show
his hospitality by screening Mughal-e-Azam.

Chapter Eleven
Lukewarm Life

Even after we had given our hearts to each other, I had not met Rudra. Our
introduction happened through letters, as did our love; everything was in our
letters. Our exchange of hearts had happened in the course of a play of words.
Rudra informed me that his birthday was on the 29th of Ashwin (mid-Sept � mid-
Oct.).

�Tell me what you want on your birthday. I will give you whatever you want.�

�Will it be possible for you to give me what I do want?�

�Why shouldn�t it?�

�I know it won�t be.�

�Why don�t you ask and see?�

Rudra informed me that what he would ask for would be difficult, �painful and
something hard to accomplish�!

The very next letter carried the question, �Will you truly be able to give what I
want?�

Shrugging my shoulders, I had replied, �Bah, why can�t I? When I have said I will,
I truly will.� Pride, in the shape of a tiny sparrow, seemed to have flown off my
shoulder and settled down on the tip of my nose.

�Suppose I ask for you?�

�What is so great about that?� Amidst these trifling amorous bickerings I had
said, �Okay go along, here I am personally giving myself.�

I loved Rudra for his words, for his poems in �Upodruto Upokul� Troubled Shores,
for the syllables in his letters. I did not know the man behind them. I had never
seen him, but had imagined someone wonderful and handsome. A man who could never
speak an untruth, who could never behave wrongly with others, a generous, humble,
lively man who had heretofore never looked at any girl, a man with a hundred
sterling qualities. When Rudra intimated that he was coming to Mymensingh to see
me, I had to drink glasses of cold water, because my throat and chest felt
parched. Where were we to meet? Masood�s house, perhaps, was the best choice.
Masood also wrote poetry. He was actually a singer. He was in Chhotda�s vast
circle of young and old friends. Rudra had met him in Dhaka, at the Chitrashashi
adda. Rudra was going to stay in his house in Sanky Para. I had to go there at
eleven in the morning. I started looking at my watch from seven in the morning.
The closer the hands of the watch got to 11 o�clock, the more frequent and rapid
became the beat of my heart.

Looking more modern than I was, I sported a pair of fancy goggles. I was wearing a
pyjama-dress with no odhna as usual. Except for the red college uniform odhna, I
didn�t have any at home, because like Chandana, I had objections to the odhna.
Even after I crossed �the age for wearing odhnas;� I stayed at home without one,
and went out as well. Telling Ma I was going to Nanibari, this long haired,
lustrous girl, with no fat or muscle proceeded towards the small tin house on the
field with a lake, towards Masood�s house. The little heart of this little girl,
from a little house, and a little room, suddenly stopped beating when a bearded,
long-haired, lungi clad youth came and said he was Rudra. My first sight of my
lover was in a lungi! At that time Rudra looked like someone who could be a
brother-in-law of Riazzuddin come from the village. I lowered my eyes though
already hidden behind dark glasses.

�Take off your goggles. I can�t see your eyes.�

These were the first words from someone with whom I had exchanged my heart in
innumerable written words, sitting before me for the first time face to face.

Rudra�s deep voice startled me. I took off my goggles, but looked only at the
furniture in Masood�s room.

Silence.

�How come you aren�t saying anything?�

I rubbed my toes against my slippers. There was nothing to look at in the corner
of the nail of my left hand, but I continued to look fixedly at it, as though if I
didn�t look after it at this very moment, the nail would rot and disintegrate.
Even though I was not looking at Rudra, I clearly knew that he was looking at me,
at my hair, eyes, nose, chin, everything. Into a room full of discomfort, Masood
entered with tea and biscuits. I spent the time taken to drink the tea looking at
my cup, at the faded sofa hand rest, at the dolls in the showcase and at times at
Masood, and finally stood up.

�What�s wrong, why are you so restless?� asked Rudra, again in that deep tone.

My eyes were directed then at the window. The leaves on the trees were dozing
under the strong rays of the sun. So was the pond. As soon as the water insects
alighted on it, the waters danced to a mild ripple.

Rudra stood up and came slowly towards me. Glancing at his body, I realised he was
shorter than me by two spans. When Dada quarreled with his short friend, Jahangir,
he would brag frequently, �Short people are enemies of Khoda!� Rudra was short
without a doubt and to add to it his face was covered with a beard and moustache.
I abhorred the sight of a moustache, and even more so a beard.

I moved away, I don�t know whether from fear or shame.

Rudra said, �Why do you need to leave immediately?�

Silence.

�You speak a lot in your letters. Why aren�t you speaking now?�

Silence.

�Ish, what a problem this is! Are you dumb or something?�

The dumb girl crossed the fields of Masood�s house and went away almost brushing
against the water insects and the water in the pond.

Before leaving, to the question at the door, �You are coming tomorrow, aren�t you?
� she replied with only a nod indicating she would.

I went the next day as well. That day, too, I did not look up at him. My whole
body, from my hair to the nails of my feet, was enveloped in bashfulness. I kept
telling myself, �Speak, girl, speak, he is your beloved. You know everything about
him, you have read and memorised his complete �Upodruto Upokul;� now say at least
a few words.� I couldn�t.

Rudra left. He wrote from Dhaka, that he had never met a girl like me. So very
shy.

The shy girl replied with a twelve page letter. �This is what happens to me, you
ask me to write, there would be no one as garrulous as me. Come close, and I would
recoil in such a way that you would think the letter writer must be someone else!�
I, too, sometimes felt that I the writer and I the living woman, brought up within
the boundaries of Nanibari and Aubokash were two separate individuals. One spread
her wings and flew in the sky, while the other was chained physically and mentally
to this earthly world, in darkness and confined to a closed room.

Rudra came to Mymensingh twice after this. He had really got along well with a
couple of Masood�s friends. So his time in this town passed quite pleasantly.
However, whenever I met him I remained in the same state. So many meetings had not
calmed the thudding of my heart. I could chat non-stop with friends and brothers
but when my lover came before me, my hands and feet turned cold. There was a lock
on my mouth, whose keys were lost.

Rudra was coming, but where were we to meet, where could the two of us sit and
talk! Masood�s elder brothers had voiced their objections, so that house was out.
If we walked around the streets of town, some one known to us would see us, and
inform Baba in moments, utter ruin! Where to go then? We went to my school friends
Nadira and Mahbooba�s house. They gave us tea and biscuits, but whispered that
their family members wanted to know who the man was. Even then, for girls of my
age to visit anyone�s house with a lover was considered indecent, after all,
romance itself was considered in bad taste then! When a girl grew up, her parents
found a groom for her, and made her sit on the wedding stool. The girl had to shut
her mouth and happily accept an unknown, unheard of man as her husband, and go to
live in her in-laws place � it was not that girls did not romance outside this
system, but only secretly, so secretly that even the birds could never get to
know. I had no reservations in letting the birds know, in fact not even in letting
a couple of friends know. I had let Chandana know every detail, and had told Rudra
everything about Chandana. I had earnestly requested both of them to write to each
other as well. They corresponded regularly. Most of my letters to Rudra were about
Chandana. Rudra understood how close to my soul Chandana remained. Sometimes with
hurt pride he would say, �Only Chandana, Chandana, Chandana. You need only one
friend. I don�t think you need me also in your life!� Not finding a place to meet
Rudra one day, I took him to Nanibari. Nani made tea and served us, and
suppressing a smile told Rudra, �If you want this girl, you will first have to
establish yourself, understood!� I lowered my face in shame. Still, what was
possible in Nanibari was out of the question at Aubokash. With Rudra I could think
of going to many houses, even to Nanibari, but never to Aubokash. Therefore, we
sat in parks, or in the Botanical Gardens, sat in the shade of the trees, and
talked. The Botanical Gardens were slightly out of town, near the Agricultural
University area. There we sat on the grass, looking at the dried up waters of the
Brahmaputra, a couple of boats carrying sand sailed passed. I sat looking at them
while mouthing �yes� or �no� kinds of words, in reply to the innumerable questions
that Rudra asked. People coming to walk in the gardens looked at us with wondering
eyes.

After joining Medical College, a standard place was found � the college canteen.
On the first day I took Habibullah with me to meet Rudra in the canteen.
Habibullah was a friend, and because it was my deep belief that boys and girls
could be friends just like boys and boys, girls and girls, and that there was no
difference between Habibullah and Chandana, I was able to speak a few words to
Habibullah in Rudra�s presence. Other words emerged while searching in my cup for
the mixed colours of tea, milk and sugar, like when Rudra asked if my class was
over.

�Yes.�

�Any more classes?�

�Yes.�

�Do you have to attend?�

�Yes.�

�Yes, means what? Can�t you miss them?�

�Yes.�

I sat with Rudra bunking my classes. The campus emptied out in the afternoon, the
canteen closed. Our love talk continued in the lawns, in the grounds, or sitting
on the stairs in college, somewhat in this way,

�Do you get my letters regularly?�

�Yes.�

�You must write to me daily, understand?�

�Okay.�

�Are you writing poetry?�

�Just a little bit.�

�Try and write in iambic metre.�

�Iambic metre would be in sixes, right?�

�Yes. In the end you can add a couplet. Six, six and two.�

�I can understand versification with the number of letters in a line. I find

versification with stressed and unstressed sounds difficult ��

�You will learn it better, the more you write. Initially, begin with letter number
versification.�

�Eight, four and six?�

�You can do that, or even eight-four-two, six-four-two. Actually the minute you do
six-four-two the iambic metre automatically emerges ��

�The poems in �Upodruto Upokul� are mostly in letter number versification, aren�t
they?�

�That�s true.�

�I keep writing and counting the letters, I find it really troublesome ��

�What is so troublesome? The poetical metre is in the sound, keep your ears alert
��

�Sometimes I feel I can�t write this kind of poetry.�

�Of course you can, just keep writing. Bring your poetry notebook tomorrow, let me
have a look!�

�I haven�t written any good poems, I�ll show it to you later.�

�Just bring it, will you! Listen to what I say. Achha, one thing ��

�What?�

�Why don�t you ever address me?�

�In what way?�

�Neither do you call me Rudra, nor do you say �tumi�.

�I do.�

�When do you do so?�

�In my letters.�

�That is in letters. Life is not only in letters. Why don�t you address me
directly?�

Shame spread like a burning flame all over my face. Every time before meeting
Rudra, I would either stand before the mirror or mentally rehearse saying �Rudra
tumi, Rudra tumi.� I even tried, �Rudra what will you eat, Rudra will you leave
today itself,� and other such sentences, using �tumi�, but as soon as I came
before him, on the actual stage, my rehearsals were to no avail and my performance
fell flat. In spite of heartfelt efforts, I was just unable to free myself from
the chains of my impersonal voice.

�Why do you appear to be so far away? You don�t let me touch you at all. How many
times I have asked you to let me hold your hand. You don�t let me. What are you so
scared of? Am I a tiger or bear or what?�

I knew Rudra was no tiger or bear. He was a bright young man of the seventies. The
seventies was the decade of war, death and break-up. The decade of the seventies
was a decade of poetry. In the poems one could smell the corpses, hear the screams
and protests. Rudra had evoked this decade brilliantly in his poetry. When he
talked of his life in Dhaka, I listened enraptured. I was very keen to see this
life of his. I wished, I too, could take out processions in the city with people
injured in police firing, print leaflets voicing protest and stick them all over
the city walls. I wished I too, like Rudra, could sit in the Chitrashashi grounds
and listen to Lucky Akhand�s songs while sipping cups of tea, or get involved
enthusiastically in literary discussions within the Dhaka University compound all
evening, while munching Jhal-muri. I wanted to watch Salim Al Din�s theatre being
staged at the Mahila Samity. Every other day there were poetry functions, I wished
I could attend them and listen to the poems. Rudra seemed to be nurturing my
budding poetic talent by removing the weeds around it and watering it as required
or it could be said that he lit into a flame what was like gun powder smouldering
within me. A great desire to lead an unknown, unseen existence filled my mind.
Every day I had to leave early in the evening with my desires unfulfilled, return
home, give an account for my late return and tell lies, that after class I was in
the girls� hostel. When I lied, my voice trembled and my eyes were either lowered
to the ground or to my books. Later I had got to see Rudra�s life in Dhaka as
well. An unaccounted for, carefree, unrestrained, reckless life. In the University
ground, within the T.S.C compound, while smoking cigarettes and sipping tea I saw
the variety of people Rudra was always talking to. He talked politics, literature
and laughed loudly. He had introduced me to his friends. They were either poets or
story writers, or singers or heroes. I was still the shy, reed-like slim, fine
haired girl who was unable to speak to strangers. I watched Rudra�s life,
amazement choking my throat. A wonderful free life, answerable to no one regarding
his movements, actions and whereabouts. In Dhaka, my time for meeting Rudra was
always limited. Jhunu khala set me free only for an hour or an hour and a half.
She did that purposely because she knew I was going to meet Rudra. Jhunu khala
unhesitatingly told me her love story, and I too began to freely tell her mine.
She did not act like an overbearing guardian in this matter. Ages ago, Jhunu khala
had left Boro mama�s house and migrated to live at Rokeya Hall, the University
Women�s Hostel. She had passed out from the University, and she was having a love
affair with one of the employees of the University office, Motiur Rahman, who
belonged to Barisal. When she went to meet her Barisal man, she took me along with
her. Sitting on the lawns of the Suhrawarrdy Gardens, she regaled him with stories
about her home and relatives. Listening to her I found this familiar Jhunu khala
not so familiar any more. Anyone would think Jhunu khala�s relatives were some
formidable individuals. She, it appeared, had no relatives below the status of
millionaires and billionaires. Sitting close to her I looked at the shining eyes
of the man from Barisal. I liked everything about Jhunu khala. She went wherever
she pleased all by herself. She went home to Mymensingh during holidays all on her
own. She appeared intelligent at all times. Only when she met her man from Barisal
she appeared to me to be very stupid. She completely turned into a little girl. If
I was stupid, she seemed worse than me, in fact a bigger fool. Once, while
travelling from Dhaka to Mymensingh by train, she met a story-writer called
Smritimoy Bandopadhyay. After one meeting, she arrived at Aubokash with him. Tea
and biscuits were served to the guest. In front of Smritimoy, Jhunu khala behaved
in a silly manner. On her face there was a shy simpering smile as though Smritimoy
was an old lover of hers. When she came to Mymensingh, Jhunu khala would spend the
whole day at Aubokash with us and return home only in the evening. To humour my
requests, she would seek Ma�s permission and take me to Dhaka for a day or two. Of
course before my desires could be quenched, she would drop me back in Ma�s care.
There were never any real objections to my going with Jhunu khala. After all she
was the highest degree-holding woman in the University, even Baba talked to her
without disrespect.

Even if my love for Rudra was not evident in face-to-face encounters, it grew
significantly through our letters. It was his wish that I write to him everyday.
He too wrote everyday. In case my letter did not reach on even one day, Rudra
would write in great anxiety, �What has happened to you, are you forgetting me?�
No, I could not forget Rudra. What I couldn�t make him understand was that to
write to him I needed some privacy. With the house full of people, it was very
difficult to do so. Rudra feared that Baba would very soon force me into marriage.
I let him know clearly that, that was one thing my father would never do. He might
murder me and throw me into the waters of the Brahmaputra, but before I passed my
medical exams, he would not allow any words about my marriage to be uttered by
anyone. Rudra spent his days in disbelief, apprehension and agitation. Spending a
lot of time in Mongla and Mithekhali, he returned to Dhaka, and then came to
Mymensingh for a day or two. Like before, we sat facing each other with silence as
our companion. Piercing the silence with a needle, Rudra said one day, �Lets get
married.�

�Married?�

�Yes, married.�

I began to laugh. I felt as though I had just heard some crazy proposal like,
�Let�s go to Mars, or let�s drown in the sea!� I couldn�t help but laugh. Rudra
frowned and said, �What is there to laugh about!�

�I can�t help it.�

�What makes you laugh?�

�It just happens.�

�Aren�t we supposed to get married sometime?�

�Why is the question of marriage arising?�

�Why shouldn�t it?�

�Are you mad?�

�Why should I be mad?�

�Only mad people keep talking of marriage!�

�Don�t talk rubbish.�

�Is this rubbish?�

�Yes, it is.�

Rudra sat depressed. Depression was crawling towards me as well. I picked at my

nails for a long time, and stared at the pages of my book without any reason, for
even longer. There was an uncomprehending grief in my voice.
�Baba will kill me.�

�Let us both go and meet Baba,� said Rudra in a serious tone. My loud laugh
pierced through the gravity of his voice.

�How can you laugh?�

I again felt like laughing. Certain scenes could possibly be conjured up in one�s
mind with great difficulty, but this scene of Rudra and I standing before Baba,
saying we wanted to marry and were seeking his permission or something to that
effect � was a scene impossible for me to even imagine. Distractedly I tore at the
grass.

�What are you laughing about, will you please tell me! Aren�t you ever going to
think of getting married?�

�Why get married right now? Let me pass my medical exams first. Then we�ll see,�
was my melancholic answer. The words were without regret, cool.

�That would be very late,� Rudra�s voice was steeped in anxiety.

�So what if it�s late?�

Rudra could not stand delays. He wanted to do things straightaway. He was already
dreaming of marrying and setting up house. Looking up at Rudra, I felt, I didn�t
know this man at all. He was someone very distant. He was like a spoilt,
irritating overgrown kid. �Take your exams, pass your M.A., only after that does
the question of marriage arise, what is the big hurry now!�, I informed him by
letter. Rudra replied that taking or not taking the exams was of no consequence to
him. He had no eagerness for such meaningless degrees.

He may have considered them meaningless, but I knew, my family members would want
to see degrees. In fact, I didn�t believe that even a M.A. qualified boy would be
considered suitable for me. Then to top everything, Rudra was a poet. Poets went
hungry. That they were also very bohemian was Baba�s strong belief. Rudra said he
was a poet, and that was his identity. As he would never seek a job, so there was
no justification for him to pass University exams.

�No, but ��

�But, what?�

I was petrified of Baba. It was impossible to make Rudra understand of what metal
Baba�s heart was made.

Baba was Associate Professor in the Department of Jurisprudence of Mymensingh

Medical College. As there were no other professors, he was the Head of this
Department. Almost everyday I went to college with Baba by rickshaw. Half the way
he generously gave advice, �Make sure you pass your Medical at one go. Study with
that goal in mind.� It was lucky that Baba wasn�t saying he would throw me out of
the house in case I didn�t pass with distinctions and stars. Once you got into
Medical, some day you would pass out as a doctor, this was his belief. Hence he
looked quite relaxed. In fact just passing the Medical exams was a matter of luck.
Even good students sometimes were unable to achieve this feat. Questions on
complicated subjects like anatomy and physiology which were difficult to
comprehend and study, were so clearly and simply answered by Baba, that they were
easily understood. There was no question whose answer he did not know. Even then
he stayed up nights to study. The day he had to take class, he would study till 2
o�clock the previous night, before going to bed. At one time he was the Anatomy
teacher at Lytton Medical School. That Lytton school closed down years ago, it was
now no more a school, but a college, next to the big hospital, with a big campus,
and most of the great teachers there, according to Baba, had been his students.
There was a kind of happiness in knowing that more than I was known myself, I was
known for being Rajab Ali Sir�s daughter, at least in college. Baba, who
continuously helped me to unravel the complicated study of medicine, gradually
came to feel very close to me. This was a new Baba. As soon as he came home, he
called me close. He made me join him for meals and chatted with me while eating.
He wanted to know if I had learnt something new that day. If I said I hadn�t, he
didn�t even get annoyed, instead with great eagerness he would propose a topic for
discussion. Suppose it was the liver, I would let slip that, �I don�t understand
anything of the liver.� He would laugh, make me sit next to him, pull my hand and
place it on his chest, and in a mixture of Bangla and English, he would tell me
how the liver looked, where it was located, what its functions were, what were the
diseases connected to it and how these diseases had to be treated. Everything was
explained like a story to me. That I was unhesitatingly telling him I knew nothing
about the liver did not make him snarl even once, and ask me, �Why don�t you know?
Learn the whole book by heart, from cover to cover.� I had never before seen this
kind of Baba, who was not worried about my studies any more. He never again
demanded that he should see me only at my study table. If I indulged in adda or
spent hours sleeping, Baba got angry no more. Baba�s attention was now focused on
Yasmin. The responsibility of waking her from sleep, making her sit down and
study, chasing her away from games, making her listen to the words of sages,
threatening her with being thrown out of the house unless she got starry marks was
being carried out tirelessly by Baba. Seeing that Baba was now unconcerned about
me, I chose and bought a guitar from Haripada Mallik�s musical instruments shop,
and began to pick up tung-tang notes on it. The dream of being able to play a song
on the guitar made my heart beat tung-tang throughout the day. Shahadat Khan Hilu
had a very good reputation as a guitar player. Not just as a guitar player, Hilu
was known to everyone in town. In the cultural arena Hilu was always center stage.
There was no end of people who were willing to accept him as their guru. He was
Masood�s guru. After he met Rudra, he became like a guru to Rudra as well. Rudra
had once come to Mymensingh with a tall new storywriter called Mohammed Ali Minar.
Minar, too, became a disciple of Hilu. Such was the charisma of the man. It seems
Hilu had been close to Chhotda and Geeta, and was even Dada�s friend. One day I
went to Akua, not far from Nanibari, to his huge house with a pond, to request him
to teach me to play the guitar. I had heard he never taught anyone, and Geeta even
told me he couldn�t stand the sight of women. When Hilu agreed to teach me, I
wasn�t able to gauge immediately what a privilege this was going to be. The joy of
making the impossible possible was the kind of joy I felt. It was as though I had
been given a jar full of gold coins, and the snake that was normally wrapped
around the neck of the jar appeared to have gone to seek the scent of the Kamini
flower. Hilu came to teach thrice a week in the evenings. Like all other home
tutors, he too was served tea and biscuits. Ma knew Hilu. His elder brother was
Hashem mama�s friend. Ma made payesh, rice pudding for Hilu, with more sugar. Hilu
taught me the chords of the guitar, partook of the tea and payesh made by Ma and
left. One evening, Dada came face to face with Hilu. As soon as he saw him, Dada�s
face turned pale, but he nevertheless fixed a cheerless smile on that pale face
for the rest of the time. As soon as Hilu left, Dada removed the smile from his
pale face, and asked �Why have you asked Hilu to teach you the guitar?�

�So what is wrong in that?�

He did not say what was wrong but made disapproving sounds with his tongue.

When the month was over, I went to give Hilu an envelope with two hundred taka in
it as an honorarium.
He asked, �What is this?�

�Money.�

�Why money?�

There was no reason for Hilu not to understand the reason for the money. With a
crooked smile on his lips, he said, �Are you paying me for teaching you to play
the guitar?�

I kept quiet. Hilu did not take the money. In spite of hundreds of requests, he
didn�t. Hilu was a rich man�s son. I knew he did not need money. But to study for
free made me very uncomfortable. My embarrassment remained, along with great
respect for Hilu who was abandoning his evening programmes and taking time out to
teach me. In the midst of this sense of respect one day came Baba. Seeing Hilu
sitting in the drawing room teaching me to play the guitar shocked him so much, it
was as though he had seen a ghost. On seeing Baba, Hilu stood up and offered his
Salaam. The response he got was eyes spewing hatred. Going into the inner room,
Baba called me in a voice which could have blasted the house down. My trembling
heart and I went and stood before him.

�Why has Hilu come?�

�He teaches me to play the guitar.�

�I�ll take your arse for guitar learning, Haramzadi. Throw the fellow out this
minute. A scoundrel has come to my house. How dare he?�

Hilu must have heard Baba�s words. I could neither breathe in nor out. No, this
could not be happening; Baba was not saying anything; Hilu was not standing
flabbergasted in that room. Nothing but the strains of Raag Malkash were entering
his ears. I tried desperately to convince myself that no untoward incident was
happening in the house, that this was only a nightmare. In a room full of
darkness, I stood rooted to the ground and my head seemed to float away from me
like a gas balloon into the sky, to disappear behind the clouds. My body, I
noticed, became incapable of moving. It was dead like yellow grass buried under
the weight of stones, it felt cold and slimy like the toadstools which grow on
them. Baba insulted Hilu that night and drove him out of the house. After throwing
him out, he moved about violently all over the house.

�Who doesn�t know Hilu? He is a well-known goonda of the town. Aayee Noman,
Noman,� screaming for Dada to come close, he continued panting, �Did you know Hilu
was coming to this house?�

Dada nodded his head, implying both yes and no.

Besides this blazing fire Ma came and stood offering a palmful of water, �Hilu did
not come to this house to do anything like a goonda!�

Baba did not even bother to hear Ma�s opinion. The fire continued to blaze, while
the water from Ma�s palms fell onto the ground wetting it. The whole night, from
my two eyes fixed on the beams supporting the ceiling, spewed hatred and anger
towards Baba. Ma came and sat beside me on the bed sighing deeply.

�Your father has such arrogance! What does he have so much self-conceit about, I
do not fathom! People will curse him. If you treat people unjustly, why will
people not curse you? They definitely will.�
My guitar lessons came to an end for the rest of my life. The instrument lay in
one corner of the room. With the passing of time it gradually became the dwelling
place of dust and cobwebs. Many times I had thought of going to Hilu and begging
forgiveness with folded hands, but I felt hesitant to stand before such a great
person with such a small face.
p

Soon after this incident, Mitu arrived. A wave of beautifying the house began. The
house was decorated from top to bottom. Mitu was the daughter of Dada�s Company�s
top boss. She was to join Mymensingh Medical College, and stay in our house till
hostel arrangements could be made for her. The day Mitu arrived with her parents
in a car, this girl with her acne covered cheeks, pearly laugh, curly hair and
fair-skin made friends with everyone in the house. Even though I was a year senior
to her in college, she unhesitatingly addressed me as �tumi�, and even told Yasmin
not to bother with �apni�, but to call her �tumi�. Pulao and meat was cooked, and
the best room, which was Dada�s, had been arranged for her to stay. Mitu was an
active, bouncy, lively, bright girl, who within an hour had told us a whole load
of stories. Mitu�s mother did the same, as though they had known us for ages. I
was unable to tell stories so neatly as Mitu could. While relating a story I would
get all confused. Surrendering myself to silence, I just watched and listened. I
could not speak English as fluently as Mitu did. I was also unable to learn the
art of making people my very own, so easily. After leaving Mitu with us, her
parents went back to Dhaka. Mitu joined college. Everyone at home seemed to be at
her service twenty four hours of the day. People were ready to serve her with
whatever she wanted at whatever time. If Mitu was to have a bath, someone would
run to see if there was water in the bathroom, if not then two buckets of water
would be filled up and kept ready for her. She was handed the best towel and soap
in the house. If Mitu was to eat, then the best plate was given to her, and the
best pieces of meat and fish were served to her. When Mitu wanted to watch
television, the best place on the sofa was reserved for her. If she had to sleep,
someone ran to dust the bed and arrange the mosquito net. While she was sleeping,
no one was to make any sound in the house. Even Baba was roped into serving Mitu.
He sent unending supplies of fish and meat home, so that they could be cooked for
Mitu. This English speaking, shirt-pant clad girl, who watched only English films
on television every night, read English novels and listened to English songs in
her free time, was like any girl living at home, yet she was also very much an
outsider. However intimate she was with us, there remained a distinct difference
between her and us. I could never make friends with rich girls. I could never
understand what I should say to them. When they talked of fashion, foreign travel
and foreign cultures I sat listening like a complete ignorant blockhead. Even at
school, I could never become friendly with the bespectacled rich girl, Asma Ahmed,
who talked and walked in a superior fashion. Yet, I had been to her house, and she
had very often taken my poetry copy to read, and had even praised my poetry as
being �very good.� When Munni used to come once in a while to visit us with her
mother, Ma would sit down happily to talk to her mother. Since Munni was my
classmate, I should have gone and talked with her, but I could never make out what
I should say to her. After saying, �How are you?� I could find no other words to
say to her. After passing her SSC in the third division, Munni was married to a
lotus on a dunghill. The flower was some illiterate, impoverished village farmer�s
engineer son. Munni came to visit even with her husband. After barely peeping into
the drawing room I had pushed Yasmin and Ma forward to meet them. Yasmin and Ma
were not very good at routine conversations, but could manage somehow with great
difficulty. I was the one who just couldn�t. Yet, this was the Munni with whom I
had gone to school, a stone�s throw away from home, daily in a rickshaw. I had
just been promoted from the fourth standard to the fifth, and my excitement at
going to a new class had yet not left me. Baba had bought the new books for me. I
had covered the books with coloured paper. I had already finished reading both the
Bangla prose and poetry texts. The double-lined Bangla copy, the four-lined
English, and blank paged Maths copy had already been arranged by me on my desk.
Before 9.30 am, I was ready in my school uniform, having eaten boiled rice with
ghee, clarified butter and sugar, and having packed a small black suitcase with my
books and copies. One could actually walk to school. Just after the Saraswati
Temple at the corner, if one walked down Sher Pukur Par, in front of Manoranjan
Dhar�s house was the main road across the red boundary wall of the Vidyamoyee
School. However, I did not get permission to walk to school from home. Everyone
was very sure that if I walked I would break my limbs under some cars or cows.
Every morning, Baba handed out four annas with which I left Aubokash or went three
houses away and stood on the verandah of MA Kahhar�s house. On seeing me in the
room inside, Munni the fat, fair, rich man�s daughter, who got zero in studies,
would wear a stiffly-ironed uniform and a pair of expensive shoes. Munni�s mother
wore a pleated sari, and had a bunch of keys suspended at the end of her aanchal.
When she walked, the keys knocked against each other making ting-ting sounds. On
seeing me, Munni�s mother smiling with betel-juice stained teeth, would say �So,
girl, how is your mother?� I would nod and say she was well. My mother was well,
sitting in the kitchen verandah, trying to light the earthen stove by stuffing
dried coconut leaves, puffing and blowing into it. Covered in smoke was Ma and
smoke covered was her soiled, dirty sari. Ma�s aanchal had no bunch of keys
suspended from it. The bunch of keys was with Baba. If any door or cupboard had to
be locked in the house, Baba did so. Once in a while he locked up the store as
well and the key remained in his pocket. No one in Aubokash had the courage to
touch that pocket. There was a vast difference between Ma and Munni�s mother.
Munni�s mother�s body was covered with gold ornaments, her hair was tied up in a
bun and she wore slippers with coloured straps. Ma�s feet were muddy and bare, her
hair hung loose, her face was smoky, her lips dry. There was a vast difference
between Munni and me as well. Munni looked like a doll, all shining. I was
certainly not like her, yet we sat together in the same rickshaw and went to
school. I paid the rickshaw fare to school, Munni paid the return fare. Every day,
Munni�s mother opened the cupboard in her bedroom with the big key tied to her
aanchal. With another key, she opened the drawer in the cupboard, from which
drawer she took out a golden coloured box. Inside this box, was another one, from
which she would take out four annas and give to Munni. On the way to school Munni
talked non-stop. I only listened to her. Almost every evening, when she came with
her younger brother Paplu to play in the courtyard of our house, her hair tied in
two plaits with red ribbons, even then she was the only one who talked, I just
listened.

That same Munni�s beaming mother�s toes one day began to grow red. The redness
increased and began to spread upwards from the tips of her toes. When Baba was
unable to treat the redness with any kind of medicine, he one day actually
amputated the big toe. Munni�s toeless mother gradually recovered her health, and
again began to visit her neighbours and friends to gossip in the evenings. After a
few months, the tips of her toes again began to grow red. The redness again
spread. It spread right up her legs. Baba said she had skin cancer, and only if
her legs were wholly amputated could the cancer be checked. No one in her house
agreed to this. Baba went routinely to see Munni�s mother. Ma too went to see her.
She personally heated up water, and soaking Munni�s mother�s feet in the water,
would sigh deeply and sit and show her dreams of getting well again. Towards the
end, Munni�s Ma�s body began to give off a horrible smell, and she was made to lie
under a mosquito net. Bottles of attar were poured, but were unable to remove the
stench. Her own family members did not want to enter her room. Yet Ma, an
outsider, went inside the stinking room, stroked her body, and wiping her tears
with her sari aanchal said, �Allah will make you well, keep your faith in Allah.�
Ma felt sympathy for everyone. Just as Ma could go to the slums, and stroke the
bodies of the dirty slum women, she could also go to rich men houses and soothe
the bodies of their wives. Ma had requested me many times, �Let�s go and see
Munni�s mother, poor woman is suffering so much.� I would refuse. Ma would go
alone. Ma could do so, I couldn�t. Diffidence, fear and shame would just accost me
and penetrate my very bones. Ma had stopped worrying about what people would think
of her soiled clothes, soiled body or soiled life itself. After visiting Munni�s
mother, Ma said, �What if she�s a rich man�s wife, she is sick, and because her
body is stinking, no one goes close to her. They have kept servants, only they go
near.� Ma was of the view that there was no limit to the woes of women, whether
they were poor or rich men�s wives. Ma was considered a rich man�s wife by those
slum dwellers who came begging. Ma would correct them. �Being a rich man�s wife
and being a rich man are two very different things. My husband may be a rich man,
but I am a poor woman. I have no money of my own.� Ma sometimes said, �If I worked
in someone�s house and even earned five taka, that at least would be my earnings.
Does anyone even give me five taka? The maids in the house have a better fate then
mine.� Whatever Ma might have gained by becoming a rich man�s wife, she had lost a
great deal more. She had been deprived of many opportunities. She had looked
around for sewing jobs, but never got any. Since she was not educated, no one gave
Ma any big jobs. And she was not given any small jobs because she was a �rich
man�s wife�. Ma never got any work to do except her household tasks. Yasmin was
about to take her SSC exams. Ma caught Yasmin as well. �Will you arrange for me to
take my SSC exams privately? If you just teach me a little bit of Maths, I will
definitely pass.� Ma examined Yasmin�s books. Very carefully she turned the pages,
some of them she was even able to read without stumbling. She said, �This is not
so very difficult!� Hearing Ma�s desire to take the SSC exams, evoked not just
suppressed laughter amongst all at home, everyone actually laughed out aloud,
including even Amena.

Meanwhile Jhunu khala had married her man from Barisal and brought him to
Mymensingh. Before she brought him, she had come alone and explained how exactly
the house was to be arranged from top to bottom. She had also instructed everyone
about what dress each one was to wear, how each one had to behave, what they had
to say when asked certain questions, even what items were to be cooked and
explained every other detail to each one before she left. She had come to our
house and spoken about inviting the eldest bride. When we went to Nanibari to meet
Jhunu khala and her husband from Barisal, we found everyone speaking in low tones.
Nani had cooked a variety of dishes. Jhunu khala was flitting from one room to
another. Her husband sat on the new sheet on the bed, wearing a new starched lungi
and white addi silk Panjabi, his face gloomy. Only on the day the man from Barisal
came to Aubokash did the gloom leave his face. He took a great liking to Baba even
though his shoes squeaked when he walked. Jhunu khala�s sister�s husband was a
doctor, that too a professor of medicine at the medical college. The man from
Barisal looked unblinkingly at Baba saying, �You all are, after all, our only
relatives.� After Jhunu khala left, Ma said, �Why does Jhunu humour her husband so
much? She herself is an MA. She will now get a very good job. She doesn�t need to
kowtow to her husband at all!�

Ma was unable to study because she never got the opportunity to do so. At times I
thought, there were others, who given the opportunity, still wasted their chances.
Rudra�s name was on the rolls of the University, but that was all. Neither did he
attend classes, nor did he take the exams. I told him to at least pass his Masters
degree. I told him for his own sake. He clearly told me that he was not made out
for these things. He hardly cared for academic qualifications. He was going to
write poetry all his life. Poetry was his passion, occupation everything. Rudra
spent five hours coming to Mymensingh from Dhaka by train; it took the same time
by bus. Once, while hanging from a crowded train he met Nirmalendu Goon, and since
then he clung to him. Goon�s house became a new place for us to meet. But how long
could you sit in someone else�s house! They too had their quarrels, shouts and
screams! Hence, better to roam about in a rickshaw! So that no one would spot us
in the town, we took separate rickshaws while within its perimeter. Only far away
from town, we left one rickshaw and sat side by side on the other. Rudra�s touch
aroused great rapture in my mind! The only place we could go out of town was to
Muktagachha. The village roads were deserted over which the rickshaw trundled
along, under the big trees tied up with saris to make them stand straight, over
small bridges built to cross tiny rivers. My eyes were attracted by the green
mustard fields, the naked children splashing in the marshy land, the nonchalant
crossing of roads by emaciated cows, and my mind and heart remained with Rudra.
Shyly thwarting Rudra�s endless attempts to kiss me, we reached Muktagachha. We
roamed about the courtyard of a Zamindar�s house which was covered with weeds, and
cobwebs. Even if we walked side by side on the roads, there was no fear; in this
town there was no one we knew who could spread any scandalous rumours.

When Rudra returned to Dhaka that time, within a few days, seven to be exact, I
was about to enter class, when a senior girl came and told me that Neera Lahiri
had sent a message, that I should go to her house immediately.

Abandoning my class I ran to Goon�s house.

I found Rudra sitting in Goon�s drawing room. There were two wooden chairs in the
room, and a bedstead. He was on the bedstead. My heart danced with joy at seeing
him. Whenever I saw Rudra that is what happened to me, my heart danced with joy.

�What happened suddenly?�

�Yes, rather sudden. I didn�t have time to write and tell you.�

�I see.�

Then there was silence while we sat facing each other. The blues of silence were
filled with the smoke of Rudra�s Star cigarette.

Rudra took out a paper from his black shoulder bag and said, �You have to sign on
this paper.�

�What paper is this?�

�I�ll tell you later. First sign.�

�Why?�

�Don�t talk so much.�

�What is the paper for?�

I asked, but was very sure that Rudra needed my signature on some memorandum, or
was creating a poetry society, and wanted me to sign as a member. My eyes filled
with conviction, glowed with the gentle light of dawn. My unwavering lips flew
about like a flock of birds.

When I extended my hands to take the paper, Rudra moved it away. I was faced with
a dilemma, a suspicion.

�What paper is this? I am not going to sign it without reading!�

Rudra�s moss covered eyes remained fixed on mine.

�It is a marriage document.� Rudra�s voice was heavy and broken.

My ears began to burn. Shaking off the burning sensation I forced myself to
respond.

�Marriage documents.�

�Yes, marriage papers.�

�Why?�

�What do you mean, why?�

�Marriage papers for what?�

�Don�t you know for what?�

�No.�

�Are you going to sign or not?�

�Amazing! Why should I marry in this way?�

�That means you will not sign?�

�Let�s see what is written!�

As soon as I took the paper from Rudra, he roared, �Boudi is coming, hide it.�

�Why should I hide it?�

�She will understand what it is.�

�What will she understand?�

�She will know it is a marriage document.�

�How?�

�I�m telling you she will!�

�What�s the harm in her knowing?�

�There is harm.�

�What harm, let�s hear!�

Rudra snatched the paper from me. In a stony voice he said, �Are you going to sign
or not, either say yes or no.�

�This is astounding! Why is there this talk of marriage suddenly?�

�There just is.�

�Who�s brought it up?�

�I have.�

�I never said I would marry!�

�I am saying so.�
�Can you clap with one hand?�

�Will you sign?�

�No.�

Putting the paper back into his bag, Rudra stood up, saying, �Fine, I�m going.�

Astonishment was clouding my world. �Where to?�

�Dhaka.�

�Right now?�

�Yes.�

�Why, what�s happened?�

�There is no need for me to stay any longer.�

�No need?�

Rudra�s tone had no regret. �No.�

�Just because I have not signed on the paper, are all requirements over?�

Without giving an answer, Rudra opened the doors wide and went out. He was
leaving. Leaving. He was walking right over my heart which was brimming with love
for him. He was really and truly going away. Going away. I was left behind alone.
Rudra did not glance back. I was nothing to him now. He was not returning ever.

A sharp agony lifted me and took me to the verandah, took me towards his
departure, and with two hands stopped him from leaving.

�Let�s see, let me see the paper!�

�Why?�

�Why else, to sign it!�

Rudra took out the paper.

Standing in the verandah, I scratched out a signature without looking at it or

reading anything. Handing the paper to Rudra, I glanced sorrowfully at his
instantly shining eyes and said, �That this signature had so much value I never
realized before. I have signed. Are you happy now! I�ll take your leave.�

I crossed the courtyard of Goon�s house and came on to the road, as fast as I
could.

From behind Rudra was calling, �Listen, wait.�

I did not turn back.

I took a rickshaw straight to college. I paid a lot of attention in the next

classes.
Even then it had not sunk into me that what I had signed out of self-pride had
wrought my marriage. I still did not call Rudra by his name, or address him as
�tumi�, we had still not kissed; our only physical contact was through the fingers
of our hands. I was then barely nineteen years old.

Chapter Twelve
The Oscillating Heart

Two months after Rudra took my signature on the marriage document, he wrote a
letter addressing me as �wife�. Reading the address I broke out in goose bumps.
How strange and wonderful was this address! Was I then someone�s wife? Had that
signature really and truly brought about a marriage! It was an unbelievable event.
My own wedding, I had never imagined it would take place in this way. In fact that
it would take place at all was something I had never had any belief in. I had
signed the paper on the 26th of January, and after being submitted to the lawyer,
it had been signed and sealed by him on the 29th. In an ordinary letter Rudra had
informed me that our wedding day was the 29th. I tried to think of what I was
doing on the 29th . Had I thought of Rudra even once that day? No, I hadn�t. I
didn�t have the time. I was dissecting dead bodies. There had been a minor exam
for which I had to study a lot. After the exam, I had come home and as usual,
watched television and indulged in bickering with my brothers and sisters. Like
every other day, I had read poetry, heard songs, and after dinner, had gone to
sleep. After receiving Rudra�s letter, I told myself again and again, �Look, you
are not unmarried anymore. You are now actually someone�s wife. When you marry
you have to become a wife. That�s the system. Whether you like it or not, your
signature on that paper brought about your marriage.� It had no effect. I was
unable to absorb the matter either in my understanding or beliefs. I just could
not experience the feeling that I was not the same as before. That I was now
married like Nani, Ma, Fajli khala and Jhunu khala. Even Chandana was married.
After her marriage, Chandana had written, �I am now a fearless person. Putting my
life at stake, I have touched my dreams with my hands. I know now how to seriously
dream. I have only one life after all. I have not made a mistake. I can now
touch a blood-red rose by merely extending my hand.� Even if I had wished for the
married Chandana�s passion, it was not aroused in me. It was beyond the limits of
my understanding as to what kind of tremors could be felt by a woman when touched
physically by a man, and what desires were aroused by those tremors thereafter.
The men friends I had in college were only friends. Like Chandana. I hadn�t yet
ever kissed a man. I had not felt any physical desire for anyone as yet. The only
desires I was aware of, were those for water, tea or when it was very warm, for
lemon sherbet.

The second letter written by Rudra addressing me as �wife� fell into Baba�s hands.
The postman had delivered the letter at home, and as luck would have it straight
into Baba�s hands. Since Baba was very fond of opening and reading others�
letters, he read mine. Someone was addressing his daughter as his wife was
something he read with bare eyes, then with his spectacles on, and in every other
way possible. Baba began pacing up and down throughout the room. He ransacked my
study table in search of more evidence. He took off his glasses, sat down, got
up, all in rapid succession and finally left the house. But he could not
concentrate on his patients, and returned home. This time he called Ma. Whenever
there was some anxiety about the children, then Baba looked for Ma. Or when
guests were expected at home, he would look for Ma. �Where have you gone Idun?
Come here, will you!� Baba would then give an estimate of the number of people
expected, how many people would have to be catered for, in fact even what items
were to be prepared. Ma would listen very attentively to everything. She listened
because at such times at least Ma felt herself to be someone of invaluable worth.
That she was needed in this household, was the feeling Ma gained on such occasions
and a strange joy seemed to cling to Ma just as did her sweat. On being called
this time, when Ma came rushing to stand before him, Baba said, �Do you know who
calls Nasreen his wife? Who has the courage to call her his wife?�

�I don�t know. I have no idea about all this.�

�Has she got involved with some boy?�

�I haven�t seen anything like that. She in fact chased Habibullah away from the
house. No such boy has even come to the house. I don�t think she has got involved
with anyone.�

�If she isn�t involved, then how can any boy address her as his wife in his
letters?�

�I really don�t know.�

�You don�t know anything. What do you do the whole day at home? If you can�t even
keep track of what your daughter is upto, then what is the use? I raised the
height of the boundary wall. I made sure that no boys could see the girls. Now how
come this boy is calling her his wife?�

�I know she writes letters. She prints a magazine. She has to write letters here
and there, she says.�

�This letter is not for any journal. This is a different type of letter.�

I returned home from college. On other days Ma ran to the kitchen to bring food
for me. That day she didn�t move at all.

�Ki, where�s my food?�

�The rice is in the vessel,� said Ma.

Amena too hardly seemed to be moving or stirring at all. At an impossibly snail�s

pace, she brought and served me the rice, and with it some daal.

�Ki! What do you mean by giving me only daal with rice! Isn�t there any meat or
fish?�

�You don�t need fish and meat everyday.� Ma�s tone was rough.

�Can one eat rice without fish or meat?� I ate two mouthfuls, and pushed the plate
away, screaming, �Where�s the water?�

Ma said, �Water is in the tap.�

�Even I know water is in the tap, but someone has to bring it.�

Who was going to give me water! When I started grumbling, only then Amena moved
majestically like an elephant, filled a glass from the tap and brought it for me.
The house was seething with suspense. I gauged that something had happened. Ma did
not wait too long in order to let me know what had happened. When I had stretched
out on the bed with a book in my hand, she came with a grave face to my side and
asked equally gravely, �Who is Rudra?�
�Rudra?�

�Yes, Rudra.�

�Why?�

�Why does he call you his wife?�

A glass of cold water upturned on my chest. I began to sweat under the whirring
blades of the fan. The bright lights of the day turned into a moonless amavasya
night in front of my eyes.

�Why aren�t you saying anything? Who is Rudra?�

I did not need to tell anyone who Rudra was! I only needed to know whether my
letter had fallen into Ma�s hands alone or anyone else�s. If it had fallen into
Baba�s hands, then my life was over that very instant. Today I had at least got
some daal and rice, tomorrow I might not get even that. Softening a little, Ma
herself said that the letter had fallen into Baba�s hands. After learning this, I
went about hiding my lifeless body in isolated places. When everyone was asleep I
got up like one deranged, and wrote a letter to Rudra asking him never to address
me as his wife ever again in his letters. I had to always write to Rudra in this
way, when no one was at home, or when everyone was asleep. Otherwise anyone could
lean over to read what I was writing; anyone at all in this house had the right to
read what I was writing. If I tried to hide, the eagerness to read became almost
irresistible.

Everyday before Baba left, Yasmin and I had to ask for our rickshaw fare to school
and college. Baba counted out the money and gave it to us. The next morning came.
I could clearly hear Baba having his bath, the squeaking of his shoes, him eating
his breakfast, in fact even the sound of him swallowing water. But like everyday I
did not have the strength to hold on to my quaking heart and stand before him with
my head bent to ask for the rickshaw fare. My very existence had become one big
burden for me. I wished I could disappear into thin air at the snap of my fingers.
I wished I was invisible! Watching the serial �Invisible Man� on television, I had
very often deeply experienced the need to disappear once in a while. Yasmin had
asked for her fare from Baba without any anxiety. Inactive, I remained confined to
my room, breathless, dumb, suppressing the pressures of my stomach and lower
abdomen, hoping I would not have to face Baba. Before leaving, he stood in the
inner verandah and shouted so that everyone could hear him telling Ma �Her studies
are over. She does not have to go to college anymore. Everything is stopped. Stop
giving her food. No rice is to be given to her!�

Baba left. I waited till ten o�clock for the postman and made sure that there was
no letter from Rudra. Then, taking money from under Ma�s mattress, I went to
college. Classes started in college from 8 am. If I bunked classes like this, my
future was not just bleak, it was doomed, I gauged. The next day was the same. I
had thought Baba would soften with the passage of time! There were no signs of his
melting. I had to beg Dada for rickshaw fare to go to college the next day. Baba
was not bothered. He had forgotten completely that I, too, existed in this house.
Ma scolded me at the drop of a hat. She understood whatever Baba made her
understand. Ma was like that. Whatever any body explained, she accepted. She
unconditionally accepted any person�s argument, whatever it may be. If someone
came and said, �Do you know someone fell from the arum tree and died,� Ma would
say, �Ah, died!� and would tell everyone, �Do you know, someone in the
neighbourhood fell off an arum tree and died!� Ma would never think that no one
could possibly fall and die from an arum tree, and that no one could possibly even
climb one. Ma believed every person in the world, and everything anyone could
possibly say.
p

Rudra had stopped addressing me as his wife. But I could make out my letters were
being hijacked. The letters were being removed not only by Baba, but by Dada as
well. Even by Ma. Finally, I had to seek Dalia�s help. Dalia belonged to Khulna.
She was a girl who was normally buried in thick volumes the whole day. �Can my
letters please come to your hostel address, Dalia?� Hearing my plaintive cry she
said, �Of course.� She too was in the habit of writing poetry. She had even pushed
herself into becoming a member of Shatabdi Chakra. Otherwise who knows whether she
would have agreed at once to offer this service? She might have asked all kinds of
questions. After about four months, Rudra again came to Mymensingh. I went to meet
Rudra, waiting in the college canteen with Dalia. Actually, whenever I went, I
usually took someone or the other with me, either Halida, or Madira, or Dalia.
Whenever I sat alone before Rudra, I could say nothing. All we did was to sit
facing each other. Very often he had said, can�t you come alone? That I couldn�t
was also something I had never told him. If someone was there, by speaking
nineteen to the dozen with that someone, I was at least able to convey that it
wasn�t as though I could not speak. I could. In fact my command over the wealth of
words was not bad at all. Of course most of the words used were largely connected
to medical knowledge. Rudra had to be a silent listener then. Finding a chance,
Rudra told me that now I better tell my father about it. I laughed out loud. This
was really a crazy proposal from him. There was no way out but to wait for five
years. After becoming a doctor, if it was possible to tell Baba something, I
would, before that the question did not arise. Rudra sat, most unhappy. He tried
to persuade me that initially all parents showed a little anger, but later
everything became okay. That there was no way anything would become right later,
was something I tried to convince Rudra about. In the bargain, I told him, my
medical studies would come to an end. After Rudra left with a disappointed face, I
wrote to him telling him that five years would pass by before we knew it, and not
to worry at all. Rudra wrote, �Five years is not really a very long period. It
will pass soon enough. But for me five years are just too many days, too many
years. I will not really be able to make you understand. I understand everything
about you, and yet I have to tell you. In spite of understanding everything
clearly, I am still telling you. Try to understand a little. Why am I mentally
tormented? If you look at my black past you will understand. You will then realise
why I feel this torment. I am unable to make you understand. You don�t know that I
have no friends. I know many well-wishing, devoted people, but none of them
understands me. I now need you, only you. I will be unable to keep this
uncontrolled ,unsupported heart well for too long.� I knew of no black past in
Rudra�s life. What he actually wanted to explain by this black past, was something
I never got round to learning. I thought he meant his aimless roaming around, his
not studying, not taking his exams. I would tell Rudra about my daily life and all
about my dreams. Rudra wrote, �My dreams don�t match yours at all. While your
dreams are very beautiful, like desirable flowers, mine are entirely made up of
bricks and stones. I see life with absolutely merciless eyes. May be such
ruthlessness is not good, but somehow that is how I feel. Let�s do one thing, like
spreading memories, you can continue to have the unblemished and verdant green
dreams and I will have the disgraceful and cruel ones. After all life is a mixture
of the good and bad. Let�s divide our lives in this way, okay!� I couldn�t
understand how people could see ugly dreams. I lived daily amidst ugliness, hence
I dreamt of the beautiful. I told Rudra to somehow just take the exams, may be if
he was an MA, someday I would be able to bring up his name in my house. But Rudra
said, �I think somewhere a mistake persists. A gap, whose fissure is extremely
fine, a very small but sharp gap of misunderstanding remains. I can make this out
quite clearly. Through this fine gap one day, like Kalnagini entered the bridal
chamber of Lakhinder, in the same way, the snake of distrust will enter. Not the
regret at receiving and the weariness of vain desires. We should be alert, much
more alert. As soon as my youth was over, I slowly began to live my life, and
change my belief for a particular purpose. Whatever is understood by an academic
career, I have almost completely destroyed. Yes, mostly on purpose. I have seen a
lot of our society, many of life�s dark spots, bright spots, a lot of hatred,
distrust, deception, and a lot of trust and love as well. Maybe I will spend my
whole life watching and burning. I will see how much suffering the germ of an
incurable disease can give to my body. Maybe a rose will never bloom in the
courtyard of my house. Maybe instead of a flower-vase, on my table, there will be
a huge earthen ashtray. Maybe my most cherished treasure will be the helmet of a
dead Muktijodhha. Or the skull of a human being. Somewhere a mistake is being
made. I don�t see so many flowers, birds and dreams of happiness. Why do you? I
see the dreams of two hardworking and busy people. Those who have very little
spare time by day or night.�

When no more letters from Rudra came home, the incident was buried under the
assumption that some mad poet under some misplaced passion had one day addressed
me as his wife. Thinking the fellow�s courage had now obviously failed, everyone
calmed down. The other reason the incident got buried was because no one at home
could ever imagine that some one could honestly call me his wife, or that I could
truly have become someone�s wife. Moreover, I was coming home in time from
college. There were no suspicious delays anywhere. Most of the time, my face was
buried in Anatomy and Physiology books. Seeing this, the three pairs of Baba, Ma
and Dada�s frowns had finally gone. Baba diluted his anger in the tap water,
because my exams were approaching. The exam was called First Professional, in
short First Proff. There were three exams to be taken by a medical student. The
promotional exam from 2nd year to the 3rd was known as First Proff., the one from
3rd year to 4th was called Second Proff., and from 4th to 5th year, was called
Third Proff. The 5th year exam was the Finals. After the Finals, one became a
Doctor. There was a one-year training period. Then work. During the training
period a stipend was given, not a bad amount. If one worked, the pay too was not
bad, but it was a transferable job, you were transferred according to the whims of
the Government; here there was no question of individual choice. Of course, if you
had connections you could have your say. Connections, meaning people, a relative
in the Ministry, or some one important in the B.M.A. I was not confident of
passing my First Proff. All these years the home tutors had spoon-fed me. In the
medical college there were no home tutors, there was no such system. There was no
one to spoon-feed me. I had to feed myself everything required. I was not very
used to swallowing voluntarily. So anxiety bit at me like lice in the head. To top
everything the language of the texts was English. There was no Debnath Pandit to
say, �Put her in the Bangla medium, instead of in the English medium, she cannot
cope with the English.� There were no medical texts in Bangla. There was no way to
study except in English. The only saving grace was that this was not English
literature. There was no harm in case you used wrong grammar or spelling while
speaking or writing. But, I had to know everything from the head to toe of the
body, where what was and what their functions were. In this, there was no
forgiveness. While describing all this in written English or in the spoken words,
no one bothered about the grammar. A thought came to my mind � in France, Germany,
Spain, Italy or Russia, countries where English was not the language, their
students were studying in their own languages, so why were there no texts in
Bangla in our country? I was of the opinion that when trying to gain knowledge in
one�s mother tongue one learnt much better than when studying in a foreign
language. But no one gave any importance to my belief. Everyone depended on a
foreign language to gain this specialized knowledge. Under the pressure of
studies, where all my �outbooks�, Shenjuti�s new manuscripts or even my weekly
unread Sunday Sandhani�s and Bichitras got buried, I did not even have the time to
find out. When after studying all the big books, Baba saw me writing long answers
to all the questions in my notebook, he said, �No one fails in the written exam;
they do in the Viva. There will be an external examiner from outside, if you fail
to answer just one question, you will fail� I was very sure, I would not pass my
exams. If I was asked to write, with great difficulty I might be able to put
together something. Of course here there was no question of making up facts. If
the question asked was, �What is the position of the pancreas?� it was not
possible to write �From the autumnal skies if one were to take a piece of the
woolly clouds and look at it while holding it between one�s two hands, it would
look very similar to the pancreas. It was amazing. How it was able to hide itself
somewhere within the body! One could neither find it, nor could one forget it. The
pancreas lies alone by the side of the small intestine, under the spleen, not very
far from the heart. The sound of the heartbeat must cause it to stir as well. From
two compartments in its body, like a waterfall, two kinds of substances cascade,
and so on�� No, that wouldn�t do. If I wrote this way I would get a zero. I had to
write, �The pancreas is an elongated organ, located across the back of the
abdomen, behind the stomach. The right side of the organ lies in the curve of the
duodenum. The left side extends slightly upwards behind the spleen. It is made up
of two types of tissues, exocrine and endocrine.� There could not be anything
sentimental in this, the more logical, the more to the point, the more scoring. If
one didn�t bother about marks, one could become, may be a good butcher, but not a
good doctor. If one bullied or abused the Professors one would never pass.
Wherever one met them, whether in class, corridor, street, market or any where
else, one had to greet them with �Salaam Aleikum.� This �Salaam Aleikum� was
something that just didn�t come naturally to me, just as I could not do Kadambusi,
and touch anyone�s feet. Was there no other way out but to wish others well in the
Arabic language! It was possible in Bangla, �Ki kemon acchen, bhalo tow!� or
�Namaskar�. The word �Namaskar� had become a personal possession of the Bengali
Hindus. Was there no word which was without religion? Nah, there wasn�t. Whoever I
asked, said, no there was no other way. I remained helpless. I could just about
manage a small smile, which was both a greeting and best wishes. It seems one
could pass one�s exams this way. I found another way out. If a Professor was
walking in the corridor, I would walk past in such a way as though I was looking
outside, or at the ground, or was distracted, or was looking at the book in my
hand, and hence obviously did not see this big person called Professor at all. If
I had I would surely have touched my forehead with my hand and said, �Salaam
Aleikum�. At home I asked Yasmin, don�t you feel uncomfortable saying, �Salaam
Aleikum�? Yasmin unhesitatingly said no, she didn�t. Why did I feel so! I asked
Ma, what this Salaam Aleikum meant? Ma said, �May peace be showered on you.� From
where was it to be showered? From the sky? Ma thought for a while and said Allah
would shower it. Then it would be from the sky, since Allah did live in the sky.
Ma could not object to my idea about the sky. After sometime, Ma thinking of the
sky, finally came to remember the real answer, and said, �Does Allah only stay in
the sky! Allah�s gracious presence is everywhere.� Normally, when talking of
Allah, Ma used the language of books. Difficult words. If Allah hadn�t been
involved she would never have used words like �gracious presence� etc. For Ma too
Allah was a difficult concept. From the sky I had not seen anything like happiness
or peace raining down, only water. Therefore, I couldn�t really translate the
Arabic into Bangla and make do for my purposes! Meanwhile, because I did not greet
people with a Salaam, I had already been labelled as rude, discourteous,
melancholic etc.

I had to stay awake nights and study, said Baba, as �the exams were at the tip of
my nose.� The tip of my nose which, even if I stood under the blazing sun, never
collected a drop of sweat, my no nonsense, non-problematic nose, was almost
getting flattened with the burden of the exams. When the exams approached closer,
Baba assumed his former image. A storm of advice was let loose, as he kept saying,
�One cannot cope with medical studies unless one works day and night, all twenty-
four hours. Stay up nights and study; if you feel sleepy, pour mustard oil in your
eyes.� The closer the exams drew, the sleepier I became. Along with my fears my
sleep too increased. Baba would get up very early in the morning, switch off the
fan in the room, and switch on the lights. The heat and the light woke me up. I
would have to leave my bed in an irritable mood. To pour into my eyes at night,
Baba bought a bottle of mustard oil and left it on my table. �What have I to do
with this oil?�

�Whenever you feel sleepy, pour it into your eyes, sleep will flee in terror!�

Hidden from Baba, I merrily mixed the mustard oil with �muri�, puffed rice and ate
it. By ten I was in the land of dreams, and chatting merrily with the sleep
fairies. Once Baba came in and woke up the entire house with his screams, �Arrey,
there are hardly three days left for her exams, and look at her, she has poured
oil contentedly in her nose and gone to sleep!� Baba possibly thought that instead
of pouring the oil in my eyes, I had by mistake poured it into my nose. Anyway, I
did have to pour mustard oil in my eyes and stay up nights. I had to study Anatomy
and Physiology from the beginning to the end. If I stayed up nights, Baba came and
sat beside me. He kept me company, just in case, fearing ghosts, thieves, and
solitude, I went back under the mosquito net. Ma filled a flask with tea and kept
it on my table. At that time in front of my flattened nose I saw nothing, except
the red eyes of my Professors.

The written exam was over, now for the Viva. Baba said �We must invite your Haroon
Sir once to our house.� Baba�s intentions were clear � favour. Maybe I would pass
my Viva with some influence. Haroon Ahmed came home with his whole family. Ma
cooked the whole day. When educated people came home, it was not the custom for Ma
to come before them. In the kitchen itself she arranged the food on dishes, and
Dada, Yasmin and I carried them into the drawing room, and placed them on the
dining table. Haroon Ahmed ate and talked, the entire discussion was about poetry.
He wrote poetry, and would be happy if I was able to get his poetry printed. He
had in fact brought piles of poems with him. One glance at them made me gauge that
they were after �You came into my life� ending with �will lead to some place.�
Haroon Ahmed was a student of Baba�s. Many of his students had become Professors.
Baba was yet to become a full-Professor, he was still an Associate.

�How do I become one? Busy earning money for you all, I was never able to take any
major exams, after all it wasn�t as if I was a bad student.� That was true, Baba
was a good student. When he started studying medicine, it had even happened that
he did not have the money to buy his books. Baba then came to an agreement with
another student. After ten o�clock, when he went to sleep, Baba would loan the
books from him. He studied the books all night, and returned them to the boy in
the morning. After staying awake the whole night, he would then attend classes in
the morning. Studying in this fashion, all night through, with books on loan, Baba
scored the highest marks in the medical exams, just as he had done in Chandipasha
High School.

I did not have Baba�s intelligence. In the Viva, Haroon Ahmed could have asked me
difficult questions, but he didn�t because of our cordial relations. When
examiners from other colleges tried to veer towards difficult questions, Haroon
Ahmed would adroitly hint at the direction in which the correct answer would be or
could be expected. Before the other examiners could touch the bones kept on the
table, Haroon Ahmed had already pushed the femur bone towards me which was an easy
one. One had to take the bone in one�s hand, and name the parts. One had to
indicate which muscle had joined where, which artery was supplying blood to which
muscle, from where were the nerves were coming and how and where were they going,
all these kind of questions had to be answered. I was favoured in my Physiology
exam as well. Not being harassed with answering complicated questions was the way
the daughter of an Associate Professor of this college was favoured. Almost
everyone knew how to answer the questions. Here luck played a big role. Some were
fated to answer complicated questions. Others were lucky to get simple ones.
Difficult or easy questions
examiners. When after lunch
questions over cups of tea,
because of my own knowledge
First Proff..
depended largely on the mindset and moods of the
the examiners, leaning on their chairs, asked
the questions were easy. Anyhow, whether partly
or partly through influence, I at least passed my

Chhotda came to Mymensingh with his wife for holidays. He mostly came on the Id
and Puja vacations. There were Pujas all the year round. Even if he didn�t get
leave on every Puja, he would take leave and come. Geeta came for Id and also for
the Puja festivals. In this house the celebrations were more for the arrival of
Chhotda at Aubokash than Id and Puja. Real festivities started at home when
Chhotda arrived. Ma would run to the kitchen, and cook pulao and korma for her
son. She would cook and serve her son and his wife personally, making them sit
before her. Ma would keep a sharp look out on whether they were eating their fill
or not. She would fill Chhotda�s plate with big pieces of meat, so too Geeta�s.
Caressing Chhotda�s head she would say, �I hope you eat properly, son! You must be
working so hard!�

�Oh, no! Ma, what are you saying! I have a very comfortable job. Very good pay.
I�ve just finished my domestic flights, now I�ll start on my international ones.�

Ma did not understand the difference between domestic and international. So far up
in the sky away from mother earth, how could life not be tough? If you wanted to
eat a particular variety of rice like birui you wouldn�t get it. Not even any
fresh greens or vegetables. Neither could you sleep well, nor walk. If there was
no ground under your feet at all, what kind of a walk would that be?�

�I went to the Arab countries, Ma. I saw the Kabah Sharif at Mecca.�

That one could go to the Arab countries so easily was beyond Ma�s comprehension.

�Oof, it was very hot. Of course, if you had an AC car there would be no problem,�
Chhotda said.

Ma sat and listened to whatever he said about the Arab countries, completely
stunned. That Ma�s ideas about the Middle East did not at all match with Chhotda�s
descriptions of the country was very clear from the deeply distressed look on her
face. After meeting Baba at Arogya Bitaan, Chhotda went around the town. He looked
for the one or two old friends of his who remained. In the evening he went out
with Geeta. I guessed that they must be visiting Geeta�s parents� home in
Peonpara. Now, everyone at home knew that during the Pujas Geeta went home to her
parents. No one objected. However, even though nobody did, she never openly
declared that she was going to her parents� home.

Chhotda continued to go around the world, and sitting around him we, too, got to
hear all the stories of his travels.

�The sea is much higher than the city of Amsterdam.�

�What are you saying? Really? How come the city doesn�t sink under the water then?
�

�Dams have been built. So it doesn�t sink.�

�And London?�

�London is very big.�

�Have you seen the British Museum?�

�Yes, I have.�

�Did you go to the Piccadilly Circus?�

�Yes.�

�Have you been to Paris?�

�Yes.�

�Have you seen the Eiffel Tower?�

�Yes, I have.�

Chhotda appeared to us as tall as the Eiffel Tower. I was sitting so close to him
yet, Chhotda seemed to be someone far away, someone you could not touch. The
Chhotda who used to beg, day in and day out, for two takas, his hands
outstretched, seemed to have been closer to us. Now he was very busy, and was also
a moneyed man. �I will have to go today itself or tomorrow, I have a flight,� he
would say. The leisurely afternoons spent with Chhotda lying on the bed with our
heads and feet at opposite ends, discussing politics and literature were all over.
�Chhotda, you have come to Mymensingh, have you met your theatre groups?�

�Arrey no, where�s the time?�

�Nazrul, Russool, Milu, Shafique, have you met them?�

�Where�s the time!�

�Did you go to Banglar Darpan? Are you going to meet Manju Bhai and all?�

�I would have gone if I had the time.�

Initially when he came to Mymensingh, his visits to his friends were endless. He
would sit down to adda with them as before. Now it was �no time, no time.� If for
any reason he went close to the Golpukur Par, his old adda friends would see him
and call him enthusiastically. They were still the same; they still indulged in
adda, only Chhotda was missing. Chhotda now sported foreign cigarettes at his
lips. There was a time when he had begged his friends for local Star cigarettes.

�Kire Kamaal, what is this cigarette called?�

�Cartier.�

�Bah, bah, Kamaal now smokes filter cigarettes. Give us one, let us also try these
foreign brands,� his friends would say.

The whole of Golpukar Par stared round-eyed at Chhotda. Chhotda took out
cigarettes from a pack and gave them to his friends. Once he returned home, he
washed out the cigarette smell from his mouth first. He did not smoke in front of
Baba and Ma, and he made sure no proof was evident that he did. Chhotda now wore
foreign shoes, new shirts and pants � all his own. His distance from his bohemian
friends was increasing; he only got closer and closer to Geeta. The beautiful girl
Geeta, the dark girl Geeta, the Geeta who was turning fairer everyday, whose sharp
nose was still pointed, whose thin lips still remained thin, who did not take
sugar in her tea anymore, and carefully removed the fat from meat.
Chhotda brought us a variety of gifts on Chhota Id. From Dubai a lipstick, and a
shampoo. Two soaps. From Kolkata, for Yasmin and me, there were three-piece suits,
colour and print coordinated dress, pyjama and odhna. For Ma there was a Jainamaz,
and Tasbih. Baba did not even touch anything brought for him. For Baba he got a
pair of shining shoes, and said, �Made in Italy.� So what if the shoes were from
Italy, Baba clearly declared, he did not need shoes. Staring round-eyed at the
shoes, Dada said, �The shoes are exactly my size.� Dada got the pair of shoes. To
Ma, Geeta personally handed over a cotton Tangail sari, saying, �Ma, I have bought
this sari for you for Id.� Geeta gave us our gifts, as though she had bought them
all with her own earnings. Actually, it was Chhotda who had told Geeta to give
them out saying, �Geeta, give everyone the gifts you have bought for them.� It
wasn�t as though Geeta opened her suitcase as soon as Chhotda said this; she
opened it only when she wanted to. If she didn�t choose to, the suitcase would go
back to Dhaka unopened.

Geeta wore fabulous saris. She was covered with chains of gold ornaments. All her
jewellery, Chhotda said was bought from Saudi Arabia. Geeta�s radiance was
increasing, so was Chhotda�s. In the evening, saying he was visiting old friends,
he would take Geeta out. Yasmin said, �Actually they go to Peonpara, and carry all
kinds of things for her relatives.�

Ma said, �As long as my son is happy, its fine.�

After a pause, heaving a deep sigh she said, �There is something called mother�s
pride. If Kamaal had given me the sari with his own hands, I would have felt
happy. But he gives through his wife�s hands.�

Chhotda appeared to be happy. We felt happy seeing him so. I gave Chhotda and
Geeta my bed to sleep on. Late into the night we played cards noisily on that bed.
In the game of Spadetrump, Yasmin and I were partners and Geeta and Chhotda were
together. In the middle of the night Ma would enter the game and say, �Kamaal
Baba, you did not eat well at night, I�ll bring some meat and rice, eat it up.�

�Are you mad? If you can, give me some tea.�

Ma ran to the kitchen to make the tea, even so late at night.

I raised my voice, �Ma, a cup for me as well.�

�For me, too,� said Yasmin.

We sipped our tea, completely immersed in the enjoyment of playing cards. Ma lying
under a torn mosquito net, warding off the mosquitoes sitting on her body with
both hands, would be thinking �I must make paranthas and meat as soon as I wake up
tomorrow for breakfast. Kamaal loves eating parantha and meat.�

***

Just because my exams were over, I kept harping that I wanted to go to Dhaka with
Chhotda and did so. Now he did not stay in his Muhammedpur house anymore. He had
taken a flat on rent on top of Rahat Khan�s house in Segun Gardens. Earlier Geeta
told us stories of the Choudhury household but not anymore. Now the stories were
about Rahat Khan and Nina mami. The stories were of the children Apu, Tapu, Kanta
and Shubhro. When she was in the Muhammedpur house, she was always busy hobnobbing
with the dance and music artists. Now she hardly even spoke of them. Chhotda had
taken a house on rent with Faqrul mama. They used to share the rent. When he was
flying, Geeta would not be alone at home. Faqrul mama would be there, one male
member would be sufficient! After about three months, Geeta declared that she
could stay alone; she was equal to a hundred people and was quite capable. Faqrul
mama had to depart lock, stock and barrel. Geeta also announced that she herself
was going to work. She took up a job. Not such an important one, but as a
receptionist in the Biman office. For just this job, she went daily all dressed
up. She was still working there. She took me with her to the Biman office,and made
me sit there uselessly for hours. She went around introducing her sister-in-law to
this bhai or that bhai, brother. I did not like sitting around doing nothing, and
became restless to meet Rudra. From Mymensingh itself I had written telling him to
meet me at eleven in the morning in front of Rokeya Hall. The minute Geeta made
plans to take me here and there, I asked her to forgive me, and saying I had to
meet Jhunu khala urgently, escaped in a rickshaw.

�When will you return?� she had asked.

�In just a while.� I said so, because if I didn�t meet Rudra, I would have to
return very soon. Meeting him was completely a matter of chance. I wasn�t sure
whether he was in Dhaka at all, or had suddenly gone to his village home.

�A while means how long?�

�Half-an-hour. Maximum one hour.�

�Come back to the office. I will leave early today.�

Reaching an hour and a half after the designated time, I found Rudra waiting.
Rudra took me around with him. I just loved roaming around with Rudra in a hooded-
rickshaw! I wished time would stand still. But time did pass. Rudra took me to
visit two of his girl friends, and there chatted with me over tea and biscuits.
Instead of an hour, four hours passed. Geeta�s office had closed, I had to return
home. I did not have to face Geeta, because she remained in her room, lying down,
with the door shut. I lay alone at night. No one called me for dinner, and no one
came to talk to me either. I had stood before Geeta�s closed door twice and
called, she had not opened the door. The next day, too, I had to go out to meet
Rudra. When I went to tell Geeta that I would be going out, she again asked me in
a dry tone �Where are you going?� I said Jhunu khala had called me again. I didn�t
like telling lies, but her guardian-like treatment made my throat dry up, and I
was forced to do so. She asked again, �You just met her yesterday, why again
today!�

�Today my results will be available at the University Registrar�s building. I will

have to go.�

�I can take you there.�

�Jhunu khala knows someone there, who can arrange for me to see the result.�

�You think I don�t have anyone?�

�She has told me to come so urgently, I will just have to go. She will be waiting
for me.�

�When will you be back?�

I again replied �I won�t be late. Today I will be back early.�

Geeta had taken leave that day; she was going to take me around. So she told me
that if I wanted to go, it was okay, but I had better be back before afternoon.
Rudra was waiting for me on the verandah of the University Library. The minute I
reached, he put me in a rickshaw and took me to his room in his lodgings at
Basabo. In the ordinary room there was a bed. Sitting down I began to look around
on my own, at the things in the room, and at the books. Rudra sat next to me, held
me close and kissed me on the lips. The kiss descended from the lips towards my
chest. The weight of his body made me lie down on the bed, and his lips began to
descend below my breast. Under his body I began to pant. As soon as his hands
reached the draw-strings of my pyjamas, I leapt away. Pushing him away, I jumped
off the bed. Fear had dried up my soul. I said, �I will go now.� My lips felt
heavy, I couldn�t recognise my face in the mirror. My lips were swollen. Rudra
continued to lie on his stomach, saying nothing. He remained like that for a long
time. I asked, hiding my swollen lips, what was wrong, and why he was lying down
in this way? I told him again and again that I was getting late, and that I had to
go. Remaining in that position for some more time, Rudra went into the bathroom.
Spending a lot of time there, he returned saying �I was lying down because my
lower abdomen was paining.�

�Paining? Why?�

Rudra did not reply. My voice was steeped with concern when I said, �If you don�t
eat regularly, you get acidity. You must eat regularly. You shouldn�t eat too much
of chillies. If your stomach is empty, then the acid secreted gets no food to work
on and eats the stomach instead. This finally causes ulcers. These are called
peptic ulcers. If you take an antacid you will feel better.�

�Enough of your doctoring! Now come along.�

Rudra took me out. He had to go to some friend�s house.

�Impossible, I have to return to Segun Gardens right now.�

�Why do you have to go right now?�

�I have to. Boudi was very angry I returned late yesterday. Today she is taking me
out with her.�

An angry Rudra dropped me back at Segun Gardens towards evening. After returning
home, when I tried to talk to Geeta, she turned her face away. I sat alone in the
drawing room. Geeta did not say a word to me. Chhotda, on returning home in the
evening, played a Hindi movie on the VCR and called her many times, Geeta did not
come. Finally, stopping the movie, Chhotda went and sat at Geeta�s side and
caressed her, chanting her name repeatedly, as though he was reciting a prayer. I
had never experienced this kind of treatment from Geeta. Chhotda called Geeta to
the dining table to eat, she did not come. Chhotda too stayed without food,
because Geeta refused to eat. I realized that my presence in this house was now
not proper. I had almost mingled with the dust on the floor, at the insult. I
could neither reject Rudra nor my own beloved people. The two were violently
opposed. Which way was I to go? The next day, early in the morning I told Chhotda,
�I will go back to Mymensingh.� Chhotda said, �Stay a few more days.� Suppressing
a deep sigh, I said, �My classes are starting.� Chhotda took me back to Mymensingh
by train, his face drawn. I had said I could go alone, but he had still personally
accompanied me. The whole journey I had rested my face on the window and thought
of Rudra. He must be waiting for me in his room at Basabo. After waiting
endlessly, when he would realize I wasn�t coming, he would feel very bad. Thinking
of his pain, my own became so acute that my eyes filled up, repeatedly. On
returning home I wrote to Rudra about how I had been compelled to go home, how I
had had no option but to return home.
Rudra wrote, �That you had no option is your own fault. Why don�t you have an
option? Why do you not give any value to what you want or don�t want? Why do you
repeatedly forget that now you are very close to someone? Why do you forget that
now your life is entwined with another ? Why do you forget you are someone�s wife?
Kamaal asked you to stay. You also had permission from home to stay on for much
longer. After this, how can you expect me to believe that you had no other option
but to leave? How do you expect me to believe that you have done no wrong? Are you
still a baby? That your wishes should be given no importance? Today, even in this
small matter of your staying or not staying, you were unable to establish your
will! Suppose ignoring your unwillingness you are given again in marriage, will
you then too write that you are not to blame! Amazing! Why are you unable to
express your desires? Unable to enforce your wishes? You are obviously not
particularly concerned about my anger or happiness. You made it very clear that
afternoon. Even after coming so close to me, you are still, like a fool worried
about who will win or lose in our relationship. When will you gain some maturity?
I have never wanted to establish my rights as a husband forcefully, I still don�t.
And because I don�t, I have always given you opportunities to realise your own
responsibilities. In how many ways I have tried to make you understand, but you
think by accepting your wifely duties, you will be acknowledging defeat. Why don�t
you just look at another ten married couples? I have never wanted you in that way.
I have wanted you as a completely free being. I have wanted to keep you above
social systems and servility to men. However, that does not mean you should not
shoulder your own responsibilities, does it? We have been married for eight
months, but you are still to overcome your diffidence. You still adopt illogical
obstinacies to spoil normal life. I will never be able to forget our wedding day
all my life.

There are some inherent rules of life, some systems. You can never deny these. I
understand your problem. I understand it very clearly. In fact, probably, no one
understands you better. And because I do, from the beginning I have tried to
accept you in a reasonable manner. What I understand or know well, I have tried to
make you understand as well. Otherwise after 26th January, our relationship would
have been forced to end. Because I understand your sentiments, I do not disrespect
them. But what if those sentiments disrespect me? That they should not, would have
to be your responsibility. I never thought I would have to ever write about such
things. I had always wished you would understand. And once you had, you would
never ever do anything illogical anymore.

If you had only been my lover, not my wife, then may be your going away would not
have hurt me so much. It would then have only hurt my feelings, but now it hurts
my pride.

Why do you deceive yourself so much? Does one cheat on one�s own wishes?�

I was very upset on reading Rudra�s letter. So upset that I wrote, �If you dislike
me so much, if my illogical actions hurt your pride to such an extent, then what
are you hesitating about? There is no dearth of likeable girls! Surely they do not
live with my kind of crass sentiments. Or spoil normal life with illogical
obstinacies. They surely do not deny the inherent customs and rules of life. Or,
like fools, think of winning or losing. They will beautifully assume their wifely
duties, and much before eight months of marriage will have lost their diffidence.
Choose one of these. I will never have any objections to matters which concern
your happiness. From my childhood I have not been brought up in very happy
circumstances. I have therefore learnt to accept any kind of sorrow without much
stress. For your happiness, when I hear about the event of your having chosen a
new life, I will not be surprised. I never wish to be an obstacle in the path of
your happiness. If you want freedom from this unbearable life, please take it. I
have nothing to say. I will never blame you. My weaknesses will remain my own. My
loneliness will remain mine. How long is life! Very soon it will end, suddenly one
day I will die. In all this time I have realized that I do not have the power to
satisfy any man. I really do not have the capacity of making a happy married life.
I am a totally unreasonable person. Please forgive me. I never dreamt I would
someday write such a letter to you. But like a fool, I had hoped for happiness in
life, and had seen rosy dreams. Reality has made me understand that the boundaries
of life are not so vast. In fact one almost became breathless trying to achieve
something, and had to lose much more in the bargain. Yet, ignorant me, I had not
wanted to lose but to gain. That is why I have now lost myself. That is why even
before I have completed a year of marriage, I am writing such a painful letter.
Forgive me for my weaknesses. I will never forget your generosity.�
F

On receiving my letter, Rudra replied, �With all your weaknesses you will remain
with me forever. Over almost three years I have worked very hard to bring
discipline back to my life, and that, you cannot destroy. My discipline and
steadiness is now in you. Enough is enough; you have done enough � now all this
madness will not do. �I do not want to be an obstacle in the path of your
happiness�, repeat this phrase to yourself a hundred times over, you will not say
this to me a second time. The entire responsibility of your life is now mine. You
do not have to think anymore of its welfare. Why do you forget this fact? And
please do not hurt me for your own fancies ever again. I am not very well, and
this being unwell is because of you.� A short letter, but a pure joy surrounded me
the whole day. I understood, very clearly I understood, that I loved Rudra. When
Rudra was kissing me in his Basabo room, he had possibly wanted to do something
else. The fear of that something else shook me to my very roots. I was unable to
make Rudra understand anything of all this.
m

Chapter Thirteen
Happy Wedding
H

Sheila came to Mymensingh for a visit from Chattagram, with her daughter Bini. On
getting the news of Sheila�s arrival, Dada became agitated. Sheila had put up at
her friend Neelam�s house. Selling their town house at Kachijhuli, Sheila�s
mother, brother and sister, had gone to their village home in Gaffargaon. On her
way to Gaffargaon, Sheila had stopped at Mymensingh. She was able to meet Neelam
and see the town of her birth. But in doing so she encountered Dada. Sheila had
wanted this meeting and so it happened. It was a stunning face-to-face
confrontation. A meeting where, out of a hundred thoughts accumulated in the
heart, not even one got utterance. It was a meeting where the eyes did not blink,
and yet to hide the tears gathering in them, they glanced left and right in
embarrassment. Dada invited Sheila home. He himself shopped for rahu fish, koi
fish, prawns and cheetal fish. In case Sheila did not like to eat fish, he also
bought goat meat, chicken and even pigeon meat. Ma spent the whole day cooking all
this. Towards dusk, Sheila arrived at Aubokash with Bini. Sheila looked just the
same. She still had her paan-leaf shaped face, the same eyes and the smile in
those eyes. She had only developed some freckles on her cheeks. Sheila smiled and
spoke to everyone. Patting her on the head Ma said, �Are you well, Sheila? Aha, I
am seeing you after so long. What a pretty little daughter you have!� Sitting down
for the meal, Sheila kept saying, �What was the need for so much!� Serving Sheila
with fish and meat, Ma said �Noman wished to buy all this; you must eat.� After
the meal, sending Bini to play in the verandah, she sat in Dada�s room and told
him all about her intolerable life. Wiping his own tears with the palm of his
hand, Dada wiped Sheila�s as well. After Sheila left, Dada lay on the bed
sorrowing, his eyes staring out of the window. The breeze from outside dried his
wet eyes. On Dada�s cheeks there were no freckle marks, only marks of dried-up
tears. After spending many days in this sad mood, he finally announced that no one
was to look for a bride for him. He had taken the decision not to marry. Everyone
was dumbstruck. After a week he informed the dumbstruck family, that if he got
married it would be to Sheila. He would marry Sheila! People were even more
stunned. How could Dada possibly marry the already married and mother of a child,
Sheila! Sheila was going to leave her husband soon. After which he would marry her
and bring her home. So what if Bini was there, she was Sheila�s daughter after
all. Dada continued to write long letters to Sheila. He left the letters with
Neelam. Neelam put the letters in her own envelopes and sent them by post to
Chattagram. One day, very early in the morning, Neelam came home, Dada had not
slept the whole night, and was ready and dressed even before Neelam arrived. Both
were going to Sheila�s at Chattagram. No one had the courage to restrain Dada from
this path. In a distracted state, Dada left for Chattagram with Neelam.

After spending a week in Chattagram, Dada returned. This was a completely new
Dada. He no more sat in front of open windows in a melancholy mood. In fact, his
desire to marry anyone but Sheila increased beyond all measure. He never told
anyone at home what exactly happened in Chattagram. Not only that, he did not
utter the name Sheila, and carried on as though there was no one and nothing in
this world called Sheila. If anyone wanted to know, he would show them photographs
of himself taken sitting on rocks at the Potenga seaport, saying �Chattagram is
not a bad place, quite nice actually.�

Dada�s friends were not only married, they had children, too. In fact, even
Adubhai Farhad, who had to pass Engineering before marriage could be mentioned,
too, had fulfilled the stipulation and was married. Dada had nothing more to pass.
He had been working for years, and his friends were convinced that if he did not
marry now, then he would never be able to do so for the rest of his life. Dada had
seen girls every week, but there was a problem, the same problem with everyone, he
didn�t like anyone. The new head of Fisons Company, Fazlul Karim was four years
younger than Dada. New to the city, before he had even got acquainted with the
customs and traditions of the new place he had got married. His wife was a
classmate of Yasmin. After seeing Fazlul Karim�s bride, Dada returned and told
Yasmin in a rebuking tone, �You never told me that there was such a beautiful girl
in your class!�

�There are girls, but why will girls in my class marry an old man like you!�

�There is nothing wrong in being a few years younger.�

Dada unbuttoned his shirt and just sat on the sofa. He had even lost the capacity
required to carry his body to his room and change into a lungi.

�The girls in Yasmin�s class are fifteen years younger than you Dada,� I told him.

�Then look for a girl in your class!�

�A medical student?�

�No, I can�t marry a medical student.�

�Why not?�

�The girl will become a doctor in a few years. She will not be submissive.�

�Why do you want someone submissive?�

�Arrey, don�t I have to dominate her? It won�t do if my wife doesn�t obey me.�

�O, you of course have to call Doctors, �Sir.� Anyway, medical students don�t
marry representatives of medicine companies, so forget that dream.�

�Medical is in any case out. Beautiful girls do not study medicine.�

For Dada, a girl was required who would obey all his commands and restrictions.
She should not be an MA, because Dada wasn�t one. A girl more educated than Dada
would be problematic. Dada asked me about my old friends in school or in
Muminunissa College.

�Wasn�t any one beautiful?�

I said, �Mamata was there, but she is already married.�

�There was another Mamata in your school, she stayed in Baghmara. A good student,
very beautiful.�

�She too is married.�

�That�s the trouble. Beautiful girls get married while in school itself. Those who
passed IA, BA, and are still unmarried, you will see, are the world�s ugliest to
look at. Either their teeth are protruding, or their lips. Something or the other
is protruding.�

Ma said, �Noman you have seen so many good girls, and yet you didn�t like any of
them, heaven only knows finally what you are fated to end up with.�

At the mention of fate, Dada�s enthusiasm returned a little. Changing out of his
shirt and pant into a lungi, he sat in the verandah scratching himself. �If Allah
so wills, that I don�t get a beautiful girl, I will not marry. It is better to
stay unmarried than to marry an ugly girl.�

�I went and saw Seboni. What a pretty girl! And you didn�t like her. The girl was
very religious, namazi, and practiced purdah. She was aware of customs and
manners, and was BA pass.�

�Too religious, namazi, is not very good, Ma,� Dada replied laughingly.

�It is good he didn�t marry that Seboni. I�m fed up with Ma�s burkha. There would
be no end of trouble with two burkhawalis in the same house,� I commented sharply.

Ma scolded, �Speak with care, Nasreen.�

Ma�s rebuke did not reach my ears. That was because I was reflecting on the faces
of the girls who studied with me in Muminunissa, to see which one was beautiful. I
murmured, �A beautiful girl studied in the arts section in Muminunissa college.
She was a friend of Nafisa.�

�Who�s Nafisa?�

�Nafisa studied with me even at Adarsh, and at Muminunissa.�

�That Nafisa! Oof a fat lump! Your friends are all of a kind! As it is you made a
friend of Chandana Chakma, blunt-nosed Chakma. When I see your choice � I don�t
know what to say.�
Nafisa was known to Dada. She had come to our house. Her elder brother had studied
with Dada in the same college and class at sometime. Now a solemn man, he worked
somewhere in Dhaka.

�Nafisa has joined Medical.�

�Well, who�s the beautiful girl?�

�Her name is Haseena. She studied Arts, at Muminunissa. I haven�t talked to her
much. She was a good friend of Nafisa.�

Dada decided he would see this girl.

I got a photo of Haseena from Nafisa, and showed it to Dada. Dada said he would go
to see this girl. Bas, arrangements were made to see the girl. Dada returned from
seeing her and said, �She�ll do.�

�What do you mean by �she�ll do�? Will you marry her?�

�She�s nothing much to look at, but I can marry her.�

To hear Dada saying �I can marry� surprised us, but also filled us with joy. For
years we had suffered along with Dada and his procrastination, if not like the
burdened father of the bride, but definitely like the burdened relatives of the
groom. On hearing about Dada�s choice, Baba asked, �What does the bride�s father
do? To what status does the household belong? What do the brothers do? Without
knowing all this how can you jump into a marriage?�

Haseena stayed at her sister�s house while she was studying. Her brother-in-law
was the Railway School master. In her childhood, Haseena had studied in the same
Railway School, so did Nafisa. At Muminunissa, Haseena was in the Humanities
Department, Nafisa in the non-Humanities, that is the Science Department, with me.
One day Nafisa had introduced me to Haseena who studied far away in the tin-roofed
Humanities block of classes. The Humanities girls very rarely got to meet the
Science girls. I had never met Haseena before either. That Haseena, the wide-eyed
Haseena was going to be my Dada�s wife! Bah! Whatever I didn�t know, I got to know
from Nafisa. Haseena had no father, only a mother. Some brothers and sisters were
there. I was unable to tell anything more than this to people at home. Dada found
out more details and informed us that the bride�s mother lived ten miles away from
the town of Phulpur, in a village called Arjunkhila. One of the brothers worked in
Phulpur town, another in Mymensingh town, not very big jobs, but jobs all the
same. They were able to survive decently enough. Another brother was a bohemian,
and lived in the village. The elder sister, in whose house the bride lived, was
called Kusum. Kusum had two sons. She had recently abandoned her husband, and had
run away with a married man, and had even married him. The second sister was
Parveen. In her childhood, Parveen had been given in adoption to her own Phuphu,
father�s sister. Parveen called her Phuphu, Ma and her own mother Mami. Parveen�s
husband�s elder brother was Amanullah Choudhury himself, Chhotda�s big boss. Baba
heard the details, but they were not to his liking. Baba looked quite disappointed
even on hearing that the girl was pretty, and was studying for her B.A. at
Muminunissa. That the father and brothers of the bride had not made any money, and
were not known in the town, was okay. But that the bride�s elder sister had left
her husband and run away with another man, was a fact that troubled Baba. It was
not that this fact did not prick Dada as well; it did. But there was such a
scarcity of beautiful girls in the country that he feared if he rejected this
girl, there may not be any beauty left in the world.

Dada remained adamant, saying, �Let what is in my fate happen!� He was going to
marry only this girl. Ma would tell Baba day and night. �You better agree. If
Noman does not get married now, maybe he never will in life.� After immense
persuasion when Baba�s �No� changed slightly to a mild acceptance, Dada sat down
to fix the wedding date. The wedding was to take place on the 4th of December. He
ran around shopping. He bought whatever was needed to complete the decorations.
For me he bought a yellow sari, for Yasmin a blue one and for Geeta a green
coloured Kataan sari, to wear for the wedding. For the Halud, turmeric paste
ceremony, he bought us all yellow saris with red borders. From the decorations on
the winnowing tray made of bamboo strips, used for the wedding rituals, to the
saris, clothes cosmetics for the bride, not just saris for the bride but for her
mother, maternal and paternal grandmothers etc., everything was bought. Of course,
Baba was paying for everything. All the expenses of the marriage ceremony had to
be borne by Baba, because he was the father of the groom. All the fancy purchases
were from Dada�s pocket. Wanting to make the world�s most beautiful invitation
card for the wedding reception, he got an artist to design a red velvet cloth
card, with not a letter but a poem written on it. The velvet cloth was to be
placed in a long, red, beautifully decorated and carved box. On both ends of the
scroll there were to be silver sticks with bells. The invitation poem also read
like a royal decree read in the courts of Kings and Badshahs. From Dada�s head
emerged many more crafts. He had decorated his room like a King�s palace. He had
already asked the best artist in town to decorate the wedding bedstead. The bed
was to be decorated with thousands of roses and chrysanthemums. A red carpet was
to be laid from the black gate right up to the room. Taking a hefty amount from
Baba, Dada had personally gone to Dhaka and bought a red Benarasi sari and lots of
gold ornaments for his bride. Just the wedding shopping took a whole month.

On the day of the Halud ceremony, we, that is Jhunu khala, Yasmin, Chhotda, Geeta
and I went to the Arjunkhila village in Phulpur, and applied turmeric paste on
Haseena�s body. We decorated the already decorated winnowing tray with a yellow
sari for Haseena, and seven colours to apply on her face. Following the tray were
thirty-two kinds of sweet packets. The next day was Dada�s Halud ceremony. Dada
sat on a mat in the verandah. The relatives applied the paste to his face. Four
people had to hold the corners of the mat and spread it out. As one of the four,
just as I was enthusiastically holding one corner of the mat, Jhunu khala came
running and snatched the corner from my hands saying, �You can�t hold it.�

�Why not?�

�There�s a reason. I�ll tell you later.�

Leaving the mat, I went and sat gloomily in my room. Why couldn�t I hold the mat,
was a question that would not leaving my mind. Jhunu khala later said, �You are
having your menses that�s why.�

�Who said I�m having them? I am not.�

�O, I thought you were.�

�What if I were? Suppose I was having them!�

�The body is not clean and pure during that period. During a wedding ceremony, one
must be very pure and clean before touching anything. During an auspicious event,
inauspicious things are to be kept far away.�

�O, so that�s it!�

I called Ma and said, �Ma, is it true that if you have your menses, you can�t
touch the Halud ceremony mat?�
Ma said, �It is best not to touch it with an impure body.�
M

�W
Why? What happens if you do touch it?�

Ma did not answer the question; she was too busy. Jhunu khala said, �Something
evil and unlucky happens.� I had wanted to know what kind of evil, but had got no
reply. The house at the back belonged to Jeebon During her wedding, I had seen
Jeebon�s mother keeping paan and betelnuts under the mat. I had never understood
why. I had watched the entire wedding ceremony of Jeebon. A mirror had been placed
before the groom and he had been asked what he could see. In the mirror was
Jeebon�s beautiful face. No words emerged from the groom�s mouth. Someone told him
to say �Moon face.� It seems this was the normal ritual. I found all these rituals
strange. I had gone to Dolly Pal�s sister�s wedding. There, around the fire, four
banana trees had been planted. The bride and groom had to go around these seven
times. On a fast the whole day, the tired girl was now going round and round. On
Jeebon�s Halud ceremony day people played with colours. As soon as it started, I
had run away and come home. All the running around and boisterousness affected my
nerves. The same thing happened at Mahbooba�s sister�s Halud ceremony. There, a
friend of the groom tried to put colour on me. I had leapt aside, and run out of
the house. I kept thinking the main purpose of putting colour on someone was to
touch their body. Mahbooba was shocked to see me leaving. I moved around with
circumspection, I was rather scared of running, jumping and catching activities.
c

On Dada�s Halud ceremony, all the girls at home wore yellow saris. Whoever came
home, also wore the same. Nani of course didn�t do so. In her usual white sari,
she had applied Halud to Dada�s face, and blessing him with her hand on his head,
had said, �I pray for your happiness.� To Nani, happiness was a thing of immense
value, to Ma as well. Chhotda was far away, but he was happy, and hence Ma was
able to console her own sorrow at not having him close to her. The house was
filled with Halud; Halud on the saris, sweets, in the festivities. Everyone from
Nanibari came, everyone applied Halud on Dada�s body. People from Haseena�s house
too came and put Halud on his cheeks and forehead. Dada was looking rather
helpless. Haseena�s relatives had a hearty meal of pulao and meat and left. If
they hadn�t been from his in-law�s family, Dada would surely have cursed the
village folk as being very uncouth.
v

Then began the wedding festivities. In front of the black gate a beautiful
entrance arch had been made with trees, leaves and flowers. Borrowing Baba�s
friend�s car, Baba, we youngsters and Dada�s friends went to Arjunkhila. Even a
brazen person like Dada, covered his face with a handkerchief and sat with a
groom�s crown on his head, a white sherwani on his body, white pyjamas, and white
Nagra, footwear. Sitting outside under a tent, he said �Qubool�, accepting his
bride in front of the Kazi. Haseena, inside the room, said the same to the Kazi,
�Qubool�. It was of course not seemly for girls, when asked whether they agreed to
marry such and such man, son of such and such, for a sum of so many mohurs, to
immediately say �Qubool�. They were supposed to cry and shed a few tears first.
When they were tired with weeping, and had been pushed by their mother and aunts,
they had to finally utter the word. Haseena did not take very much time to say
�Qubool�. Haseena�s verbal acceptance signaled the completion of the wedding
ceremony. Now it was time to take leave. Haseena�s mother handed over her daughter
to Baba. I was watching all the rituals in astonishment. I had never before seen
these wedding rituals at such close quarters. In a flower-bedecked car, Dada took
his seat with his bride and on their either side were Yasmin and me. In the car
behind, sat the rest of the groom�s party. Dada had already drawn out the
blueprints of everything. According to the blueprint, we jumped out of the car and
entered the house in order to liven up the function celebrating the entry of the
bride and groom into the house. We had to shower flower petals from the trays on
to the bridal couple. I stood at the edge of the red carpet, tray in hand,
showering petals on the bridal couple. Baba was meanwhile looking for someone to
officially welcome the bride. Ma was standing at the open door to perform the
ritual. She had waited at home the whole day, for this very moment. Next to Ma
were standing the wives of Baba�s friends. Pushing her away from the door with his
elbows, Baba told her, �You move away, far away. Go on, move!� Baba then smiled
meltingly at M.A. Kahhar�s younger brother Abdul Momin�s wife, and said, �Bhabi,
sister-in-law, please come, please welcome my son and his bride.� Ma remained in
the background, the rich Abdul Momin�s heavily ornamented-in-gold wife, stood at
the entrance door and garlanded Dada and his red sari-covered, bent headed bride
Haseena, welcoming them home. Jhunu khala stared in surprise and said, �Amazing,
the mother did not welcome her son and his wife into the house! They were welcomed
by someone else!� Jhunu khala disappeared from sight. Wearing the kataan sari
bought by Dada, pushed behind the crowd of people at the function to welcome the
bridal couple home, Ma stood murmuring her prayers to bless Dada and Dada�s wife
with a happy married life.

In Dada�s decorated room, the bed was strewn with red rose petals, and on it was
seated the bride in a red Benarsi sari. Dada paced from one room to another. Dada
looked like the Dada of yore, but I thought he isn�t the old Dada; he is now a
married Dada. On Dada�s lips there was now constantly a trembling, embarrassed
smile. He sat swinging his legs on the sofa at night, when Baba in his usual
manner said, �It is late; now go and sleep.� Dada was going to sleep in his room.
Till even last night he had slept alone. Today there was someone else in his bed,
someone whom he did not know, did not love. I kept wondering what the two would
talk about! Two complete strangers! Purposely I eaves-dropped outside Dada�s door,
to hear what was going on inside! Wondering, if Dada found some fault in his bride
that very night, he would immediately come and sit on the sofa on that night
itself. My curiosity troubled me so much I was unable to sleep till late at night.

In the morning, Dada came out first and behind him emerged Haseena. Dada looked
shy, behind him Haseena laughed shamelessly. Everyone�s eyes were focused on their
faces.

Chhotda asked, his eyes dancing, �Ki Boudi, did you take off your nose-ring at
night?�

Haseena replied in her hoarse voice, �Nothing happened actually.�

I asked, �Why do you have to take off your nose-ring?�

Haseena poked me in the back and said, �You have to take it off on your wedding
night.�

�Why do you have to?�

�Don�t you know?�

�No, I don�t!�

�When those things happen, it means you�ve taken off your nose-ring.�

�What are those things?�

Haseena laughed loudly.

I began to feel very stupid. Haseena very easily became familiar with everyone.
Even though Chhotda was much older, she had merrily started calling him by his
name. Even Geeta. Without any hesitation she was addressing others as tumi. It
seems, because she was the elder Bou, bride, so she had to treat everyone younger
than Dada as younger to her. I watched Haseena in astonishment. It didn�t seem to
me that the girl I had seen studying at Muminunissa College was this same girl.
The girl I had seen at a distance, walking in the grounds, arm in arm with Nafisa
was so different.

Anu�s Ma, the new maid, came to mop the floors with a bucket of water. I told her
�Have you seen the new bride?�

�The bride has no flesh on her bones.�

That was true. Haseena�s body lacked any kind of fat, just like mine.

�And she did not even have a bath, or change her clothes in the morning.�

�Why, who has a bath with cold water on a winter morning!�

�Yes. As soon as you wake up from sleep in the morning, you should have a bath,
wash your clothes, and then enter your room.�

�Why, can�t we have a bath in the afternoon? And can�t we choose not to wash our
clothes?�

Anu�s Ma shook her head vigorously, and said with conviction, �No.�

Curiosity was eating me up. I told Haseena, �It seems you must have a bath, and
soak your clothes.�

Haseena said, �You have to if those things happen.�

�What are those things?�

Haseena again laughed loudly. Once more I did not get to know what �those things�
were.

Although Haseena had studied at Muminunissa College in the same year as me, I did
not at all feel she was my friend. In fact, she only appeared to me as Dada�s
wife.

The �Bou-bhaat� ceremony was to take place two days later. Since morning Dada was
playing Bismillah Khan�s shehnai on the cassette recorder. As soon as one side
finished, he immediately came to flip the side, the shehnai played the whole day.
Handsome Dada was wearing an expensive suit and imported shoes, made in Italy. A
huge tent had been erected in the grounds, under which tables and chairs had been
laid. In the inner courtyard, too. Next to the tin shed a huge pit had been dug,
and the cooks were using huge ladles to prepare big vessels of pulao and meat.
Haseena wearing her new Bou-bhaat sari was sitting on the bed with her head bent.
Guests were coming with presents. Guests included relatives, Dada�s friends,
Baba�s friends, Chhotda�s friends, some of Yasmin and my friends. One person was
keeping a record of the gift givers on a paper, and was piling up the presents in
one corner of the room. The guests came one by one to see the bride, and then
proceeded to partake of the feast; the men in the grounds, the girls and women in
the courtyard. This went on from the afternoon to the evening. I felt
claustrophobic in the crowd. By night time the crowd thinned out. Then was the
time to open the presents. Glass-ware, brass ware, clocks, saris, gold ornaments
and other gifts filled the room. Dada took the presents and stored them in his
room.
After a month, Haseena came to me with a personal problem. The problem could not
be told to anyone but me. What was the problem? This doctor-to-be lent her ears.

�I used to get something soon after the wedding, during sexual intercourse, I
don�t get it anymore.�

My ears turned red at the sound of the word �intercourse�. Struggling to the best
of my ability to bring back my ears to a nutty brown colour, I said �What did you
get?�

�A sense of fulfillment.�

�You got it before, so why don�t you get it now?�

�That is what I want to know, why don�t I?�

�When there is intercourse, from behind the male organ, meaning the testes the
coiled tube epididimis releases the sperm, which through the �vas difference�
travels over the bladder, and into the seminal vessicle gland behind it. In this
gland it mixes with the seminal fluid and forms semen, the sperm then passes
through the urethra.�

Taking a pen, I drew a picture on white paper showing the passage of the sperm in
order to make Haseena understand. This is the testes, this is the seminal
vessicle, vas difference, this is the urinary bladder, this the prostrate, then an
arrow mark to point in the direction of the urethra.

Haseena�s hoarse voice heated up, �I understand all that, but I am talking of
fulfillment, why don�t I get it!�

The pen in my hand moved shiftily, once at my cheek, then chin, once on my hair.

�Is there ejaculation?�

Sitting with her legs hanging from the bed, swinging them back and forth, she
tried to reduce her harsh voice to a whisper, and couldn�t. Any sound coming out
of her mouth was like the beat of a drum. So that no one could enter the room
unexpectedly and hear this secret conversation, and so that less sound would be
heard outside, I bolted the door from the inside.

�What is ejaculation?�

�Semen secretion.�

�What�s semen?�

�What are you saying? You don�t know what is semen? The secretion from the male
organ is called semen.�

�Yes, that happens.�

�Then I don�t see any difficulty.�

Haseena sighed in disappointment and left the room. Searching in my medical books,
I tried to find an answer to Haseena�s question. After reading up everything I
could find on sexual relations, I called her the next day to tender free medical
advice. Haseena came running to pick up the advice. Sweeping aside all my shame,
as though I was not Dada�s sister, or Haseena�s sister-in-law, only a doctor, I
asked her, �Accha, does your husband get an erection?�

�Yes, he does. Why shouldn�t he!�

�Do you have vaginal secretions?�

�What does that mean?�

�It means does anything flow out of your vagina?�

�Yes, that happens.�

�Is there premature ejaculation? Meaning does the semen come out soon after
erection?�

�No, no. Nothing like that happens. He takes a lot of time. In fact, more than
earlier. But I don�t get satisfaction.�

�Do you have dysperinia?� Meaning do you have pain during copulation?�

�No.�

�Do you have vaginismus? This can be due to too much muscle spasms. Or else
hypothyroidism can cause sexual dysfunction.�

�I don�t know about that; everything is the same as before. It is only in these
two last weeks that this problem has happened.�

�Listen, there is something called a hypothalamus, it is to be found between the

brain and the lower part of the third ventricle. This hypothalamus is connected to
the pituitary gland. Forget it, I will tell you in short. The gonadotropin
releasing hormone comes from the hypothalamus and stimulates the pituitary gland
into secreting the liutinising hormone and follicle stimulating hormone. The
liutinising hormone also stimulates the ledig cell of the testes, and releases
testosterone. On the other side, the follicle stimulating hormone stimulates the
seminiferous tibiulus cell. This way sperm is developed. In the functioning of all
these, if there is any abnormality, then sexual dysfunction will happen.�

�There is no dysfunction. All functions are fine.�

�If that is so, where�s the problem?�

�I am getting the right feelings during sex. But at one point, there is a feeling
of fulfillment, that I don�t get.�

�What is the difference?�

�I get pleasure during sex. But at that time it is something else. Having sex and
getting that is not the same.�

�Doesn�t your partner get it either, this fulfillment you are talking about?�

�Arrey, of course, he does.�

�If he gets it, why can�t you?�

�His getting it is not the same as my getting it.�

�Why shouldn�t it be the same? The whole thing is mutual.�

�I�m telling you, it isn�t the same.�

�This doesn�t make sense, why shouldn�t it be the same? Erection is happening and
your vaginal secretions are normal. That means the hormonal activities are okay.
There is no premature ejaculation. Then I can�t see any problem.�

�There is a problem. Somewhere there has to be one. Otherwise why am I not getting
that fulfillment?�

It was not possible for me to search again in my books and find anything new.

Giving up hope, Haseena said, �Take me to a Gynaecologist.�

I took Haseena to my Gynaecology Professor�s personal chambers at Chorpara, where

he saw patients. She spoke to the doctor, Anwarul Azim, on her own for a long
time. She emerged with the smile of one who had found the solution to her problem.

I asked, �What did the doctor say?�

Haseena laughed, her toothy smile spread all across her face. Immersing herself
into a pond of secrecy, she said, �You won�t understand.�

Chapter Fourteen
Post Mortem Report

My third year classes had commenced. The subjects this year were not very tough.
Pharmacology and Jurisprudence. Of course, side by side classes for surgery,
medicine and gynaecology were also being held. Not just classes, but hands-on
training by touching, pressing and fiddling. We had to study the outpatients as
well. Eyes, ears, nose, teeth, sexual organs, skin and all other departments had
to be not just peeped into but investigated thoroughly. Theoretical knowledge
alone would gain us nothing. Practical knowledge was the main thing. The medical
college laboratory was the hospital. The specimens in this laboratory were human,
not dead bodies in the morgue, but living beings. People like you and me. People
lying on beds in a row, if no bed was available lying on the floor, groaning
people, in terrible pain, whimpering, screaming, listless people. People with
saline drips attached to their hands and feet, with oxygen pipes in their mouths,
their heads raised on the beds, people lying lifeless on beds. Going near these
people, we had to ask what kind of pain was it, exactly where did it start from,
when did it start, where and when did it stop, whether this kind of pain had ever
occurred before, was there pain anywhere else, did any family member have the same
problem, whether they had had the problem ever before etc. etc. After noting down
all these details, I had to examine with the naked eye the area of discomfort, I
had to touch the spot. There was a method in touching as well. I had to press the
tips of all my fingers and cross from one side to the other, to feel the nature of
the part of the body in discomfort. Was it like a round potato, or like a melon in
shape? I had to note whether it was moving or was it as still as heavy stone.
While pressing with my hands my one eye had to be directed towards the stomach,
the other at the patient�s eye. I had to note whether the patient was crinkling
his eyes in pain, to find out what had caused this round potato, or melon to grow,
I had to check the entire abdomen, to see whether every organ in it was in its
correct place. Pressed on the right side was the liver, and on both sides were the
two kidneys. After this I had to place my left hand on top of the stomach and with
my right hand tap the hand all over the area to hear what kind of sounds were
emerging. Were the sounds of water, or did it seem as though the knocking was on
wood or stone? Next, I had to take out my stethoscope and listen to what sounds
could be heard in the stomach. If a �bhurut-bhurut� sound came from the
intestines, it meant the intestines were doing their work. If there was no sound,
it meant that something was blocking the movement. If that was so, then was the
sickness called intestinal obstruction? Was the round potato like lump, the
intestines all coiled up? If not were some germs collected together forming the
lump, or were they worms? One could not just do this much and leave a question
mark on the diagnosis. The patient had to be examined from head to toe. Were all
the nerves okay, were all the organs and systems working; the heart, lungs were
they all functioning properly? Even if a patient came with pain in a finger, you
still had to examine him from head to toe. On the very first day at surgery class
in the outpatients surgical ward, I saw a man lying on the bed with his lungi
open. The outpatient department doctor was to give us a lecture on the diseases of
the lower parts of the body. The name of the disease was Hydrocil. In the sac
below the male sexual organ, water had collected and caused it to bloat up like a
pumpkin. The doctor�s orders were to study the bloated organ. My eyes kept turning
away from the pumpkin. Possibly because my eyes kept turning away, the doctor
chose me to hold the organ in my hands and examine it. His question was to check
its consistency. If I went forward one step, I retracted two. �You have no option
Charlie Ghulam Hossain!� You have to touch the thing. With both hands I had to
press the organ and see whether the sac was soft or appeared to be hard. After
this, I placed my hand on top and tapped it with the other. Hearing the �tupush-
tupush� sounds I said there was water inside. The man was about thirty or thirty-
five, and was moving his body away, from side to side. That a girl was handling
his private organs must have been a very uncomfortable experience for him. But the
man had to let his body be examined. There was no shame in front of doctors or
doctors-to-be. Outpatients in the skin and sexual disease departments also had to
break out of their shame and tell their secret stories to us if not to anybody
else. The doctor in this department was teaching us how to get the facts out of
the reluctant patients. A patient would come with a rash on his male organ. The
doctor would ask, �Ki, do you have intercourse with outside girls?� The patient
would first say �No. Never.� Whatever intercourse he had was with his wife. It
there was no wife, there was no question of intercourse. When clearly told that
there could be no treatment unless the truth was disclosed, the man would take a
lot of time. He would scratch his head, with neither a smile nor cry hanging from
his lips. Taking a deep breath and forgetting his shame, he would finally confess
that he did have intercourse, meaning he was in the habit of frequenting brothels.
The doctor would say, write that �there is a history of exposure.� Send the blood
for a VDRL. Taking the paper in his hand, the man would leave. Medicines would be
prescribed only after the test reports came in. Sitting in the sexual disease
outpatients department, we had to learn to use the word �intercourse�. These
patients we examined at a distance. We were not to touch them. Anything connected
to germs was never to be touched. So that even the patient�s breath did not touch
us, we had to stand at a safe distance from them. If the doctor felt it necessary
to touch the patient, then he wore gloves. Patients with syphilis and gonorrhea
were very repulsive to look at, big-teethed, with sly foxy-looking eyes. Just
looking at them one could tell that their male organs were a depot of syphilis
sores. When men with wives at home came for treatment, the Doctor told them to
bring the wife for treatment as well. They would promise, but most of the patients
never returned with their wives a second time. They promised and swore they would
never go to brothels ever again in their lives. But the same patients returned
again with syphilis sores. Thinking of the unoffending wives back home, I felt
great anger towards these big-teethed men. Once I even told a doctor, �Can�t these
men be sent to jail? Their wives who are without recourse to treatment must be
contracting neuro-syphilis.� Who would listen to me? A doctor�s job was to treat
the patient. Once in a while, female patients too arrived with syphilis sores. The
disease had come through the husband. The wife was infected of course, but on
testing the blood of the baby-in-her arms, it too was found to be VDRL positive.
When I treated these patients, I loudly gave them a piece of advice as well,
�Don�t stay with that scoundrel of a husband of yours anymore. Your husband is
ruining you; give him talaq.� To what extent these women followed my advice I
never came to know, but I couldn�t stop myself from giving the advice all the
same.

The person heading the Jurisprudence Department was Baba. He took our classes. If
there were classes in the morning, Baba very often went with me to college by
rickshaw. When the roll call was taken, like all other students I, too, said �Yes,
sir.� My Professor father was an excellent teacher. The students considered Baba
to be a very pleasant, simple and straightforward professor. Some of course said
he was very strict. During exams, it was said Baba as an Internal Examiner was
very good. He made sure his college students passed. But as an External Examiner,
it seems Baba did not remain Rajab Ali anymore, he turned into Tyrant Ali. I liked
Professor Rajab Ali more than Baba Rajab Ali. Baba on the very first day in class
said, �There is nothing as shameful as cutting one�s foot on a rotten snail shell,
you know! Failing Forensic Medicine is equivalent to cutting one�s foot on a snail
shell. If you have to cut your foot, cut it on something which saves your pride.
Fail in surgery, fail in medicine, these are difficult subjects, its okay even if
you fail. But if you have even a tiny measure of grey matter in your head, you
don�t fail in forensic medicine.� If I went to Professor Rajab Ali�s room, he
would welcome me with a smile, he would ring his bell to summon the bearer, and
order tea for me. He would ask what classes I had, which Professor taught what. I
too had many questions about medical studies which I asked. Even at this age, Baba
had not satisfied his hobby of reading books. He kept books with him ranging from
anatomy, to medicine and surgery � all kinds of books, and read them whenever he
got the time. There was no topic in medical knowledge that he couldn�t speak
volumes on, whenever asked. Professor Baba was hardworking, attentive, courteous,
pleasant, modest and meek. I was proud of my Professor father. To see a post-
mortem, students had to go to the Surjakanta Hospital Morgue�s dissection area.
There the undertakers dissected the corpses. Standing next to them, Baba explained
what to look for inside and outside the body, how to test and find the reasons for
death. With hankies pressed to our noses, we looked at the rotting and swollen
carcasses. Baba and the undertaker did not require any kerchiefs. The undertaker
reminded me of Khalilullah. Khalilullah was an undertaker who cut open corpses and
ate the hearts. Once this news spread, mothers began to replace the fear of ghosts
with the fear of Khalilullah to induce their babies to sleep. When the girls in
class said, �Rajab Ali Sir is so good!� I felt thrilled. I felt delighted when I
encountered Baba in the college grounds, and the two of us exchanged pleasantries.
The ferocious tiger at Aubokash, was transformed into a gentle, unassuming good
soul in college. There was always a smile on his face, and he continued to
disseminate knowledge regarding the �rotten snail�. What else but knowledge! It
was a murderous business. What kind of weapons did one have, how sharp was each
one, which da gave what kind of blow, which bullet caused which wound, which was
suicide, which murder, which accident, and so on. Once, Baba was showing us the
postmortem of a twenty-five year old woman�s body. It had to be decided whether it
was a case of suicide or murder. The undertaker roughly cut open the chest of the
10-15 day old corpse. Baba leant over that nauseatingly smelly corpse, turned it
around on all sides, tested it and said that it was murder. How was it murder?
Very simple. There was a wound on the head, Baba showed us the scar. No one could
deal a blow with a da at the back of one�s own head; therefore, this was by no
means a suicide. Another girl too, it seems, hung herself by a rope from a mango
tree and committed suicide. Baba noted the nail scratch marks on the legs and
arms, stomach and chest, and said the girl had been hanged. We had to write all
those details in our report on circumstantial evidence. Gradually my enthusiasm
for the rotten snail grew. Baba did not encourage this eagerness of mine at all.
�Study that which will be beneficial to you, study surgery, medicine or
gynaecology.� My thoughts remained with the two women. Who struck that blow on the
head of that twenty-five year old woman? Who could have hung that innocent village
belle? Once in a while, when I entered Baba�s room, on the door of which was
written Head of the Department, I found young girls sitting inside. Baba would
take them one by one behind the curtain and examine them. Once they left, I would
ask why the girls had come, for what tests, and Baba would reply �rape case�. Baba
was now much more at ease with me than before. He now very normally discussed the
human body and sexual details with me in medical terms, of course, under the cover
of the English language. I invariably wanted to know who had raped these girls,
but he never gave an answer. This was because these were �matters related to a law
suit, not to medicine.�

***

Baba very often appeared as a witness in the law courts. Frequently, strange
people came searching for him at home. �Who are these people?� I would ask. Ma
would say, �Your father appears as witness. So they come about the post-mortem
details.�

My eagerness increased by leaps and bounds. Why should people come to Baba about
post-mortems? I was keen to know what they talked to Baba about, in low tones,
sitting in the verandah room. I noticed various things being delivered at home by
strange people. One afternoon, when Baba was not at home, a lungi-clad man with a
moustache, came and said, �Is Doctor saheb at home?�

�No.�

�Achcha, do keep these four fish from my pond.� Saying which the strange man
handed me four big Rahu fish and left.

Delighted, I carried the four tiger-sized fish and ran to the kitchen, �Ma, take
these, a man came and gave these fish.�

�Who gave them, do you know him?�

�No.�

�Why did you keep them?�

�Bah, he gave them to me.�

�You�ll keep anything if they are given to you?�

�Why, what�s wrong? Once in a while Baba�s patients do come and give things.�

�Don�t keep fish and things anymore. Even if you are begged to do so.�

Ma�s face was serious. Moving two arms length away from the fish, she said, �It is
wrong to eat such fish.�

�Wrong? Why?�

�These people come to beseech your father to change his post-mortem report.�

The inside of my head began to whirl with all kinds of thoughts. �Which party
comes? The guilty or the innocent?�
�I don�t know that.�

Was Ma hiding something? Ma was not the kind of person who could keep anything to
herself. If the innocent come and give something out of happiness, there�s no harm
in that.

The shoddily dressed Ma moved sluggishly towards the taps, and said in insinuating
tones, �Both parties come.�

�Does Baba give dishonest reports?�

�How will I know that? Do I go to court and see?�

The fish was finally cooked. Ma did not even touch it. Baba sat down to eat.
Taking big pieces of fish on his plate he asked, �Where did you get the fish?�

Ma said, �A man came and gave them.�

On hearing this, Baba coughed and cleared his already clear throat, saying. �The
fish would have been tastier if you had cooked it without the coriander leaves.�

I was still thinking, did the �suicide party� bribe Baba to omit �murder� and
write �suicide� instead? Did Baba take lots of money in bribes? I couldn�t
believe, somehow, that Baba would be so dishonest.

However, the day Sharaf mama saw the torn sari worn by Ma, he said, �You live just
like a fakir�s wife, Borobu. Yet, on the other hand Dulhabhai, our brother-in-law
is earning lots of money. I saw a man giving him bundles of taka. He does post-
mortems after all! He must have mountains of money by now. Yet, he doesn�t buy you
a single sari!�

I said, �You cannot write untruthful post-mortem reports, Sharaf mama; don�t
accuse my father without cause.�

Disseminating a wooden laugh, Sharaf mama said, �Doctors pay bribes to get this
job. To do post-mortems means to become a millionaire. People�s life and death
hangs at the tip of a doctor�s pen.�

�Who gives the money?�

�Both parties give money. The party that has made the case and the party that is
accused in the case. Dulhabhai has almost bought over the whole of Nandail.�

A hatred for Baba began to take birth in me. The man who recited the
pronouncements of a hundred and eight learned men, and was willing to do anything
to establish his children in life, was this man now going to court bribed by both
the defense and the prosecution parties!

I asked Dada, �Do you know anything?�

Dada replied stating, �Don�t listen to all this rubbish. Baba does not take
bribes.�

�How do you know he doesn�t take bribes? That day there was a man who delivered
fish, that fish was a bribe.�

�Which fish? The Rahu fish? Aah, it was very tasty. Actually, the fish would have
been even better roasted.�
Whether or not Baba took bribes remained a mystery to me. Baba was someone so
close to me, someone with whom I had spent my life in this house, and yet it was
this Baba who appeared to me the most distant. Actually, I never got to know
anything about Baba. Thinking I knew or had got to know, I sometimes made
mistakes. When Baba would draw someone close, when he would push them away, not
just me, no one in the house knew, not even Ma. Ma sometimes wore her sari in
pleats, reddened her lips with betel juice and went before Baba with a sweet
smile. Baba would scold and tell her to move away. It had often happened that Ma
would wash and fold Baba�s clothes on the stand, clean and mop the room the whole
day, open all the closed windows and doors so that fresh air and light could
enter, move Baba�s bed from the corner to near the window, and spread a clean
sheet on it. She would then await Baba�s return, hoping Baba would come, see and
like her arrangements. Baba would come home. On seeing the state of the room, he
would scream and say, �Who has spoilt my room?� He would pull the bed back to its
original place and snap shut all the open windows. He would pull the sheet off the
bed with a yank.

�The way I keep my room, let it always remain that way.�

Ma would sigh deeply at his reaction. There was nothing Ma could do which was to
Baba�s liking.

At other times, Ma in a bad mood would be cursing someone or the other. Baba would
call her in a soft tone �Idun, come here, will you? Come and listen to me.� Idun
then was not in a mood to listen to anyone. Baba would then in an even gentler
tone call, �Idun, Idun.�

Baba would suddenly return home and find me studying and Yasmin playing in the
dust. Yasmin would be tense and I happily sure, that Baba would come and pat me on
the head. But Baba snarled at me instead, �Just staring like a donkey at your
books won�t do, make sure you understand what you�re studying.� To Yasmin he said,
�Want to eat lychees, Ma? I�ll send some lychees immediately for you.�

This mystery-shrouded Baba remained distant. I never got to know him or understand
him. Baba�s marriage matter also remained a secret. Ma said, people had told her
Baba had married Razia Begum. But Baba had never brought Razia Begum home or said
that she was his wife. Also, he had never spent a night anywhere but at home, when
he was in Mymensingh. How was I to make out anything!

I had told Ma, �Ma, you say Baba has married Razia Begum, but Baba never stays at
Razia Begum�s house.�

�He stays in this house at night, because if your Baba does not stay, the house is
robbed. Every time there has been a robbery in this house, your Baba was not
there. Your father comes home at night to chase away robbers.�

�Then who chases away thieves at Razia Begum�s house?�

Ma laughed and said, �Any thief who sees that woman will get scared anyway!�

The more I saw of Baba�s mystery, the more I wanted to remove the cover from his
dark secrets, which were as dark as his own room. Ma�s every nuance was so
familiar and well-known. Her smallest sorrows, her joys, the smile on her lips,
irritations, and the reasons for them, were so clear that Ma was like a previously
read book, an already written notebook. Ma did not arouse my curiosity, Baba did.
Ma�s love could be had without asking, to get Baba�s one had to put in arduous
effort. And even after doing so, one could not be sure of getting it. It was like
gambling with life. Ma�s overwhelming love went unnoticed, whereas Baba�s two
moments of calling in a soft tone could make one happy for the whole day.

Ma said, �Girls are a little more attached to their fathers.�

I asked, �Then do boys feel more attached to their mothers?�

Nowadays, Ma had no reply to this question.

If Chhotda came visiting this house with his wife, he either went and lay down in
his room with her, or went out with her. Ma very much wanted to sit with Chhotda
and chat, but Chhotda had no time. After his marriage Dada had no time either.

The subjects that Baba had asked me to study seriously were taught even at night,
in the hospital. Every evening he took me there and brought me back as well. His
patients were kept waiting in his chambers, but he dropped everything in order to
do this duty. I could detect Baba�s love for me even amidst the mystery
surrounding him. He told me that I was fulfilling his dreams, I alone was
upholding his position and respect. I was the only one making him proud of being a
father. Hearing this, the lump of hatred that had formed in me because of the
bribery suspicion over Baba, slipped out of my heart and fell on to the dust on
the roads. I kept feeling sorry for Baba. I felt sorry because one day I would
have to inform him that without telling anyone, I had married a bearded fellow,
who was shorter than me, a man who had not even qualified an ordinary MA, a man
whose profession was to write poetry, a profession by which the man did not earn
even two hundred taka in a month. I was obviously going to throw Baba�s
reputation, respect and pride into a garbage pile! The more attentive or dedicated
I was to my studies, the roots of Baba�s dreams got that much more water and
fodder, giving rise to a sapling that grew rapidly into a tree. The more the tree
grew, the more I feared I would one day have to uproot this tree with my own hands
and throw it away! Neither Dada nor Chhotda had been able to make Baba happy. Only
I could do so. But what would happen the day I would have to strike a blow from
behind on the head of this happiness! The day I would have to strangle the neck of
this contentment, and hang it up! How was I going to do this task! I felt angry
with myself. The more Baba loved me, the less I loved myself! If Liver Cirrhosis
was being taught in medicine, Baba would speak about it so wonderfully that
sitting in the rickshaw all the way, I learnt much more by listening to him, than
I ever could learn from books or by listening to the long lectures of my
Professors. I began to throw away into the deep darkness all Baba�s faults, so
that no one could see them. I did not call Baba as �Baba�, did not address him as
tumi or apni. Yet I felt that Baba was the closest to me. This disease of not
addressing people was rather unique to me. I did not address anyone like Nana,
Nani, Boro mama, Fajli khala, Runu khala, Jhunu khala, Hashem mama, Faqrul mama,
nobody. I spoke to everyone, but in abstraction. Very often when one spoke in the
abstract, then many things could not be expressed candidly; it was not possible. I
tried desperately to free myself from this abstraction, but couldn�t. When I grew
up, I would think for a long time why I spoke in the abstract, what was my reason!
When I was small, did they scold me, or slap me, or take me aside and pull my
ears, that out of pride I did not address them in any way? Not having done so for
years, had it now become a habit not to address them at all! Even after wanting to
address them when I grew up, I was unable to do so! When I addressed Ma, Dada,
Chhotda, I addressed them as tumi. Baba had always been a distant person for me, I
had never addressed him. Yet being a girl who grew up at Nanibari, I addressed
Sharaf mama, Felu Mama and Chhutku as tumi.. The rest who were close, how come I
had never addressed them? Was it because even though they were close, they
appeared distant to me?

As the subjects Baba had asked me to concentrate on had another year or so to go,
I concentrated on Rudra. Rudra was a forbidden event in my life, a deep, secret, a
private joy. My attraction to Rudra was so strong that as soon as I took a letter
of his in my hands, pleasure rang like bells in my heart, and that whole day I
stayed happy. Rudra�s second book Phire Chai Swarnagram (I want my Swarnagram
back) was published by Muhammed Nurul Huda�s Drabir Prakashini. Other books too
had been published by Drabir. Rudra�s relations were now very good with Muhammed
Nurul Huda. And because of this, he had left the hall and rented a room in Nurul
Huda�s house at Basabo. Earlier he was at Siddheshwari in a friend�s house; he
left that and put up at Fazlul Haq Hall. From the hall now to this room. Why did
he leave the Siddheshwari house? He had to, because of Kazi Rozi. Kazi Rozi was
poet Sikander Abu Jaffer�s wife. She, it seems troubled Rudra a lot. Maybe that
middle-aged Kazi Rozi was keen on a brilliant young man like Rudra, but why should
he have to leave the house? I was unable to understand the problem.

This book of Rudra�s was smaller in size than his earlier one. On the cover of the
book was a hand, and below the hand the roots of a tree. Inside the poems were in
newsprint. The book looked poverty stricken, but the poems within would have
awoken those asleep. The copyright was in my name. I was thrilled to see it.
Actually there was no meaning in this copyright matter. In this country any writer
could put the name of a beloved person in the place of copyright. But that did not
mean that the publisher would go and pay the royalties of that book to the person
named in the copyright. Anyway, it gave me great joy. I read Rudra�s poems aloud
at home I wished I could go on stage and recite his poems, so that a hundred
people could hear them. A hundred people could learn the language of protest. Very
often, I was invited to recite at poetry functions in Mymensingh. I went once in a
while and read poems. Rudra had never heard me reading poetry. I had heard him
though, at a function in Mymensingh on the 21st of February. Rudra recited
wonderfully. Many times, after reciting at various functions, Rudra would say, �I
recited the best.� I was happy to hear this. After the book was published, he was
going around reading the manuscript. Just the way villagers read ancient
manuscripts in a sing-song tune, he had written �Poems of the Road�, so that they
could be read in the same way. Rudra wrote poems about poor, deprived, oppressed,
and persecuted people, poems against the government, against extortionists. The
poems were for the labour class. I was inspired by Rudra�s perception.

Remember you are walking, alone �

The indices on your hands are like roots, know that they, are actually fingers.
There is music in your bones, know that those are really your marrows.
The impious glow on your skin appears sleek and coppery.
You are walking� remember you have been walking for the past two thousand years.
Your father was murdered by an Aryan.
Your brother was killed by a Mughal.
An Englishman looted you.
You are walking, alone, you have been walking for the past two thousand years.
To the south of you there is a procession of the dead, to your north the signs of
death.
Behind you there is defeat and disgrace. And before you�?
You are walking, no, not alone, you are part of history
Remember that from a copper inscription your fleet of ships have set sail,
Remember the looms in every home, and the sounds of them working
Accompanying you as you sail downstream to the land of the Mahua,,buttertree.
Remember the concert of narrative songs, remember that beautiful dark woman
At your breast, her eyes lowered, with trembling lips �
You are walking, you have been walking for the past two thousand years �

I read the book from cover to cover, not just once or twice but repeatedly.
Yasmin�s singing voice was good, and so was her ability to recite. Along with me
Yasmin too recited the poem �Harero Gharkhani�, House of Bones.
�It is still possible to trust a prostitute.
In the arteries of the politicians runs the sin of opportunism
It is still possible to trust a prostitute
In the blood and nerves of the intelligentsia lies conscious wrong doings.
It is still possible to trust a prostitute.
The young men of this nation are harbouring a poisonous snake in their blood,
Their lives are laid open, upturned on the fields like turtles.
T

There are no words � no one speaks, there are no words � no one moves,
There are no words � no one flinches, there are no words � no one
smoulders �
No one speaks, no one moves, no one flinches, no one smoulders.
As though blind, their eyes are shut, as though crippled, their hands are tied,
Loveless, hearts without hatred, a frightening debt
Carried on their shoulders � just gasping out, only empty words reproduced by rote
They grope in water, groan excessively in sorrow, but do not burn. They shed
blood, lose everything � but won�t they tear the web of conspiracy? Their hearts
burst, their wounds smart � but won�t they tear the web of conspiracy?
b

In swarms in the forests and jungles come

Gangs of gorillas, their weapons shining in their hands. Their hands dazzle
With anger and revenge. They will take payment in blood, and power
With authority. In the tempestuous fray � even if their lives are lost,
no harm will be done. The resounding thunder arising, will gain for them great
strength and ability.
The day will come, the day will come, the day of equality.
T

Within me too was born the dream of achieving equality one day. Rudra had
dedicated his first book to Sheikh Mujibur Rehman, Colonel Taher and Siraj Sikdar.
In his poem �Harero Gharkhani� he had written �thousand Sirajs die, a thousand
Mujibs die, a thousand Tahers die, only sycophants stay alive, boot-licking dogs,
wood worms live, as live snakes.� In fact Mujib, Taher and Sikdar did not belong
to one party. Mujib was against Sikdar who belonged to the party wanting to seize
power. He was killed it is said, through Mujib�s conspiracy. However, one thing
became clear � Rudra was against any kind of death. Lives were being lost as it
is, because of storms, flood, hunger, famine, malnutrition, oppression, wounds,
how many more! �Let unadulterated love return to the blood of the nation, let
stern honesty return to the blood of the nation.�
s

I had not printed Shenjuti in a long time. It had not been possible due to the
pressures of studies and exams. I again made efforts to print it. Again adrenaline
flowed in the blood. Rudra was writing a series of poems called Maps of People.
Taking some of these and some of my own, with just both our poems Shenjuti was
published. There was no trace of the old Shenjutis. All the little magazines, Lord
knows, where they had got buried. There were no bits of news this time, because I
had traveled far away from that world. Who was printing a little magazine where,
in which neighbouring area, whose writings were being published, what was
discussed at which poetry function, all this I now had no idea of. From the Little
Magazine movement, medical studies had pushed me out by the scruff of my neck.
After long two years Shenjuti appeared in the spring of the Bangla year 1388. It
did not come out in the shape of a book, but like it used to, in the long accounts
register format. The one reason, Shenjuti was printed this way was that I did not
have so much money at my disposal. This time Dada was not spending any money. The
question did not arise. Having read Rudra�s secret love letters to me, he just
could not stand the name Rudra any more. Of this, he had given proof as well. One
day entering my room, he took my red diary, the one he himself had given me to
write poetry in, and all other poetry notebooks and threw them into the courtyard,
to be muddied by rain. When I tried to protest he had slapped me so hard that my
cheeks remained red for two days. So I had to use my own money. This money had
come from the scholarship I got at medical college because of my good results in
the Intermediate Examination. I did not have to pay any college fees, and got
extra money over and above even that. Whenever I got money, I never told Baba what
I would do with it. The scholarship I had got for my Intermediate year, I had had
to hand over to Baba like an obedient child. This time I wasn�t going to do it.
Now that I had some brains, I told everyone at home about the scholarship money,
except Baba. The minute I got the money, I put Shenjuti into the press. I gave it
to Chhotda�s friend�s press on C. K. Ghosh Road, called Leela Printers. I
persuaded Khaleq to put in an advertisement for Peoples Tailors. Trying to get the
money for the advertisement, I had spent a lot on rickshaw fare, but never got to
meet Khaleq. �I had dared to try and forget Shenjuti. But actually that was going
against my own wishes. In abject poverty I did not curl up like a leprosy patient,
but instead established proudly eternal beauty. Instead of learning the language
of agitation, or raising their fists and shouting slogans in protest, the poets
who withdraw completely like cowardly tortoises and revel in poetry only to
indulge in superficial anxieties, such selfishly greedy opportunists were not to
be showcased in my Shenjuti; they would be shown the garbage dump by me. I would
rather revise the proofs of poems that courageously spoke of the lives of the
labour class, even if that gave me sleepless nights, and in turn acted like a
million worms eating into my intestines, which when very hungry caused gastric
ulcers.� They had teeth; that is true. I noticed my own poems had changed a lot.
Not in imitation of Rudra, but strongly influenced by his poetry. The Story of
Life was the name of some of my poems in this edition. The poems were the cries of
labourers, the wails of the poor and strong hatred against the rich rulers. In
Rudra�s �Maps of People� appears their chowkidar, guard.
R

Neither the deer in the forest, nor the tiger, so late at night, alone walks the
Chowkidar.
�Hoi, who goes, who goes?� The cold winds of the district return bearing no reply.
�Who goes?� Who else! The darkness of the tenth lunar night walks alone �
All alone the chowkidar chases himself in the bends of dwelling areas.
A

He asks himself, who goes? What is your name? Where do you stay?
Ki, whom will you guard, how much of life will you be able to hold on to
The petty house burglars and those robbers who operate even in the light of day?
Or those thieves who live in our beings, within the darkness of our physical
s
selves?

In the shadows of the night, will you find him, chowkidar will you find this thief
The thief who guards and who in the name of security commits terrible thievery.
By stealing people�s grey matter, flesh, blood, bones, desires of the heart,
Will you get him, who robs the full-moon nights from your life?
W

The one who steals your illusions of sunny days,

The health of your child, milk and rice, steals the vermilion from your married
sister,
Will you find the thief who removes the human body from your physical self?
Then what are you guarding and why then should you chase the night throughout the
n
night?

On this dark earth only a few stars twinkle in the distant constellation,
The crickets chirp, the night breeze carries the smell of rotting, soaking jute.
Foxes dig up new tombstones and expose half-rotten corpses.
Hoi, who goes, who goes � in the darkness of the earth, only the chowkidar walks!

Life was passing in this way � some of it with Rudra, some of it at the hospital,
with my books, patients, and some of it in the bustle at Aubokash and in
melancholy. At this time a piece of news shocked me � President Zia-ur-Rahman had
been killed in the Circuit House at Chattagram. The Commanding Officer of the
Chattagram Armed Forces, Major-General Manzoor had assassinated him. It was a
completely fruitless enterprise. Manzoor was unable to do anything more than just
kill Zia. That was because it was not Dhaka but Chattagram. Zia himself had
brought in many crocodiles, but Manzoor was really only a baby crocodile. He had
given a bite, no doubt, but that was maybe because, some of his milk-teeth were
still there. The bite had obviously not really caused so much damage. Otherwise
that very night Manzoor could have become something. By declaring martial law, he
could have headed the country�s government. But instead things happened
differently; the Vice-President Abdus Sattar had to take over the responsibilities
as President. Accepting responsibility and actually running the country are not
the same things. The old man was only a front; the nation was being run by gun-
toting soldiers. Was the nation functioning at all! The nation was floating in
blood. On the body of freedom won by the sacrifice of lakhs of people�s blood,
were stains of blood, on the body of freedom there was only the smell of death. If
Baba had to give Zia-ur-Rahman�s post-mortem report, he would have counted the
number of bullets in his body. He would have been able to tell what kind of gun,
what kind of bullets, from what distance, they had been fired and how many times.
Baba would have written his own opinion, �This is not suicide; it is homicide.� If
a post-mortem report had to be written on this nation, then too something like a
homicide could be written. It could be written that assassins were aiming at the
heart of the nation and firing bullets, that the ribs of the nation were riddled
with perforations. The bones of the rib cage had broken and bullets had pierced
the flesh and gone inside. The heart had stopped beating. For many, many days now
it had stopped.
i

After this it didn�t take long for the head of the secret service to expose
himself. Another peaceful coup. Martial law was enforced in the country. Following
in the footsteps of Zia, Ershad�s journey began. One army followed in the
footsteps of the other. Major General Manzoor and his friends were executed by
hanging. The way Zia had formed the National Party, and through a referendum had
converted his unlawful takeover of power into a lawful one, Ershad too did the
same. Ershad too, in the same way formed his own party and entering into politics,
converted his illegal entry into a legal one. The country seemed to be moving on
the back of a queer camel! Even if there was no social equality, did that mean
that the country was not fated to have even a simple people�s democracy? I felt
sorry for my country; my anxieties increased. The political leaders who switched
parties were attracted to whichever party came to power. I could not think of them
as anything but characterless. A belief deepened within me everyday that it was
the weakness of our political leaders that gave the armed forces the courage to
take over the country at gun point.
t

Thoughts of politics, poetry and every other thought had to be pushed aside,
because I had to prepare for my exams. As I was a candidate, Baba could not be an
examiner for this paper. He went to another college as examiner. In this college,
the new professor from Salimullah Medical College, Abdullah, whose classes were
mostly bunked by students after giving proxy attendance, along with an Assistant
Professor remained as internal examiners. The friends in my class were most upset
at this news. The minute they saw me they said, �Dhoot, because of you we are not
getting Rajab Ali Sir.� Everyone knew in college that as an internal, Rajab Ali
Sir was very good. He tried very hard to pass his own college students. But rules
could not be changed, if a son/daughter was an examinee, then a mother or father
could not be an examiner. The unhappy students appeared before the strict external
and the spineless internal for their viva, shaking with fear. No one thought at
that moment that the subject was extremely unimportant, only a rotten snail-shell.
Chapter Fifteen
A Bride on Paper

Rudra�s letters came regularly at Dalia Jehan�s address sometimes from Mongla,
sometimes from Mithekhali and sometimes even from Dhaka. I realized what it was to
feel something special in my heart when I took Rudra�s letters in my hands. The
day I received a letter, pure happiness surrounded me for the whole day.

�I cannot make you understand how unbearable every moment is for me, without you.
Without you my days become so wild and unrestrained, and you just don�t seem to
want to understand that. I know there are a lot of problems. At this moment if I
want you close, thousands of problems will arise. But later too these problems
will not give us any rest. Therefore, if these problems have to be faced some day,
then it is necessary to bring them to the surface and face them straight away.
Problems cannot be solved by playing hide-and-seek. That is why I had wanted to
meet Dada. I wanted to inform him that we have got married but you did not listen.
Throwing my days and nights into unbridled disorder, you are living very happily.
This indifferent happiness of yours strikes me with envy.

Dreams do not gather like clouds in the sky and come down as rain everyday.
Without you days pass, as do nights. Without your touch this desolate field
remains barren� I haven�t seen you for so long! I haven�t caressed your closed
eyes for so long! Your eyes are very misty, very cloudy and so distant. When will
I be able to breach that mist and touch you! When will I understand the meaning of
the cloudiness! I become tired just waiting. There seems to be no end to the
waiting. There is no loving touch, and days are lifeless! There is no loving
touch, nights are cold and tiring! In this cold darkness when will you come with
the heat of the sun? Today I do not feel good; the whole day my heart swelled with
the pain of loneliness and silence. I cannot explain this suffering in any
language. Heavy as the cloud laden skies, my sufferings are so very cool and
silent! Today I do not feel good. Today my pain is cold and frosty.�

I tried to experience Rudra�s suffering. But it was not possible for me to fulfill
his wishes. Rudra, with his authority as husband, demanded that I tell people at
home that I was married. If I couldn�t do that myself, I should get someone else
to say it. That even this was not possible, I told him repeatedly. There was no
way I could get someone else to announce that I had got married to a homeless,
penniless poet. Rudra was under the impression that once we told people at home,
Baba would get us married with great pomp and splendour, after which I would go
away with Rudra and set up my own household. Or, Rudra would live in our house and
enjoy the privileges of a son-in-law. If I was thrown out of my house, then I
would stay in the hostel and continue my studies. During holidays, I would go to
Rudra in Dhaka, or change my college and join another one, where I could live with
him and study in college or do something else. I could even give up my studies
altogether. Even if Rudra was crazy about setting up a home, I was not. Rudra�s
life itself was one big uncertainty, and I did not have the courage to welcome one
more uncertainty into this situation.

Rudra came to Mymensingh to meet me. He did not come on the set day. After waiting
endlessly for him in the Press Club canteen, I returned home disappointed. He
could not always make it on the days promised. However, somehow he always managed
to come if not on the said day then definitely on a day close to that date. Only
tea and shingaras were available in the college canteen. Actually because the
canteen was exclusively for college students, initially people looked askance at
Rudra�s presence there, and now they looked with eyes wide open. Rudra�s
friendship with Assad and Anwar was also not viewed favourably. Apart from Assad
and Anwar being known as the bad students of the medical college, they were also
considered as goondas, rowdies, and anything that went wrong in college was
attributed to them. There were rumours that they drank liquor as well. Seeing
Rudra in the college canteen one day, Assad came to talk. It seems both had
studied in the same college, same class. Bas, that was it. They got together. The
students avoided this terrible two as much as possible. If they were seen
approaching, the students, specially the girls, promptly changed their paths.
However, after the terrible two saw me with Rudra, they began to pay me a lot of
regard. They would come forward on seeing me saying, �Ki, Nasreen, how are you?� I
too had to smile and answer that I was well. Gradually I began to feel that these
two held no terror for me, even if they did for others. Even without Rudra I had
sat and drunk tea with them in the canteen. Maybe Assad�s wrist would be bandaged,
or Anwar�s forehead would be scarred, but I never felt they were bad people. In
fact I felt they were much more sincere and honest than a lot of others. Once in a
while they flexed their muscles and asked, �Let us know if anyone bothers you, we
are ready to break their noses.� Rudra�s sitting and chatting with Assad and Anwar
made the eyes of other students grow even bigger. Eating shingaras with tea in the
afternoon did not really fill our lunch-hungry stomachs. We had to leave at
sometime. On the way to and fro from college I had discovered the Press Club
canteen on C. K. Ghose Road. Nowadays I met Rudra there. The yellow-coloured
Biryani available in the Press Club canteen was very famous. After the death of
Ram Prasad Babu, his son Hari Prasad, had hung up his father�s photograph and
garlanded it. Now he himself cooked that famous Biryani. We ate during the crowded
lunch hour. Everyone left after their meal, but we kept sitting, because we had
nowhere else to go to. The staff at the Press Club watched us from the corners of
their eyes, and found we were not leaving. Even though we kept ordering tea at
regular intervals, we still did not want to leave. Rudra complained and sat with a
glum face because I had not arranged for any vacant room. The staff periodically
hinted that we should leave. Making a lot of noise they upturned the chairs and
tables, but when even that didn�t work, they finally told us that the canteen was
now closed. We had to leave the canteen, but had nowhere to go. We looked for some
privacy all over the town, but could not find it. Finally we sat in the medical
college grounds in the evening, when it became a little less crowded. Very often a
ten-year-old handicapped boy, from the slums next door, would walk on his knees
and come and sit next to me. I was able to talk to him with much more ease than I
was able to talk with Rudra. The boy�s name was Dulal. He had no father, only a
mother. It was a poverty stricken household, which he supported with his earnings
as a beggar. I gave Dulal two or three taka, whatever I had in my pocket. I spoke
to Rudra about all kinds of things in life. I told him about Chandana. Chandana
had come to Dhaka. She was putting up with her husband�s sister. I asked Rudra to
go and meet her and find out how she was keeping. If he went, then I could send
something for her with him. What could I send? There was only one expensive thing
in my collection, the yellow kataan sari Dada gave me for his wedding. I sent
that. In a soft tone I told Rudra by and by about how much I missed Chandana, how
Dada had changed after marriage, my loneliness at Chhotda�s departure, my studies
not going well etc. etc. Rudra repeatedly put his arm around my waist and tried to
pull me close, wanting to kiss me. Again and again his hands went to my breast.
Anyone at any time could see us and so I kept pushing his hands away. My own
modesty also proved to be a big barrier. Because I couldn�t arrange a private room
for the two of us, he sat in a huff, without speaking. I wanted to touch Rudra�s
two lips with my fingers, and lightly place my fingers on his eyes. I wanted to
hold Rudra�s warm hands and walk around barefoot. I loved walking barefoot on the
green grass. My feet wanted to touch the tips of the grass and feel the coolness
of the dew. My address-less numbness, and our dry meetings even after marriage,
disappointed Rudra, and he returned to Dhaka. However, he left saying many times
that I should write everyday, and that I should write after ten o�clock at night,
because exactly then he would think of me and picture that I was writing to him,
and thinking of him. After Rudra�s departure, I went home and took a long nap.
Seeing me sleeping for so long, Yasmin suspected that Rudra had visited. After
Chhotda left Mymensingh, Yasmin gradually became close to me. I was very intimate
with her, but our fights too were many. Because she was physically stronger than
me, I had always to flee the battlefield. I told Yasmin all my secrets, yet the
closer I felt to Rudra, the more silent I was becoming. My increasingly awkward
passion for Rudra was something I was hesitant to talk about with Yasmin. Rudra
had given me an English Pocket Book of Vatsyana to read. Not only had I not read
it, I was so concerned about where to hide it, especially where there would be no
fear of it being found by Yasmin, that my anxieties crossed all limits. The time
given to me to keep the book passed, just in trying to find places to hide it.
g

��You are a busy person. I do not have the courage to ask you to write everyday.�
By saying this you are actually asking to free yourself from the compulsion to
write everyday! That will not happen. However busy I may be, I will always have
time to write to you. If you were with me, the time I should give you at night
would be more than it takes to write a letter. However, since you are not close, I
can write to you everyday, and I will. What is late night for you? Is 10.30 pm
night for you? That is merely evening time. If you don�t learn to stay up even
this much at night, you will get into great trouble later! There will be nights
flooded with sleeplessness, what will you do on those nights of high-tide? I have
not said one word of untruth to Chandana, in fact I have hardly told her anything.
Why, if I don�t talk, can�t you do so? If I don�t lift my face, can�t you? Is the
responsibility for maintaining this relationship entirely mine? We have shared
everything equally. Then why should this be mine only? �You sit with a glum face,
with angry eyes, hence I hesitate to show my love.� The question does not arise.
Has your love ever been displayed? Love which has never been extended, how can it
be curtailed? Why don�t I assuage your pride? When you call, don�t I come close?
Even when you don�t speak, don�t I? Even when you don�t lift your face, don�t I
lovingly raise it with my touch? Don�t I shower your unrepentant pair of eyes with
my love? Then why can�t you? I still do not understand the language of pride. Is
there any power in this world which can explain something to someone who chooses
not to understand, and pretends she doesn�t know anything? Today is the 8th of
Ashwin. We have known each other for three years and four days. Do you know how I
feel? I feel I have known you for a thousand years. That we met a thousand years
ago. I don�t remember when and how we met. I only remember that one sun burnt
heart on a dark palm screen, had, wordlessly and silently come and written one
word � I. As though from times immemorial, we were searching for each other. One
day we met. And in that first meeting we recognized each other. No introduction
was necessary. Both of us watched the pictures we had within us. Yes, this is the
one. The person I have drawn in colours of pain. The person whose name I have
written with my hearts� blood. This is the one I have created out of silent
suffering and empty dreams. Being wordless, we both came to each other and wrote
one word in each other�s palm, �I�. Meaning I am the person you have created
within yourself.�
w

Rudra kept telling me that the private room impossible to find in Mymensingh could
be found in Dhaka. But how could I possibly go to Dhaka! I could maybe travel
alone to Dhaka by train, but who would let me? Finally, when Chhotda came to
Mymensingh, I insisted on going to Dhaka. Why Dhaka? I had to get my certificate
for the First Proff. exam, from Dhaka. I managed to go with Chhotda. On reaching,
I immediately left the house on the pretext that I was meeting an old school
friend in the Dhaka University hostel. I went straight to Rudra�s room at Basabo
as it had been decided. Rudra did not show his happiness. To jump for joy, or shed
tears when in pain, was not something Rudra was capable of. He was, from top to
bottom, like a block of wood. Whatever he was feeling remained within him. It was
expressed on paper. Rudra, of course, said the same thing about me. It seems I was
beautifully simple and straight in my letters but, not in person. Face-to-face I
was the same, dead wood. Rudra gave me a sari to wear. Small flowers and leaves
printed all over a white background, with a matching petticoat and blouse. I had
to go out wearing the sari. This sari had been selected by Rudra�s sister, Bithi.
Rudra had never personally chosen and bought a sari for me. Earlier, when he had
given me a green cotton sari, that too he had taken his girlfriend Mukti with him
to choose. Whatever I gave Rudra on his birthday, I selected and bought
personally. I myself decided which colour shirt would match which colour pant.
When Rudra asked others to select a sari for me, he described my colouring in this
way, �Whatever colour will suit a dark complexioned girl.� It seems women�s saris
were best understood by women alone. Whether because he had to tell her about the
sari, I don�t know, Rudra had told Bithi about our wedding; in fact he had even
told Mukti. That night he made me wear the sari, and took me to a Chinese
restaurant. After having dinner there, we returned to Basabo. He had to tell
Muhammed Nurul Huda about our marriage, so that my staying at the house did not
look inappropriate. No one so far had come to know of my marriage from me. Rudra
had started telling people. Earlier, too, he had told a couple of friends. Despite
the fact that I got upset about people knowing, he still told them. I had to stay
that night with Rudra. I just had to. But I had to go. I had to. I had told
Chhotda I would be back in an hour. Let Chhotda go to hell, you are my wife, that
is your biggest identity. But with this identity I cannot live the life I am
living. Of course, you can. Then I will have to say I was in Jhunu khala�s room,
if I do not return at night! Don�t worry about that now, I will tell Jhunu khala
to manage something. But will Jhunu khala agree? Why shouldn�t she? I will tell
her we are married. Impossible! You remain with your impossible. I will do what I
have to. I had to spend this night with Rudra. It was Rudra�s wish, request,
demand, command, everything. Rudra said, �Tonight I want you completely.�
Completely, meaning? Completely means completely. Not leaving anything for later.
Estimating the meaning of this, something caused me to tremble inside. The closer
the time approached, the more the trembling within me spread all over my body. The
closer day progressed towards night, the faster my breathing became. I tried to
convince myself that I was not doing anything wrong. I was going to spend the
night lawfully with my husband. If Haseena who was my age could do so, why
couldn�t I! A girl in my class called Madira had secretly married another
classmate called Shaukat. Many people said that Madira went secretly to Shaukat�s
hostel room and spent the night there. If she could, then was I still such a raw
young girl that I could not!
y

Finally the night came. In the drawing room, Rudra introduced me as his wife to
Huda and his wife Shahana. Huda�s younger daughter stared in amazement at this
�wife� which was me. Although it was not very late, Rudra said it was time to
retire. Rudra took me to his room. Taking off his shirt and pants, and wearing
only a lungi, he switched off the light. He then took me sitting stone-like on a
chair, and lay me down on the bed. I kept telling myself, �You have got married,
when you marry, silly girl, you have to sleep with your husband. You have to!
Every girl does it. Shed your inhibitions. �I tried desperately to overcome my
modesty. Light from the lamp post outside was streaming through the window, I
tired to think of it as moonlight. I loved Rudra, he was my husband. I was going
to spend my first night with my husband. Tonight let me not feel any kind of
numbness. Even though I kept telling myself throughout the day not to feel numb, I
was still unable to call Rudra by name or as tumi even once in the whole day.
Turning my back towards Rudra, I lay in a heap in one corner, with my legs and
hands all curled up. Rudra pulled that curled up me close to him. Not me, only my
body remained lifelessly in Rudra�s embrace. My two hands remained stiffly crossed
over my chest; I was unable to remove them. Those two hands were pushed away by
Rudra with all his physical strength. I did not want to tremble, but even if I
wanted to stop this inner trembling, I was unable to stem the tremors spreading
throughout my body. Rudra kissed me deeply on my lips. I could feel my lips
swelling up, becoming heavy. I didn�t want to, but I could feel my two hands
trying to push Rudra away. With one hand, Rudra unbuttoned my blouse, and with the
other, he held strongly my pushing hands. Rudra sank his face into the unbuttoned
blouse. His wet tongue licked my two breasts, chewing and sucking them. In my
disheveled sari, I continued to suffer in Rudra�s embrace. Rudra was moving my
legs apart with his own two legs. The more my one leg tried to come close to the
other, the more Rudra used his entire strength against their coming together. Keep
your legs in the way your husband is telling you to keep them, girl, you must,
that�s the system, Rudra knows what he is doing; this is what husbands do, this is
what you have to do, I kept telling myself. I also tried to render powerless with
all my being, the instinctive resistance gathering strength within me, so that I
could keep lying numb. That is what I did. Forcibly closing my eyes, and covering
them with my hands, I pretended as though I was not there, that this was not my
body, as though I was sleeping at home in my room. Whatever was happening here,
this obscene incident that was taking place, did not involve me at all, nothing
was happening to my body or life, this was someone else, this was someone else,
this was someone else�s body, I was thinking. After this, Rudra climbed up on top
of my entire body. Now not just my eyes were closed; my breath too almost stopped.
The two legs of my numb body wanted to join together. Rudra separated my two legs
with his own and with something additional, created pressure at my crotch. In my
breathless state, I tried to think of the pressure as a natural one created by my
husband, but involuntarily an agonized scream pierced through my thoughts and came
out of my throat. Rudra pressed my mouth shut with his two hands. He pressed my
mouth, but the downward pressure at the other end continued. I was groaning in
terrible pain. Upward pressure, downward pressure, my ability to take any kind of
pressure, disappeared completely. Rudra�s iron body, in spite of loving my body so
much, in spite of giving so many proofs, was unable to enter it. Through the
night, Rudra used every device, every normally tried methodology to enter, but
every time my inability to make him understand my agony, lead to my screams of
�Mago� and �Babago� waking the night. Every time Rudra had to press shut my mouth
to stop the screams. But the screams had penetrated even the pressure. When the
frightening night was over, this stricken and fatigued person changed her sari for
a salwar-kameez and said, �I am going.� I wanted to take my lowered face, lowered
eyes, my defeated useless body far away. The night�s diffidence, shame, fear and
distaste gripped me even in the morning. At the same time, there was guilt. Rudra
appeared to be Rudra, not my husband. On the way to Segun Gardens, he only said,
�You need not have done all that drama at night.� He did not say anything else.
Nor did I. I sat silently thinking of the night. Instead of this, if only we had
spent the whole night chatting, or reading poetry, and bickered a little
amorously, or exchanged two unadulterated kisses!
a

Returning that morning to Segun Gardens, I told Chhotda in a shaking voice, �I was
at Rokeya Hall in Jhunu khala�s room.�
a

�Jhunu khala does not stay in the Hall anymore,� said Chhotda. After her marriage,
the husband and wife had rented a room in one of the University�s houses. This
Chhotda knew.
C

�S
She was there yesterday.�

�S
She hasn�t given up her room yet, or what?�

�N
No.�

�H
Hmm. Didn�t you go to meet your friend? Did you meet her?�

�H
Hmm.�
�What�s her name?�

�Nadira.�

�Nadira? Isn�t she that Ramkrishna Mission Road girl?�

�Yes.�

�Didn�t you say one day that she had taken admission in Jehangirnagar?�

�Yesterday, she had come to meet Asma at Rokeya Hall. She stayed the night.�

�Which one is Asma? Isn�t she Hashimuddin�s daughter?�

�Yes.�

�Does she study at Dhaka University?�

�Yes.�

�Weren�t you supposed to pick up your certificate?�

�Yes. I will.�

To give my shaking voice a rest I went to my room without going into details and
lay down thinking of the night which had been like a nightmare. The last night.
Rudra said I was being dramatic. Was that a drama! Hurt pride made we weep
silently. My whole body was paining, as though I had just returned from a tiger�s
den. My crotch was in agony whenever I had to walk. I wasn�t even able to urinate
without pain. My breasts felt like two mounds of stone. The red kiss-marks were
throbbing, and tender to the touch. Ever since I signed the marriage papers, Rudra
had been talking of spending one night together. He did not bite any less even
before I signed the papers. He had always jumped on me to kiss me and touch my
breasts, but I had managed to escape and save myself. Masood�s house had
disallowed us, anticipating a tussle. Because of this ban he showed a lot of anger
and offense with me. Why a night was so invaluable to Rudra was something I had
not understood. I had told him often that all the nights of our life were yet to
come, let�s wait for them. The pain of waiting did result in a kind of happiness
as well. No, Rudra would not wait. There was no joy in waiting, he said. The more
I said let�s love each other, the more Rudra would say let�s go to bed. Rudra
behaved as hungrily as a beggar. He wanted it today. Just now. He had to have it
right now or he couldn�t take it anymore. When he came to Mymensingh, he went mad
wanting a private room. Knowing it was not possible for me to procure one he still
took offense at why I hadn�t found one. Not just offense, he even showed his
anger. He had to spend at least one night with me. One night had been spent,
ultimately, a nightmarish night. I had never thought of my life in this way. I
felt hurt, angry. I had wanted to throw Rudra away. But I had found my hands did
not move to do so, as though I was handicapped. I had been forced to admit defeat
only to this paper, to my signature, because signing on that paper had meant
marriage! But I did love Rudra! I thought. My thoughts did not leave me in peace
for a second.

I also thought of the lie I had told Chhotda. Chhotda may have thought that after
meeting Jhunu khala, since I was meeting my old school friend after so long, our
talk must have extended far into the night, and that perforce, I had spent the
rest of the night in Jhunu khala�s old room, sleeping. What Chhotda had thought
who knows, but he did not let me out of sight and did not allow me to meet any
friends on my own. He took me personally to the Registrar�s Building and procured
the certificate. And after two days he escorted me back to Mymensingh.
t

Rudra had said later that I did not have complete trust in him. I still had doubts
in my mind. I was really hurt on hearing this. I told him it was because I trusted
him, because I completely trusted him that I loved him. The most important thing
required in love was trust. If there was even a thread of doubt in this trust, one
could like, but not love. Rudra had written, �Am I such an unfortunate person,
that I have to appropriate everything by force? I have to pay for everything I
take? What little can be taken by force I have, what little to take is proper, I
have. But what I am entitled to, what I alone should get, even if I never get it,
I will never take it by force, I will not earn it. I never question trust and
love. What I meant by complete trust was something else, there is no reason for
you not to understand that.�
y

Almost a year and a half after this episode, Rudra wrote, �Beloved wife, do you
know what has happened this time? Seeing you wearing a sari for the first time, I
felt I was seeing you for the very first time today. As though you were someone
else, a completely different person, a new human being. In the past long years I
have liked different things about you, but this time is different. An entirely
unknown kind of joy. I felt that our love was born only this time. As though all
these days were only a rehearsal. Today we were performing on stage.�
t

In a year and a half, Rudra had visited Mymensingh at two or three month
intervals. Because I did not address him, in anger he had written letters without
addressing me for quite a few months. Our time had passed in the Press Club
canteen. When we had to leave the canteen, we had searched for places here and
there, where we could talk. As usual finding a place had proved beyond me. At
Rudra�s request I went to meet him wearing a sari. I didn�t know how to wear a
sari very well. Taking help from Yasmin I wore one of Ma�s saris and left the
house saying I was going for a friend�s birthday. That day Rudra took advantage of
some seclusion, and used the opportunity to kiss me twice or thrice, and touch my
breasts. Back home, he had written that letter.
b

�Y
You are laughing to yourself, aren�t you?

Actually, I really felt that finally our love affair had begun. As though all
these days we had merely touched each other; today we could feel the heat of each
other�s bodies. We could understand the beats of our hearts. Today it feels as
though on no occasion earlier had we felt so satisfied. You are slowly becoming
informal, and easier to read. I seem now to be able to recognize a strange world.
All these days, I have been waiting for you to lose your inhibitions. You will now
become more informal and natural. You will now grow more liberated. No one will
have such a beautiful home of love as we will � you just watch. Now, love me a
little please Laxmi, my good girl. No, no, don�t turn your face away. Look, look
at my eyes. What is there to be so shy about? I am someone you have known for so
long. These eyes, these brows, this forehead, this face and body you have touched
so many times. So, why are you feeling shy? Kiss me. Come on � kiss me.
s

Little by little I will control myself. If, in this way you give me a little love,
you will see I will become just what your heart desires. Or you will become mine.
In reality, love must mean making two hearts one. I feel like standing on the
roads and shouting out to everyone, �Listen you all, I have found the one I love;
we have been able to become one.� Stay good, my beloved. Stay well, my life. Love,
love, love, Your Rudra.�
l
CHAPTER XVI
C

C
Changes

Aubokash had completely changed. Yasmin had passed her SSC and had secured a first
class, �distinction� in Chemistry. Thanks to the �distinction�, Yasmin was treated
better at home than I was. Baba dreamt of making her a doctor. Baba had not
objected to her joining Anandamohan either. Yasmin seemed to have suddenly grown
up. She was no more the little child she had been. When we two sisters went out
together, those who didn�t know Yasmin, assumed she was my elder sister. This was
because she looked bigger than me. At whatever age I started wearing an odhna,
though only outside, Yasmin had to start wearing one much earlier. As the shape of
her chest changed and became awkward, she had like me, begun to walk with a hunch.
After all, this was the price one paid for not wearing an odhna. Boxing her on her
hunched back, Ma said �Stand straight. Go and wear your odhna, at least you can
walk straight. Why are you ashamed to wear an odhna now that you are grown up?�
Even though she looked older than me, when the question arose regarding who was
the prettier of the two of us, the scales were tipped on my side. Yasmin privately
suffered because of her poor looks and physically overdeveloped body. Yet if our
eyes were compared, she would be a deer and I an elephant. Next to her thick black
hair, mine was extremely fine. But Yasmin never stopped grumbling about her small
nose, her small chin and her full lips. Within her a jealousy was born secretly. I
did not feel any jealousy; instead I wanted to keep her away from all the
temptations, mistakes and untruths of the world. I definitely didn�t want Yasmin
to cause Baba the kind of sorrow that I was going to be responsible for. An
imaginary butterfly alighted on my eyes and said Yasmin would study in medical
college, and become a greater doctor than I would be. She would marry some
handsome doctor boy like Habibullah. Maybe this would reduce Baba-Ma�s unhappiness
to some extent. Yasmin�s jealousy pained and distressed me a lot. I noticed she
was moving away from me. That Yasmin who had remained stuck to me, now attached
herself to Dada�s wife. She went to college and the rest of the time she swam
along with Dada�s wife in a spate of humour and mirth. If I tried to find out
about her studies, she looked at me as though I was her worst enemy. Chhotda was
not in Aubokash anymore. I did not need to hide from Baba for going to cultural
functions with him or get Ma to reluctantly give her permission. Chhotda too had
changed from being a spoilt, uneducated, prematurely married boy who would roam
around aimlessly to some one different. He was no longer the bohemian. He was now
given the big piri, a low stool, to sit on. He no longer kept up with what was
happening in town and where, whether a play, dance or song was being performed.
Dada was there, but as good as non-existent. Of all the people at home, Dada had
changed the most. He did not bother himself with literature or culture anymore.
When the topic of Shenjuti came up, he never again offered, �Go, I will get it
printed.� He did not bother about anyone else in the household. He had no more
interest in listening to songs, taking photographs, buying clothes and shoes for
himself, or even applying expensive perfumes. He was now busy buying saris and
jewellery for his wife. Very often he bought a sari and came home, showed us the
sari, we admired it, saying it was very nice, and would suit his wife very well.
Dada was also busy attending invitations for meals at the homes of his in-laws.
Now guests at home were mostly Haseena�s sister, brother-in-law, brother, sister-
in-law etc. He liked more to discuss the merits or otherwise of the various
relatives. Who was nice, who not so, who spoke too much, who little, who was
beautiful to look at, who wasn�t, who had the most wealth, who was poverty
stricken. Haseena�s figure was like a bamboo pole. Ma would cook tasty dishes
everyday and feed her. Almost every evening Haseena went out with Dada. The rest
of the time she spent the afternoon sitting in the verandah, raw Halud, turmeric,
paste applied to her face. She took long baths, ate five or six times a day, and
slept. But still she was a novelty at home, and our enthusiasm did not wane,
especially not Yasmin�s. Yasmin clung to Haseena, slept next to her a hand cupping
Haseena�s breasts like a nursing baby. Seeing this I moved away in shame and
standing at a distance told Haseena, �Don�t you have any shame?� She replied,
�Once you are married, are you left with any?" Ma too was married, but she never
left her breasts uncovered. Geeta too never did. Geeta, of course, had very small
breasts, and had to stuff her brassieres with cotton wool. Since Haseena neither
knew how to wear saris properly, or dress up nicely before going out, Yasmin made
her wear her sari, something she had learnt to do, having often watched Geeta. She
made up Haseena�s face; this too she had learnt from Geeta. Initially, I called
Haseena by her name. She, however, was not pleased at this and ordered me to call
her Boudi. Yasmin happily called her Boudi. She went with her Boudi and visited
Boudi�s sister�s house, or brother�s house. When Boudi went to buy saris, Yasmin
went with her to help her choose. If she had to buy shoes, Yasmin would tell Dada
to buy the most expensive shoes in the market for her. It was not possible for me
to call a college mate of mine Boudi. After Haseena objected to being called by
her name, what happened to me was that I stopped calling her even Haseena. �Hey
listen, Ayee Dada�s wife, listen to me,� was the way I made do. Dada disliked the
name �Haseena� a lot. He dropped the Haseena from Haseena Mumtaz, and taking the
Mum from Mumtaz, made Mum into Mumu, and began calling Haseena, Mumu. Dada now
never thought of buying anything for Ma, or for Yasmin and me. When Id came, he
bought the most expensive saris in the market for Haseena. After repeated requests
to buy Ma a sari, he would, possibly just out of a sheer feeling of obligation ,
the night before Id, buy her a cheap cotton sari. Ma could detect in this gift,
the lack of love he had for her earlier. We, too, could feel it. That he was not
giving anything to Yasmin and me even out of the sheer propriety of things was
also something we never questioned or complained about. This was because we
thought that this was the system. Now that Dada had a wife, he would give her
everything. Seeing his wife happy, made us happy. If she smiled, Dada smiled, too.
We didn�t pick Dada�s pockets any more. After Chhotda left, Yasmin and I had, for
a long time, taken up the task on our own steam. But now there was a wife guarding
his room. Haseena didn�t like it if Dada spent even two paise on anyone else at
home. Dada�s money, Dada�s belongings were considered by Haseena as her own. While
removing the glassware bought by Dada from our collection, she remarked, �I have
to remove mine and keep mine separate. These shouldn�t get used!� Anu�s mother
went to keep the water bottles, in the fridge bought by Dada, as she had always
done. Haseena now stopped her and said, �If you have to touch my fridge, you must
first ask for my permission.� Then, wiping the fridge with her own hands, she
added, �Actually a fridge should be handled by a single person. If so many people
handle this fridge, then my fridge will stop working in a few days.� Hearing
Haseena using the word �my� made me feel as though there were two groups of people
in the house. In one group were Baba, Ma, me and Yasmin, and in the other, Dada
and Haseena. Riazzuddin�s son, Joynal, stayed in the tin shed, and studied in the
town school. Whenever Haseena saw Joynal she would say, �Ayee boy, get me a glass
of water� or �Ayee boy, run and get me a rickshaw.� Joynal brought water for her.
Ran to call her a rickshaw. Haseena would be wearing a sari, and Joynal may have
been close by. �Ayee boy, just polish my shoes, will you?� Joynal, sitting at her
feet, would wipe Haseena�s shoes with a soft cloth. Ma said one day, �Don�t order
Joynal around like this, Bouma. Joynal is not a servant of the house. He is
Noman�s own first cousin, his Chacha�s son.� Haseena, in her grating voice, said,
�If I don�t tell him, whom do I ask? The one maid there is, is always in the
kitchen. She is never available.�
k

�A
Anu�s mother works the whole day.�

�What work does she do the whole day that she has no time to do anything for me?�

�Ask Anu�s Ma for whatever you want. Has she ever said she won�t do what you ask
her to do?�
After this, Haseena got a maid from Arjunkhila, called Phulera. She was to wipe
her shoes, draw her bath water, keep her towel and soap in the bathroom before she
entered, and if Haseena was lying down she was to pick lice from her hair. Even
though it was one house and everyone�s food was cooked on one stove, gradually two
households began to emerge. We all began to notice that Haseena�s voice was not
only coarse, it was also very loud. In this house only Baba�s voice had the
authority to rise to this level.
a

Not being able to tolerate Haseena�s sitting idle any longer Baba got her admitted
to the Teacher Training College. Books, copies, stationery, whatever was required
he bought for her, and arranged a table for her in the room. Haseena was enjoying
not having to study after marriage. Dada too didn�t care. But Baba did. He advised
his daughter-in-law to pay attention to her studies just like he had advised his
own daughters. The wise men�s sayings were showered on Haseena now, as though she
was another daughter of Baba. However she had one advantage. She did not have to
face Baba�s slaps and boxes, canings and whipping. Ma, too, took more care to feed
Haseena, than she took to feed us. Haseena had an advantage here, too. She never
got scolded or abused by Ma as we were. The people of the house were all engaged
in serving Haseena, the most devoted was Dada. To observe their honeymoon, Dada
had taken his wife for a trip to Coxbazar. Not by train, but by aeroplane. They
had stayed, at a big hotel on the sea shore, slept on soft beds, and were served
all their meals in their room. Haseena was living in the lap of luxury, I was
aware. I didn�t think she could have imagined such luxury before her marriage.
a

Life was changing. At one time I used to eat my meals sitting on a piri next to
the stove. Later on, there was a mat on the bedroom floor, then an ordinary table
in the dining room. Gradually the table became bigger, more sleek, and the chair
backs rose higher than peoples� heads. The cane sofas were replaced by wooden
ones. The hurricane lights changed to electric lights, the hand fans to electric
ones, the tin plates to bone china ones. I used to grind coal into powder and
brush my teeth, picking up the coal powder on my fingers, then with the twigs of
the neem tree, softening the edges of the twigs by crushing them with my teeth,
then came toothpaste, Colgate from the Tibbot company. Now instead of old sari
pieces or soft rags, I was using cotton pads bought from the market during my
menstrual periods. During the Id-ul-Azha, a whole cow was sacrificed. All this
meat was boiled with salt and halud and kept in big vessels. Whenever the meat
needed to be cooked, the boiled meat pieces were saut�ed in oil and spices, and a
lot of it was put in the sun to be preserved as dried and seasoned meat. The meat
pieces were pierced in the center and strung up on lines in the sun. Just before
dusk, just like dried clothes were collected from lines, the sun dried meat too
was collected. The next morning they were put in the sun again. With the arrival
of the fridge, this ritual was abandoned. Now the meat was not boiled with salt
and turmeric and kept, nor was dried meat prepared that much, the meat now went
into the freezer compartment of the refrigerator. Various devices had come into
the house. Earlier the radio was the only thing we could rely on, now there was
the television, first black and white, then colour. Earlier there was only the
audio player, now there was both audio and visual. One did not have to go outside
the home to see theatre or cinema; one could sit at home and watch. Even songs and
dances were available at the press of a button. To watch any major cricket or
football match one did not have to run to the play grounds, that too was available
at the press of a button. Even to take a photograph, it was not necessary to go to
a studio. By purchasing a camera, one could take as many photographs, in as many
poses, as one wanted. Life had changed a lot. There were many things which were
not the same as before. As I moved on I did not look back too much, as though the
life I had left behind was a forgettable one. Only one thing remained the same as
before. Rice was cooked at home thrice a day, it still was. Collecting the leaves
and twigs falling in the courtyard the earthen chullah had to be lit. The fire
would repeatedly get extinguished. Every time it did, you had to blow air into it,
and with every puff, smoke would make your eyes water, your hair float and Ma
would totally disappear in the cloud of smoke. Once the fire was lit the smoke
would float away, and once it had cleared, Ma could be seen again, black grime on
her cheeks, hands and forehead. Seeing this begrimed horrible Ma did not surprise
anyone at home. Ma was this way in any case, that�s how everyone had seen her all
along. Next to the chullah, this soot covered Ma would cook. Before anyone could
feel hungry she would serve a plate to each one. That was why she was Ma. Life was
changing, but Ma�s earthen chullah did not. Since my birth, I had watched Ma
sitting next to the chullah, enkindling the dried leaves and blowing into the
stove to light the fire. There was no change in this.

Chhotda informed us of Geeta�s date of delivery, and asked that Ma should reach
Dhaka in time. Ma went to Dhaka by bus, carrying small kantha sheets, and little
dresses made of fine cloth. Geeta gave birth to a nine pound baby boy at T.A.
Chowdhury�s Clinic in Chamelibagh, on 17th June. After her return from the clinic,
she continued to rest the whole day, and used ointment to remove the stretch marks
on her stomach. Ma cooked and fed Geeta, heated her bath water, massaged her
sluggish body. Placing the baby in Geeta�s lap, she begged her, �Try and feed the
baby with your own breast milk, Afroza. Mother�s milk is very beneficial to a
child.� Geeta had tried before, but no beneficial milk had emerged from her
breasts for the baby. Apart from all this, Ma with great enthusiasm worked away
feeding the baby, bathing him, putting him to sleep, and changing his kanthas.
Geeta�s mother, mashi, sister and brother came to see the baby and stayed on for a
week. Ma laughed and talked to the dark red vermilion, sindhur and conch-shell
bangle wearing mother of Geeta, telling herself that, so what if she was a Hindu,
she was after all the baby�s Nani. She, too, had the right to see the baby. Ma
single handedly looked after and cared for the baby, the baby�s mother, the baby�s
grand mother, mama and mashi. This carried on for three months, after which
explaining and handing over the care of the baby to his parents, Ma said, �Now
bring up your son yourselves, I am going to Mymensingh.� When Ma was packing her
clothes into a bag, Geeta plucked herself out of her long rest, and announced that
she would be going back to work; she did not like sitting at home.

�Then who will look after the baby?� Chhotda asked.

In an indifferent manner, Geeta said, �How do I know! He�s your baby, you should
know!�

Chhotda sat with a gloomy face in the room. If Geeta went off to work, then who
would the baby stay with?

�Keep a maid. Let her look after the baby�, Geeta�s voice was detached.

Chhotda sat by Geeta�s head and stroked her hair and sang Geeta, Geeta, Geeta, O,
Geeta the whole afternoon. Then he put his mouth close to her ears and whispered.
For a long time he tried to turn her face and kiss her. In the evening Geeta wore
a sari, and went out with Chhotda. They came back with a sari for Ma. Putting the
sari in Ma�s hands, she said, �You have worked a lot for your son, take this
sari.�

Chhotda said, �Geeta has chosen the sari. It is the best Tangail sari.�

Ma took the sari in her hands and said, �Yes, it is a very nice sari,� and kept it
on the bed. Moving away the straggly hair on her forehead, Ma said, �Baba Kamaal,
can you put me into the bus tomorrow?�

�Where will you go?�

�M
Mymensingh.�

�If you go to Mymensingh, who will the baby stay with? Geeta will be going to
office from tomorrow.�
o

Drooping with exhaustion, Ma said in a broken voice, �I have stayed for a long
time. Let me go now.�
t

�T
Then take the baby with you, Ma. Take him to Mymensingh.�

Ma was shocked to hear the proposal. How could this be done? For how long was this
going to be! Neither Chhotda nor Geeta specified the time period. Geeta was clear
� she was going to work, come what may, she was not going to give up her work for
the baby. Now, if Ma stayed in this house and looked after the baby, fine,
otherwise let her take him to Mymensingh and do so.
o

The next day Ma returned to Mymensingh with the baby in her arms. A smile appeared
on Geeta�s gloomy face.
o

When Ma returned to Aubokash with the baby, no one noticed her tired face after
all the sleepless nights. Everyone only noticed the lovely baby adorned with a
black dot to ward off the evil eye. Such a small baby had never lived in Aubokash.
Yasmin and I jumped to take the baby in our laps. One could not easily touch the
baby. One had to bathe and wear clean clothes, only then could one carry the baby.
This baby was not fated to be brought up in the dust and slush like us. Everything
he used, even the toys which he had in advance of his age, were bought from
abroad. Chhotda puffing up his chest, nose and whatever else he could, added, �I
get the Johnson�s baby lotion and powder from London�s Mother Care, the milk food
from Singapore, and baby clothes from Dubai.�
f

The baby was given Baba�s room, Baba�s bed. Baba placed another cot for himself in
the corner of the room. The windows of the room were opened. Even if Baba�s body
didn�t require it, the baby required light and air. Baba�s room was washed,
cleaned and shining. On a table Ma arranged all paraphernalia required to feed the
baby. A juicer to squeeze oranges, a mixer to liquidate greens, vegetables, fish
and meat, a tin of imported milk powder, along with other cereals from abroad, an
imported feeder, bowl and spoon. The baby�s clothes and toys were put into the
cupboard. The baby required to be fed chicken soup everyday. Baba bought twelve
chicks and sent them across. For his first grandson, Baba became the fabled
�B
Benevolent Harish Chandra.�

Dada�s beloved Mumu looked at all the imported baby things with wide eyes. Ma was
not enthusiastic about imported things. Ma had no idea how far one had to go to
reach abroad. Foreign countries maybe some major places, which were way across
seven seas and thirteen rivers. But Ma kept aside the imported silk clothes, made
the baby wear local cotton ones. In a warm country, was there anything as
comfortable as cotton! Removing all the Ceralac, Feralac and all other varieties
of imported powdered foods, Ma herself cooked fresh tomatoes, carrots, greens into
a soft mass and fed the child. Throwing away the packets of fruit juices, she
squeezed juice out of fresh fruits bought in the market, for the baby. Ma believed
that powdered milk caused stomach upsets in babies. She personally went to the
other bank of the Brahmaputra and told Bhagirathi�s mother that she would need
pure cow�s milk for her grandson from now on. Bhagirathi�s Ma began delivering
half-a-ser of milk everyday. The baby was growing up at home like a prince. Ma had
no sleep, nor did Baba to a great extent. Yasmin and I, even though we didn�t lose
sleep, began to spend most of our time with the baby. Everything was running
smoothly, but the baby did need a name. Could one continue to call the baby
Monita, Shonata, Babuta and such like! Baba made arrangements for Akika, the
baby�s naming ceremony. We each called our friends; Chhotda and Geeta, too, were
invited. On the day of the Akika ceremony, a gigantic bull was sacrificed. Cooks
were brought, and after digging a huge hole under the wood apple tree, huge
vessels of pulao and meat were cooked. The Akika ceremony was conducted with great
pomp. Baba took out a paper from his panjabi pocket, and read out the name of the
baby.

�The pet name is Suhrid, and the proper name Alimul Reza.�

�What? Alimul Reza?� Yasmin and I looked at each other�s faces. My lips, nose and
eyebrows became distorted.

�What is this Alimul Reza? What kind of a name is this? Does anyone have Arabic
names nowadays?�

Baba in a hard voice said, �They do.�

I had hoped for a lovely Bengali name. I had wanted to name him Hriday, Hriday
Samudra, Heart of the Sea. My wishes had no value especially in such an important
field as name keeping. Ma said, �He got this Alimul Reza name from some Peer.�

�Which Peer?�

�Razia Begum�s Peer. He got the tabeez for your head also from her.�

After about two months, Chhotda and Geeta came to see Suhrid. Leaving a whole pile
of imported things, and taking various snaps carrying the baby in different poses,
they left for Dhaka that very evening. Of course, they returned via Peonpara.
Suhrid was growing up in the tender care of Ma. She was busy day and night. She
had no time to eat or bathe. Her sari was always shabby and hair uncombed. For
Suhrid�s care a maid called Nargis had been employed. She washed Suhrid�s
crockery, boiled his drinking water, washed his nappies and clothes and yet Ma did
not get rest even for a minute. A healthy and glowing Suhrid was growing up in
Ma�s care. The baby advertised in the Glaxo Company calendar was not as lovely as
Suhrid was growing up to be. Before he learnt to call �Ma�, he learnt to say �Da
Da, Dadu.� Haseena looked askance at the love and care given to Suhrid. Dada, too.
Even though Suhrid was growing up with so much love and care, he seemed to be
suffering from an illness. When he urinated he screamed at the top of his voice.
The doctor examined him and said surgery was required. Baba and I took Suhrid to
the hospital. At home Ma loudly wailed in anxiety. The operation theatre resounded
with Suhrid�s screams. Standing outside, even my eyes had tears pouring down them.
When Chhotda and Geeta came next month, I thought they, too, would cry on hearing
of Suhrid�s agony. But when they came, just as I began to give a detailed
description of how this tiny mite had been writhing in agony, Chhotda stopped me
midway and said, �He�s become a true Mussalman; that�s a good thing.� I didn�t
have the privilege of hearing even a tiny commiserating sound of �Aha�. In a heavy
voice, I said, �This was not a circumcision. This was phymesis that requires this
operation.�

�Let�s play cards,� said Chhotda pulling me with one hand and Geeta with the
other, towards the bedroom.

While we were playing cards in this room, Ma was putting Suhrid to sleep in the
other, singing lullabies. He was unable to sleep, and was restless, with the onset
of a fever. Ma was putting cold compresses on him. Hearing about the fever, Yasmin
and I ran out abandoning the game. A message was sent to Baba. He came and checked
Suhrid�s fever. He went back speedily to the Pharmacy to get the medicines. I told
Geeta and Chhotda, �Suhrid�s body is burning with fever.� Wrinkling her forehead,
Geeta asked, �How did he get this fever? Did you feed him something stale?�

�Stale? Are you mad? Ma washes the feeding bottles seven times in boiling water.�

Raising her eyes to her forehead, Geeta asked in a tone which implied that she was
hearing for the first time that anything could be washed seven times, �She washes
them seven times?� Ma actually did so. She was so scared the baby would get a
stomach upset or fever. Suhrid very easily fell sick.

�Go, why don�t you go to Suhrid for a while? Go, and see him,� I told Geeta.
Having no alternative, Geeta left the cards and went to sit by Suhrid. But within
two minutes, she lay down, and went to sleep. Finally she had to come to another
bed and sleep. Ma stayed awake the whole night with the feverish Suhrid.

After Suhrid had spent three months at Aubokash, Haseena had to go to the
hospital. She was to have a baby. Dada�s friends were doctors and Baba�s friends
were professors, so it was very convenient. After the delivery, Dada fed all the
doctors not just sweets, but Biryani in the hospital cabin, for the mouse-like
little boy. I took my classmates and went and ate the Biryani. The mouse was
brought back to Aubokash. Haseena made arrangements for her own baby to be cared
for in exactly the same away as Suhrid was taken care of. A maid was brought from
Arjunkhila to look after the baby. The new maid carried the baby around, and
washed the nappies and clothes of the new baby. There were now four maids in the
house. Nargis and Jharna were there for Suhrid and the new baby Shubho. To do the
work for the elders, the cooking, the washing, the cleaning of the house there was
Anu�s Ma and Sufi. Another called Phulera, brought from Arjunkhila, was there to
attend to Haseena�s personal chores. One day Baba sat down to count the maids.
After finishing his count he said, �One man has to provide meals for so many
people! Get rid of them.�

�Who is your father asking to get rid of? Is it Jharna?� Haseena asked
insinuatingly.

Dada said, �He did not mean Jharna.�

�Before Jharna came, no head count was done!�

�Baba does a head count quite often.�

�Did he count after Nargis joined?�

�That�s a point! He didn�t.�

�Try to understand the ways of this world a little.�

�You think I don�t understand?�

�No, you certainly don�t. If you did, you could have said something. Suhrid, it
appears is their only grandson. What percentage of what is done for Suhrid is done
for Shubho? Have you ever bothered to calculate?�

Dada kept quiet. Maybe he was trying to gauge the ways of this world.

The rough voice was rising in pitch. �Go, the baby�s powder is required, go get
it.�

�What are you saying Mumu? I just got powder yesterday!�

�It�s rubbish. It makes the face become rough. Get Johnson�s.�

�The Johnson�s baby powder available in the market is a duplicate. They stuff the
containers with flour. The Tibbot powder is good.�

�This is really surprising! Am I going to use local stuff for Shubho now? Are you
absolutely mad? Don�t you see what care is being given to another child before
your very eyes? Are any local products being used in that room?�

�If I went abroad like Kamaal, maybe I too could have got foreign goods like him.
The other day I bought Poison scent, Made in France, but the dirty fellows, had
filled the bottle with Noorani Attar. Do you know what these hawkers who buy empty
bottles do? They take the bottles, and sell them at Jinjirae. You know, everything
available at Jinjirae is imitation.�

Giving Haseena a half-used container of Johnson�s Baby powder, Ma said, �My four
children have grown up on local talcum powders, people in the locality seeing
their skins have asked what do I apply that they have such beautiful complexions.�

Haseena did not take the talc. There was no container that was full. Ma promised
to ask Chhotda the next time he came, to get foreign talc for Shubho. On the day
of the powder incident, Yasmin returned from college and finding Jharna near by
said, �Get me a glass of water, will you Jharna?�

Jharna walked around here and there, but did not get the water.

�Kire, aren�t you getting some water?�

�I am employed for the baby�s work. Mami has asked me not to do any other work.
You have Nargis, tell her.�

For the elders, instead of two maids there was now only one. This had not happened
because of Baba�s making a noise about reducing the staff. Anu�s Ma had left on
her own. This kind of disappearance was not a very uncommon event. If one
disappeared, another appeared. Now Nargis, after finishing the baby�s work, had to
do the elders� work as well. From dawn to dusk Nargis was mopping the floors. She
was only thirteen years of age. Her lips and skin were dry as wood, a horrid stink
emanated from her body. Leaving the mopping, �horrid stink� ran to the tap, filled
a glass of water and gave it to Yasmin. �Horrid stink� returned to the room.

�Kire, Nargis, don�t you have a bath?�

�I do.�

Any questions about food or bathing made her bend her head in shame.

�Kire, have you eaten, Nargis?�

�I�ll just finish mopping the rooms and go to eat.�

�It is almost dusk, haven�t you had your lunch as yet?�

�Aren�t you hungry?� I asked.

�No, I�m not. I have eaten!�

�When did you eat?�

�I had breakfast in the morning.�

�Do you every day have your lunch in the evening?�

�No, no. What are you saying, Apa? I washed the clothes. That�s why I�ve got a
little late today.�

My eyes filled with sympathy, my mind became distressed.

My anger only served to increase the heat which was making Ma sweat, who was
sitting next to the stove, boiling the milk.

�Don�t you even give Nargis time to bathe and eat?�

Ma exploded, saying, �Are you keeping track of when she eats and has a bath! She
is such a slow girl; she takes ten minutes to wash one bottle. She herself said
she would eat after mopping the floors.�

That evening Nargis never managed to eat her meal. By the time she did it was
twelve o�clock at night. I felt pity for the girl. The very next morning she was
rolling out rotis in the kitchen. As soon as she heard my call for tea, she came
and stood before me with a cup. I jumped up in shock when I saw her face, which
was covered with red boils.

�Kire what�s wrong with you, do you have measles?�

�No, nothing is wrong!�

�What are all these marks on your face?�

�Nothing,� said Nargis, laughing and covering her face with her hands.

Removing her hands, I examined the marks on her face. There were a few hundred
eruptions on the face, making it look hideous. There were boils on her arms and
legs as well.

�You have measles.�

�No, why should I get measles? What are you saying, Apa? Just a couple of mosquito
bites.�

�Mosquitoes have bitten you in this way?�

Ma had come to give Suhrid�s soiled sheets to Nargis. She had to go and wash them
at the taps. Sufi would now roll out the rotis.

�Can�t you give Nargis a mosquito net, Ma? Her face is in a terrible shape!�

�She has a net. Why doesn�t she use it?� said Ma in an unconcerned voice.

�I do hang up the net. The mosquitoes enter through the one or two holes in it.
Nothing much,� Nargis kept her cheeks hidden, her two hands piled with clothes.

�I have told her to mend the torn net, but she�s the laziest of the lazy,� said
Ma.
That night when Nargis had laid out a torn kantha on which to lie down, it was
very late. I pulled her up and said, �Go and hang the net and sleep.� Sleepy-eyed,
she went to the kitchen and got the net from a shelf. Nargis started putting up
the torn net, one loop on a chair, another on a bolt. I counted and found ninety-
eight holes in the net. There was no difference between using such a net and not
using one at all.

There were more new pimples on Nargis� face. The next day I again took up the
question of the net.

Ma was feeding Suhrid milk, while he was lying on her legs. Going close, I told
her while fondling Suhrid�s cheeks, �Ma, are there no other nets except that torn
one? Have you seen Nargis� face?�

�Wouldn�t I have given another net if there had been one? Does your father buy
anything? I manage by mending all the torn mosquito nets. If I were to say the
maid needs a net, he would turn around and say awful things to me. He has bought a
new mosquito net for Suhrid�s bed. Otherwise I would have had to make do with a
torn one.�

�Then tell him I need a new net for my bed. Then I will use the new one, and give
the old one to the maids. Even Sufi is being bitten by mosquitoes.�

�You don�t know your father! He will never buy anything. He sends all his money
away. Even yesterday Riazzuddin came and took money.�

Suhrid suddenly burped, and vomited.

Ma�s temper flared. �This boy can�t stomach anything, whatever I feed him he
vomits it out.�

Ma threw the bottle away. Nargis brought some soup and said softly, �Khala, will
you give him soup now?�

�Throw it away. What is the point of feeding him? He throws up everything.�

I knew that whatever Ma might say, she would again enthusiastically start feeding
either soup or milk to the baby. Again he would throw up, and again she would feed
him. In Ma�s extreme care the boy was growing nice and roly-poly.

Chhotda brought Geeta to see �roly-poly� one day. After roaming all over town the
whole day and visiting Peonpara, he returned home in the evening and happily said,
�We will have to leave tomorrow. I have a flight day after.�

�As soon as you come, you say you are leaving,� said Ma. �You didn�t even take
Suhrid in your lap once.�

�He doesn�t come to me, how can I pet him?�

Suhrid did not like going to anyone except Ma, Baba, Yasmin and me. He turned his
face away, even when his own parents visited. Even if Chhotda didn�t mind this,
Geeta did.

�My own son and he doesn�t even look at me!�

Ma laughed and said, �He sees us before his eyes all the time, that�s why. You
must come more frequently. Then he will recognise you.�
In the morning, Ma ran to the kitchen to make breakfast for Chhotda � goat meat
and paranthas fried in ghee. Whenever Chhotda and all visited, fancy food was
cooked. The Chhotda whom Baba had wanted to disinherit, was now lovingly made to
sit next to him and fondly called, �My Baba, my son.� The Chhotda who used to
steal Dada�s clothes and wear them, now wore clothes which made Dada�s eyes shine.
He would say, �Bah! That�s a lovely shirt! Get me a shirt like this, will you!�
The Chhotda who used to beg one or two takas from me, now said �Kire, what news of
your Shenjuti!�
y

�W
What news can there be! No money to print it.�

�G
Give me your manuscript. I will get it printed from Dhaka.�

Chhotda took the manuscript of Shenjuti and went to Dhaka to have it printed. The
manuscript was already prepared. This Shenjuti not only had Rudra�s poems, along
with them, it also had �Those who are young now, this is the best time for them to
go to war,� a poem written by the quiet, solitary poet Helal Hafeez, and also
other poems written by poets from West Bengal. A friend of Rudra called Moinul
Ahsan Saheb, had lately begun writing stories. He wrote wonderful stories. A story
of his, and one of my own, my first in Shenjuti, along with an essay on the past
and present poetry of Sharafuddin Ahmed, Professor of Bangla at Anandamohan
College appeared in Shenjuti. This time I had not designed the cover. I had got it
done by an artist. Before handing the manuscript over to Chhotda, I hurriedly
wrote an editorial. �I was absolutely dejected. There is such a dearth of truth
and beauty in the country, that if you take one step forward to create something
you have to take two steps back. My father says that by harping on Shenjuti I am
destroying my future. Ma sadly says the girl has ruined herself. I was so
desolate, when one person held out his hand in co-operation. My beloved from the
days of my childhood and adolescence. From whose writings I secretly got the
inspiration for my poetry. Into his hands I have bestowed the wealth of my hard
work and dedication � Shenjuti, along with my utmost trust.�
w

Chhotda upheld the pride of my trust in him. He got Shenjuti printed and brought
it back. Of course it took all of three months for it to reach me. Chhotda said,
�I�ve omitted that bearded fellow�s poetry.�

Seeing Shenjuti minus Rudra�s poems made me very unhappy. My first job was to send
ten copies to Rudra�s address. On receipt, he asked for twenty-five more copies.
After the twenty-five, he asked for more. Shenjuti was distributed in Mymensingh.
Giving it for sale in the magazine shop on Station Road, also sold many copies. I
was keen to put together another manuscript for Shenjuti. But where was the time?
The pressure of studies was increasing. Baba said, �If you don�t start preparing
for the finals from now, then you won�t be able to pass.� Baba was not saying
anything wrong. Every year students got stuck in the finals. They were unable to
clear their papers in two chances, sometimes not even in four. Baba had asked
Rajib, a year senior to me, to give me his notes. Rajib was a student who had come
first in every medical exam, a favourite of all the Professors. What could be said
in one word in medical studies was written in a hundred words, in every detail, in
the pile of copies that he came and gave me. My days began to pass pouring over
these details of veins and arteries.
t

Nana was coming over almost every afternoon. Sitting on a chair in the verandah,
he stared at the sun in the courtyard. He continued to stare till Ma came and
called him to sit on a stool either in the sun in the verandah or courtyard. She
then proceeded to scrub and bathe his fair body. Ma was exhausted with looking
after the household and Suhrid. In spite of that, whenever Nana came she would
make him sit in the sun and scrub and bathe him, dress him in a washed lungi of
Baba�s and make him lie down. Nana would go to sleep like a baby. When he woke up,
Ma would bring rice for him to eat, followed by payesh, rice pudding in milk.
While Nana was partaking of his payesh, Baba would return. Embarrassed, Ma would
say, �Bajaan hardly ever comes home, and even when he does, he does not eat
anything, I have finally persuaded him to take some payesh.�

In a cold voice Baba would say, �You are feeding payesh to your father who has
diabetes.�

�Nothing will happen if he eats a little. Bajaan loves sweets.�

I would be immersed in my details. When I rose up from them and went to dispose of
the sherbet Ma gave me in the toilet, I would find Ma sitting holding on to the
door.

�Ki? Have you passed blood due to piles?�

�Yes.�

With her bloodless body Ma would rise to begin sterilizing Suhrid�s feeding
bottles in boiling water. Filling the bottle with milk, Ma would feed him, while
telling him the story of a handsome prince. Once he finished the milk, she would
put him to sleep singing a lullaby about a prince exiled to a forest. At night,
when Baba returned she would say, �Isn�t there any treatment for piles? Whatever
blood I have in my body, is almost all gone!�

Baba would not reply. Once he would peep into my room to check whether I was
studying the veins and arteries or not, or was I either writing poetry or love
letters!

In a plaintive voice Ma would keep saying, �I should be drinking some milk. At

least one banana a day. One egg. If I pass so much blood, there will be nothing
left in me. Should I ask Bhagi�s mother to deliver a quarter kilo of milk for me?�

Baba never replied to any of this.

Suhrid had learnt to crawl. He had learnt to play with all the variety of toys
surrounding him. At every stage of Suhrid�s progress, Yasmin and I were overjoyed.
We snatched him from each other�s arms, to take him out, to rock him around. We
took Suhrid in our laps and sat in the swing on the verandah to swing with him.

Dada sat in the verandah and sang with full-throated ease, �A house of bones is
joined together by a covering of skin.� He had learnt this song from a beggar
singing on the streets of Tangail.

Haseena came out of her room and barked, �Singing won�t do! Go get chicken for
Shubho.�

Dada stopped singing and asked, �Isn�t there any chicken?�

�No, there isn�t. There is no chicken for Shubho.�

Nothing will happen, Mumu, if he doesn�t eat chicken for one day.�

Haseena�s voice rose, the harshness of her tone like a ravens�, �Nothing will
happen, meaning? There is another baby in the house, don�t you see with what care
he is being brought up! Why is there so much neglect regarding your child! Is
there only one grandson? Isn�t Shubho a grandson?�
�Why do you say there is no chicken? There they are walking about in the
courtyard.�

Haseena�s eyes spewed sparks of fire. �There are no baby-chicks.�

�See there, Mumu, there is the cage; there are the baby-chicks. Tell them to
slaughter one.�

�Those are for Suhrid, you know that very well. Baba hasn�t bought any chicken for
your son, has he?�

Hearing the noise, Ma came and poked her nose. �Bouma, what is this you are
saying? Your father-in-law always buys chicken for both the babies. Isn�t soup
always made of two chickens? One for Suhrid, and one for Shubho. Your father-in-
law buys milk, eggs and everything else for both the babies. Shubho and Suhrid are
both his grandsons.�

�Both are grandsons; that even I know. But everyone�s attention is focused only on
one grandson. Who turns to look at Shubho?� Haseena harshly retorted.

�What do you mean by �turns to look�? You are talking such nonsense. Suhrid�s
parents are not here. That is why he has to be looked after. Shubho has his
parents with him.�

Haseena went to her room and changed her sari. �I am going to Parveen Apa�s house.
Ma, look after Shubho, will you?� Saying which, she strutted out without glancing
back once. Ma was then left holding Suhrid in one arm and Shubho in the other.

Dada sang the rest of the song.

Haseena very often visited her so-called cousin, who was actually her own sister,
Parveen. She went to Kusum�s house as well. Kusum had left her own husband, the
Railway School Headmaster, and had married a married man called Karim, who also
had children. Karim looked a lot like a watermelon, all round. So did Kusum. This
round watermelon visited this house very often after Dada�s wedding, and said, �Do
come, you all can visit the Botanical Gardens.� Karim was in a way in charge of
looking after the Botanical Gardens of the Agricultural University. In a way,
because neither was he a botanist, nor a gardener. While visiting one day, I had
got saplings of a variety of flowers. I dug the field and planted them. Thousands
of roses had bloomed. The cherry tree was growing rapidly, and had almost touched
the roof. At sudden intervals I felt a desire for gardening. Once in the garden
bordering the tin shed, I planted coriander saplings. Every morning I would feel
the earth with my fingers and feel disappointed; the plants took so long to grow!
After planting the rose trees, I went every hour to see whether the flowers were
blooming or not. A week passed by, but there was no sign of a rose. Bas, my
enthusiasm was extinguished. Like all the other weeds, the rose trees too
continued to grow tall. One day, on returning from college, I was surprised to
find one red rose blooming. The joy of getting something wished for was not as
much as the joy of getting something unexpectedly!

When Haseena returned, Ma handed over Shubho to his mother. Then dressing Suhrid
up, Ma took him to Nanibari. She had not been there in a long time. My room was
alongside the verandah. Since even whispers in the verandah were audible to me, I
could clearly hear Yasmin walking on the verandah and saying, �Kire, Shubho�s
soiled potty is lying in the verandah since morning, why doesn�t someone remove
it!�
Haseena, who was sitting with her feet up in a chair on the verandah, said, �Why
don�t you remove it?�

�What did you say?�

�I said, why don�t you remove it? Since you can see that it is lying around.�

�Why should I remove it?�

�Don�t you remove Suhrid�s pot?�

�Yes, I do.�

�Then why can�t you remove Shubho�s pot?�

�Why should I remove Shubho�s pot?�

�Why, can�t you remove Shubho�s pot?�

�No, I can�t.�

�You think you can say you can�t? You will have to.�

�I won�t.�

�You will.�

�Why will I have to? Doesn�t Shubho have a maid? What is Jharna doing?�

�Suhrid too has Nargis. Yet you all still remove Suhrid�s pot. You all are
Suhrid�s servants.�

�Yes, servants. We are Suhrid�s servants, good for us.�

�You will be Shubho�s servants as well.�

�Why should we?�

�You will have to.�

�Just because you say so?�

�Yes, just because I say so.�

�What did you say?�

�Exactly what I said.�

�Say it again.�

�If you can eat Suhrid�s potty, you have to eat Shubho�s as well.�

Yasmin now kicked Shubho�s potty into the courtyard. Haseena flew at her and
pulling Yasmin�s hair said, �Go pick up the pot.� Yasmin too giving a yank to
Haseena�s hair, said, �You pick it up.�

Hearing the noise, I left my veins and arteries and came and stood at the door.
Seeing the mutual hair pulling, I insinuated between them and tried to free
Yasmin. The three of us struggled with each other. From somewhere, in the middle
of all this, a suited-booted Dada flew in and descended over Yasmin and me.
Holding Yasmin�s hair strongly by the fist, he pulled her all the way to the
courtyard and threw her down in the center where the soiled pot was lying
upturned. Haseena ran towards the flattened Yasmin, and scratching her face and
chest, she began to thrash her on her back. Yasmin, lying face down on the
macadam, was keener to throw Haseena on the pot than free herself. Haseena pushed
her face into the pot with both hands. Moving away her face, Yasmin caught hold of
Haseena�s leg with her claws, wanting to pull her down, but in vain. Dada now
kicked Yasmin on her shoulders, continuously kicked her shoulders, back, buttocks
and thighs. Yasmin�s hands jerked off Haseena�s legs. Haseena held the pot over
Yasmin�s face, who had wound herself into a coil in face of the kicking. Her face
was smeared with Shubho�s excrement. I stood open-mouthed with shock at this cruel
incident. I couldn�t believe this was our own Dada! In the meanwhile, from Arogya
Bitaan, Baba had sent ten chickens separately for Shubho with Salaam. Standing on
the verandah, Salaam too looked at this inhuman scene absolutely thunderstruck. He
saw. But it became impossible for me to keep standing open-mouthed and watch. I
ran to free Yasmin, I couldn�t. I too had boxes raining down on my back, and had
my hair severely pulled. Dada and Haseena were then kicking Yasmin hard all over
her body. Yasmin did not cry. Her jaw-bone became stronger by the minute.
Helpless, I continued to sit next to Yasmin. Both our bodies were rolling in the
dust.

After this incident, I stopped talking to Dada and Haseena.

When Ma returned and heard everything, she paced from one room to the other; she
paced uselessly, muttering, �Her body is filled with jealousy. She can�t stand
Suhrid. One day she will poison and kill the boy.�

Baba heard about the incident and did not react.

On observing Baba�s silence, Ma screamed and said, �After hearing how your son and
his wife beat your daughters almost to death, you still aren�t doing anything
about it! Yasmin can�t even move her body; her bones are all broken with the
beating! I will give Suhrid back to Kamaal. He is their enemy. The boy is being
brought up in this house. That is what they just can�t stand. You stay with your
son and his wife. I will go away someplace. Khuda, what a son I gave birth to! He
not only beats his own sisters, he does so along with his wife.�

Faced with Baba�s silence, Ma screamed, �Nasreen, Yasmin, look for boys, get
married and leave this house quickly. Your father, too, will encourage his son to
beat you into cripples.�

No one answered Ma�s statements.

Seven days later, Dada informed this stuffy house that he had been transferred to
Bongura. Baba called Dada, made him sit next to him and asked, �Why Bongura?�

�How do I know? The company has transferred me�, Dada replied unhappily.

�Is Bongura a place to go? What is there in Bongura?�

�A formidable fortress is there.�

�What will you do with a formidable fortress?�

�They get very good curd in Bongura.�

�Are you going there out of greed for that curd?�

�I am going because I have been transferred.�

�Where will you stay so far away, leaving your own home? What will you eat?�

Dada rose and went away, Baba continued to sit. Ma hurried him up, �Rice has been
served; have your food.�

That night, Baba had no wish to eat. Holding on to his hair with his two hands, he
kept sitting.

The person who was the happiest at Dada�s transfer was Haseena. She counted the
crockery and the cutlery, and packed them in boxes. Sitting in front of the black
gate in a chair, swinging her feet, Haseena made an inventory of all Dada�s
furniture and packed them into trunks. Even the television.

****

After Dada and all left, the rooms suddenly looked bare. In one corner lay the
old, faded, cane sofa and a few peeling chairs. There were some square marks on
the wall and a few hooks.

I noticed, quite often, that Ma sat alone in the verandah, towards dusk. I
couldn�t understand whether the sound of Ma�s deep sighs floated into the room
along with the breeze. The evening lamps lit every room. Ma continued to sit alone
in the dark, the tasbih, rosary, hanging from her hands, moving. Leaving my room,
shaking off my stiffness, I paced up and down the courtyard uselessly, one
evening.

�Ma, why are you sitting outside? Come in.�

Heaving a loud sigh, Ma said, �Noman left the house in anger! If the son of the
house doesn�t stay at home, who wants to stay then?�

�Why do you keep saying Noman, Noman? Aren�t we there? Or is it that we are no one
to you!�

�Girls, you see, leave home when they get married.�

In a bitter tone I said, �It is your sons who have gone to other homes. It is your
daughters who have remained.�

�Daughters are here today, gone tomorrow,� said Ma.

�Your sons aren�t here even today. There�s no question of tomorrow.�

Ma became silent.

Leaning with my two hands and swinging back and forth on the clothes line in the
verandah, staring towards the darkness of the courtyard, I said, �You keep saying
sons, sons. But both yours have moved away.�

�Yes, they�ve all gone. Now their wives are dearest to them. Father, mother,
brothers and sisters are of no consequence�, said Ma in a faint voice.

I went inside. I sat with peaceful silence surrounding me. Yasmin just slept all
day. She was attending Anandamohan everyday. But at home she was not interested in
her books at all. Baba had asked Debnath Pandit to come home and teach Yasmin, but
he had refused. He had refused because the number of students had increased to
such an extent that it was difficult for him to take time out for a single
student. He could only teach in �groups�. Yasmin joined these �groups� at Debnath
Pandit�s house. On her return, she would throw her books away saying, �I don�t
understand a word of what he teaches!� At home she never sat down with her books.
Startling the stillness of the house, I screamed, �Yasmin, sit down to study.�
Yasmin turned over and slept. I yelled again, �Get up, sit down to study.� Yasmin
shouted me down. She was aware of what she had to do, she knew better and no one
needed to give her any advice. She kept me at a distance. A white cat was now my
companion. One cat. A cat was a better option. A hundred times better than a human
being. I sat hugging the cat close. In this house, cats entered either through the
gap in the drain or by jumping over the wall. They lay in wait for an opportunity
to enter the kitchen and put their mouths into the vessels. Whenever one came, Ma
shooed it away. It seems all cats were �thieving cats.� They went away when
shooed, but came back again. This white cat, when it came, had been shooed away as
well. It had been taken to the drain on the other side of the black gate and
thrown over. The cat had cleaned itself and returned to the house again. Finally
the cat had been left in the confusion of the perishable raw foods at Notun Bazar.
The next day I found the cat sunning herself in the courtyard. This time Baba
ordered that it should be tied up in a sack and thrown on the other side of the
river. That was also done. Salaam put the cat into a sack, tied the open end
tightly with a rope, hired a boat and went and threw it on the other bank of the
Brahmaputra in the midst of thorny bushes. Everyone at home knew the cat would not
return; there was no reason for it to. Seven days had passed, everyone had
forgotten about the cat completely. Yet suddenly, one evening I saw the cat
standing in front of the black gate, its eyes shining. The minute I called it, it
ran and came to me. Taking it to the kitchen, I gave it whatever rice remained at
the bottom of the pan. It wolfed down the food, and followed me wherever I went
after that. I did not allow it to be thrown out anymore. It remained at home, and
slept at my feet on my bed at night. If I sat on a chair it leapt into my lap. The
cat was spending its life in this house eating fish-bones. I left a little of my
food on the plate for the cat. Unknown to Ma, I would take a portion of my share
of fish and mix it with the rice for the cat. I would sit hugging the cat in my
room. Yasmin would be asleep in the other room which at one time had been
Chhotda�s room. Waking up from sleep, she would have her meal and go back to sleep
again, as though there was no such bliss in life as sleep. There was pain in the
bones of her shoulder, her back and her knees. Dada and Haseena�s inhumanity had
given her these disabilities. I had taken Yasmin to the hospital doctors. I had
taken her to the Professor of Medicine, Prabhakar Purkayastha. Whenever he placed
the stethoscope on her chest, he pressed her breasts. She came out of Prabhakar�s
room with an irritated look on her face. Afterwards the pain in her knees became
so acute that she could neither sit nor stand. To test her knees, I took her to
the bearded Harunur Rashid Khan. He was an orthopaedic surgeon. Not just a doctor,
but actually the Head of the Orthopaedic Department. He had a long beard, wore a
cap, and was dressed in pyjama-panjabi. I was not used to seeing my Professor in
this dress. Whatever his dress, he was a good doctor. When Baba was in the
hospital, he had given Baba an amulet to keep under his pillow. It seems it was a
medicine to cure illness. I took Yasmin to this tall, fair, bearded, good, number
one orthopaedic doctor, who believed in amulets, talismans and Allah-Rasool. He
made Yasmin lie down on the patient examination table in his chambers. Drawing the
curtains, he began to press her knees. From her knees his hands rose to press her
under belly, then the stomach and finally her chest. Did he press her breast in
order to check the existence of her lungs or heart! On coming out, all Yasmin said
was, �Don�t ever take me to any doctor again. There is no need for my illness to
be cured.� I had wanted many times to go to Harunur Rashid Khan and ask him, �You
were supposed to examine my sister�s knees, not her chest. What was there to
examine in her chest?� I had wanted to tell Prabhakar Purkayastha, �You do not
suffer from Parkinsons, then how come your hands keep moving away from the
stethoscope when you place it on someone�s chest!� I had wanted to, but couldn�t.
The words got stuck inside my throat, and were never uttered.
T

*
***

Ma was still outside in the dark; the Tasbih in her hands did not move.
M

CHAPTER XVII
C

The Bridal Bed of Flowers

T

I had seen lakes and rivers, but had never yet seen the sea. After Dada returned
with his bride from their honeymoon at the sea-side beach resort of Coxbazar, I
had asked, �Dada dear, what does the sea look like?� Dada had said only one thing
that you had to see it to believe it. �What the sea is like, can never be
described in words, one has to stand before the sea to appreciate it.� Dada was
more enthusiastic about the aeroplane than the sea. He had flown in a plane for
the first time. So far, whenever Chhotda had told us stories about planes, Dada�s
eyes had been full of desire. That hunger in his eyes had finally been quenched.
None of mine was quenched however. I was keener about the sea rather than the
p
plane.

Without having seen the sea, just on the basis of the photographs of Dada and
Haseena taken at the sea-side, I wrote three poems about the sea. When my heart
was full of this unseen sea, �Let�s go and visit the sea, pack your clothes� was
the cry that arose. In the fourth year this wonderful event took place. A whole
class of students with the Professors of Community Medicine went far away, far in
the sense anywhere between the north of the country and its southern most tip. At
the tip was a mass of silvery water, in which you could drown or float. Of course
it was said that we were being taken to observe a humid climate, but actually it
was to give us a change of atmosphere. Like patients needed a change of air to
recuperate, doctors-to-be too needed a change of scene. They got a small break
from the hospital and its air, filled night and day with the smell of pus.
f

We were to go from Mymensingh to Dhaka, from Dhaka by train to Chattagram, and

from Chattagram to Coxbazar by bus. There was turmoil at home, real turmoil,
something like this had never happened before; going alone to some far away town
without any relative in tow. Ma repeatedly asked, �The Professors will be there,
won�t they!� Two hours journey to Dhaka was okay, there were relatives there as
well. But in Chattagram no Mama or Kaka of mine lived. Maybe because I was going
beyond the reach of the Mamas and Kakas, in my heart danced a hundred peacocks
with their feathers on display. Baba had generously given money, not just the fee
for the �hygiene tour�, but some thing extra as well. The group left for Dhaka by
train. Chhotda had now left Segun Gardens and had rented a house in Nayapaltan.
After spending the night at Nayapaltan, I had to reach Kamalapur Rail Station by
eight the next morning. At night, as soon as I asked Geeta for a sari to wear, she
immediately opened her almirah and spread out red, blue, green, yellow, kataan
silks, in fact even muslins for me to choose, not just one, as many as I liked. I
even got a camera, in which a light came on as soon as the button was pressed.
What else could I want! I had got much more than I had hoped for.
W

Next day on the train, sometimes joining in the fun and games, and sometimes
sitting gloomy eyed at the window, I reached Chattagram. From Chattagram, we drove
through a forest along a winding path which had rows of rubber plantations. By the
time we crossed these and reached Chattagram, my excitement was at its peak. The
bus was moving towards a sound, a tremendous sound, different, earth-shaking,
water-rippling sound. I tried to make out where exactly the sound was coming from.
My eyes just wouldn�t leave the windows of the bus. Far away something white was
rising and falling. Safinaz, with whom from a casual friendship, I had now
graduated to a close one, hung out of the window and said �Is that the sea?� Being
a girl who had never been to the sea-side, I wanted to get off the bus and run to
see if this really was the sea or not, but who would allow me to do that? First we
had to go to the motel, only after that could we go to see the sea. At the motel,
instead of two, four people were put into one room. After keeping my suitcase in
the room assigned, the first thing I did was to run towards that sound. No bath,
no food, no rest. I had to visit the sea first, before I did anything else.
Safinaz was a methodical girl, a girl who �ate at meal times, studied at study-
time, slept at sleep time.� But she had to accompany me in my excitement. I did
not walk towards that loud roar, I ran. When I reached it, surprise and
enchantment rendered me inert, numb and stupefied. I could not utter a single
word. Something so vast, so wondrously beautiful, so amazingly delightful to the
heart, I had never seen in my life. I had grown up next to the small pond at
Nanibari. The three cornered lake in town was twice the size of the pond at
Nanibari. I had had to wait for a few years to see it. I had seen the Brahmaputra
when I grew up. Seeing the then thin stream of the Brahmaputra, I had thought
there couldn�t be anything bigger than this in the world. I had imagined the sea.
But that image could not come even close to the beauty of the reality. My
unbounded imagination had not been able to picture anything as vast as this, as
wonderfully beautiful and as absolutely limitless as this. I did not notice that
my eyes were wet with tears. The sun was setting on the sea. I listened raptly to
the sea, and watched the sight of the setting sun with my misty eyes. I had seen
the sun setting many times before, but had never seen such a sight. The
inexhaustible beauty of nature left me overwhelmed, enamoured and bewitched.
Gradually groups of students began to come, and stared unblinkingly at the setting
sun. I didn�t feel like turning away from this beauty. When night fell, Safinaz
pulled me back to the motel, as the beach was not safe at night. The girls all
went back to the motel, the boys stayed on till late at night on the beach, to
watch the full moon. I wanted to be a boy. I wished I could soak all night in the
sea and moonlight. In the verandah of the motel room, I sat alone listening to the
call of the sea in the moonlight. It was calling me �come, come, come.� Before
sunrise, I woke up and ran to see the sun rise over the sea. I was wearing a red
sari. My feet were bare, my hair loose. The waves in the sea washed me and drowned
me. The rays of the rising sun kissed the beads of water on my body. Flocks of
girls came, I told them to play with the waves. �What rises and floods the body
like a tidal wave is called love. I call it intoxication, an acute desire. This
enchanting killer inundates the heart, makes life drift, calls come, come, even
though it is calling to disaster, this is called love, I call it happiness, a
dream.� I played the whole day in the waters of the sea. I was intoxicated, in
love. In the evening, sipping cinnamon tea in the shanty shops, I waited for the
sun to set.
s

�Touching its lips to the salty water, I saw that the full moon in the sky had
fallen over. My body danced in joy, the raw autumnal scents brought on the
tempests. The sea, putting to sleep the princess on her magic bedstead, with a
golden wand at its head, called come, come, yet again come!�
g

From the sea, we were brought back to Chattagram. Arrangements were made for the
girls to stay in the Chattagram Medical College Girls Hostel, and for the boys in
the Boys Hostel. Along with Halida, Safinaz, Shipra and a few other friends, I
wandered around under a green hillock, along the meandering blue waters of the
Fayez Lake. Sitting on the grass I watched the swans flying around with their
wings outspread. I enjoyed everything very much, so much so that Rudra�s absence
began to sadden me a little. If Rudra had been here, we could have walked hand in
hand around the waters of this lake, around this mountain. We could have soaked
our hearts in the beauty of this incomparable greenery. Before leaving Mymensingh
I had written to Rudra, informing him that I was going to the sea-side, and that
he should come there. I had given him every detail of when I would be returning to
Chattagram from Coxbazar, where I would be staying, and again when I would be
leaving Chattagram for Dhaka. I had never had such a wonderful time ever before in
my life, and that he should try somehow to come. He had been at Mithekhali for a
long time. However many promises he made to come out of Mithekhali in a week or
two, this was one place he could never leave before two-three months. The village
had chains; whenever he went, whether he liked it or not, he got entangled in
those chains.

The night before we were to leave Chattagram for Dhaka, Rudra arrived. Saiful,
Rudra�s younger brother was at the students� hostel with him. Saiful had just
joined the first year of Chattagram Medical College. I saw Saiful for the first
time that night. A small built cheerful boy. He had the same large eyes like
Rudra�s. A neat and clean boy. The boy was great; he was talking as though he had
known me for a lifetime. I easily became informal with him. That night the three
of us took a rickshaw to a restaurant. While eating dinner my eyes kept straying
to Rudra�s red eyes, overgrown hair and beard. He looked as though he hadn�t
bathed for seven days, hadn�t slept, and had this minute emerged from some cave.
It was seven days since I had left Mymensingh. Why hadn�t he come before, why had
he come only for such a short time, the day before we were to return? The two of
us could have played in the sea, in the waves. We could have sat side by side and
watched the sunrise and sunset. In the moonlight, we could have sat on the sands
late into the night, our legs stretched out, watching the moon swimming in the
waters of the sea. I could have peacefully roamed around Chattagram in a hooded
rickshaw with him, without the fear of Baba�s blood-shot eyes and other
restrictions. My pique clouded over me like smoke. Rudra�s heavy voice pulled
aside the smoke screen and touched me. From Chattagram tomorrow, I did not have to
go to Dhaka, but to Mongla. Although I was always very keen to see a new town, on
hearing about the proposal to see Mongla, I said �No.� I said no, because the
Professors would not allow me to leave the group. It could not happen. There was
more touring left in Dhaka, and I had to return to Mymensingh with the group.
Rudra frowned with his eyes and mouth, when I said no. Saiful said, �Arrey, go
Boudi, go and visit Mongla for a little while.� On being called Boudi by Saiful, I
suddenly became aware that I was someone�s sister-in-law, and if I was a sister-
in-law that meant I was also someone�s wife. In the student hostel at night, lying
next to Safinaz, I tossed from side to side. My thoughts climbed, via a rope from
this closed room to the terrace on top. From the terrace they climbed higher into
space, spreading my two arms I floated. What joy! What joy! When would I ever
again enjoy such a holiday! Would a better opportunity ever come again in my life?
Why should I let go this chance to disappear into the blue! Swallowing and gulping
nervously, the next day I took Rudra along with me and told the less smart
Professor of the two, that I had to go that very day to Khulna. I would return
tomorrow itself to Dhaka from Khulna, and would be there for the Dhaka tour. But
whether a simpleton or not, why should the Professor let me go? Since he had the
responsibility of taking so many Doctors on a tour, he would want to return with
them, and complete his duty.

�Who will you go with?� he asked.

�Who was I going with?

The simple answer to this would have been to point out the bearded gentleman and
say �with him.� The next question that would arise would then be �Who is he, what
is he?� That answer could possibly be, �He is Rudra, a poet.� The next question to
be expected, and a very natural one because the professor was a simpleton would be
�Who is he to you?�

Seeing my unhappy face, Shaukat and Madira came to my rescue. Both had had a love
marriage, they knew the joy of breaking away from the party. Shaukat whispered in
my ear, �First tell me if you are married or not. Sir will have to be told you are
going with your husband, otherwise he will not let you go.�

No, this fact could not be disclosed. If this Sir went and informed my Baba Sir,
it would be disastrous. Shaukat, laughing at the sight of my undecided stance,
said, �Tell Sir that it is a secret and is not to be disclosed to anyone!�

�Suppose he does?�

�Arrey, you come back to Dhaka after two days, and return to Mymensingh with the
group, what problem can there be!�

Shaukat cleared the way for me to go to Khulna. That this was not a case of
running away with an improper man, in fact it was very much a disappearance with a
lawful husband was what he hinted at to the Professor-cum-bodyguard, and got me
through. I took to the road with Rudra. From the road to a train to Khulna, and
from Khulna by launch to Mongla. I felt very lonely, separated from the group.
With the group there had been a lot of jubilation. Suddenly everything was muted.
Out of the blue, the ties of a relationship seemed to have enveloped me. It was as
though I had been dropped like a frog into a well of duties and responsibilities.

****

The launch was plying over the Rupsha River towards Mongla. I was seeing a new
river, new kinds of people. I began to enjoy myself. Boarding the launch, Rudra
said, �Change your sari.�

�Why? This one is fine.�

I was wearing a white sari. Although not used to wearing them, all the girls had
worn saris for the sea-side excursion. At this chance to wear saris I too had been
quite delighted.

�Do as I say.�

�Why, am I looking bad in this sari?�

�Yes. Change it. Hurry up. The ghat is approaching.�

�Is it really necessary to change the sari?�

�Yes, very necessary.�

Rudra obviously did not have ideas only about poetry, he thought about saris as
well. He would not accept me wearing a cotton sari. I had to wear a kataan silk.

�I don�t feel like wearing a kataan.�

�Why not?�

�I don�t.�

�How surprising!�
�None of them are ironed.�

�Doesn�t matter, wear one anyway.�

I had to wear a kataan. It couldn�t be green or blue in colour. I had to wear red.
All my saris were wet and crumpled with sea-water. I had to wear one of these
perforce. Reaching the ghat in the afternoon, I saw a deserted port. A few empty
sampans were tied to the docks. The place looked like a village, and yet was
really not one. Misgivings arose in my heart. After crossing endless rows of
slums, Rudra stopped the rickshaw in front of a double-storeyed house and said
�Now, like a good girl, please cover your head with the end of your sari, ghomta!�

I started with shock at Rudra�s words.

�Ghomta on my head? Why?�

�Arrey, put it on.�

�I never do these things.�

�I know you don�t, but do it now.�

�Why?�

�Can�t you understand, you are the daughter-in-law of this house?�

My whole body shook on hearing this. I got all mixed up with feelings of great
joy, shame and fear, and was not really sure what to do. Rudra said, �You will
have to touch people�s feet and salaam.�

�No.�

�Why?�

�I have never done it.�

�You will have to.�

�I will not be able to do it. Impossible.�

�Why can�t you understand? It will look bad if you don�t salaam.�

�Why should it look bad?�

�It would.�

�Why? What does it mean, to touch people�s feet?�

�You must do so of elders. Why don�t you realize? You are after all the �Bou� of
the house.�

�Let it look bad. I can�t do all this.�

�Ish, what a pain you are!�

�Won�t it do if I say salaam verbally, without touching their feet?�

�No, it won�t do.�

My joy had evaporated, and my whole body was consumed with discomfort. I just
could not touch people�s feet. When I wore new clothes at Id, Ma would tell me,
�Go and salaam your Baba.�

I would stand stiffly at the door. As Ma pushed me, my stiffness would turn into
heavy stone. �At the time of Id one should salaam one�s elders.� I understood the
�should salaam� part, but not why one had to do it. I treat you as an elder,
respect and love you, but why do I have to show it by touching your feet! Is there
no other way to demonstrate this! I stared in surprise at Rudra. This man who did
not believe in religion and scoffed at rituals and ceremonies was actually
supporting this feet-touching business! In this far away deserted port, it was as
if Rudra had caught me by the scruff of my neck and pushed me towards his parents�
feet. Here I had no relatives, no friends, no one I knew except for Rudra. Yet
this Rudra appeared a stranger to me. My head was covered with my aanchal, and my
back was being poked by Rudra. One poke, two pokes, after the third, I bent
towards his mother�s feet. I wasn�t even sure how exactly this salaam thing was
done. It was a puzzle to me whether after touching the feet one had to take one�s
hands to one�s chest, or forehead, or lips. In my uncertainty, my hands remained
in their place after touching the feet. Rudra had a whole crowd of brothers and
sisters. Each one came to be introduced. I felt even more isolated in the crowd,
as though I was some unnatural creature who had come amidst a crowd of humans.
Bithi, Rudra�s younger sister said, �Ki Dada, is your wife dumb, why doesn�t she
speak!� I didn�t know what to say. I didn�t know what would be appropriate. I
remained withdrawn.

Rudra�s father was shorter than Rudra. If he stood next to me he would have come
barely up to my shoulders. A bearded man, he entered the house wearing a cap,
pyjama and panjabi. I asked Rudra in a whisper, �He is a doctor, isn�t he?�

�Yes.�

�Then how come this dress!�

�He is religious.�

�He believes in religion as a doctor!�

I stared in surprise. Sitting on a stool in the verandah he performed the

ritualistic ablutions with water from a pitcher. Rudra�s Ma held out a towel for
him to wipe his wet hands and face. The Jainamaz was spread out in the room, for
him to offer his namaz. Only after he had completed his prayers, would Rudra take
me to meet him. My heart fluttered. I began to think this �Baba� category was
something to be feared. After pacing up and down restlessly, Rudra finally entered
the room with me. His father was now reclining on a chair after his namaz, and
telling the beads of a tasbih. I was twisting the aanchal of my sari around my
fingers.

�Abba, this is my wife,� Rudra said and told me, �Go, Salaam Abba.� Overcoming my
embarrassment, I bent over. Stroking his beard with his fingers, he said, �Sit
down.�

�Are your Baba and Ma in good health?�

I couldn�t understand why he wanted to know about the health of my parents, whom
he did not know at all. In a moment their faces floated in front of me. If they
knew where their daughter, supposedly on a hygiene tour, was at this moment, their
well being would evaporate in seconds!
�I
In which year are you studying?�

�F
Fourth year.�

�Oh. You don�t have too long to become a doctor. Your home is in Mymensingh, isn�t
i
it?�

�Y
Yes, Mymensingh.�

�I
Is it North of Dhaka or South?�

�N
North.�

�Y
You will stay in Mongla for sometime, won�t you?�

Rudra said, �She will.�

R

�S
So Shahidullah, will you be taking her to Mithekhali?�

�L
Let�s see.�

�G
Go and visit Mithekhali. Have you eaten?�

�N
No.�

�G
Go and eat and rest; you have had a long journey.�

Rudra took me upstairs. The place had been freshly white-washed. The first floor
was being constructed; it was yet to be completed. Rudra said this new
construction �was rubbish.� One day these rooms upstairs would crumble and fall
down, because the foundation of the house was not deep enough. Hearing this, like
the bricks, wood and iron along with limestone and sand I, too, crumbled and
collapsed. One room upstairs had been tidied for Rudra and me. Rudra stayed in
this room whenever he came to Mongla. In the room was a medium sized cot, a table,
next to which were two chairs. There were white walls around, with only one
window. Through it nothing was visible but the rear portion of a double-storeyed
house and a few Golpata trees, whose leaves were used for thatching.
h

In the evening Rudra went out on his own. When I wanted to accompany him, he said
it was not seemly for the housewives of this port to come out in this way. Then
was I not going to see this port of Mongla, this new place? No, there was nothing
to see, except for the slums of labourers. Then I would go and see the slums. No,
the labourers would stare at me and swallow me whole. It would be better for me to
sit and chat with Rudra�s siblings. But what was I supposed to chat with them
about! I knew none of them. I felt very lonely. Standing on the verandah, I saw
only water in front of me, only water. The river ran on the other side of the
courtyard. I told Bithi, I would go along the river and see it. River? There was
nothing to see! There was only water! I would see only the water then. Bithi
laughed. What would I do by looking at water? When we went close to the water, she
told me that it was dirty water and that I was not to touch it with my hands, or
dip my feet in it. I was like a duck out of water, swimming in air. My address was
the bank of a river, on the bank was my house, the house of my in-laws. There was
water everywhere, wherever one looked, floods everywhere, yet there was a shortage
of water in the house itself. A boy brought a couple of buckets of river water
everyday from outside. With this the cooking had to be done, the toilets, the
bathing, everything. The body would feel salty, the hair sticky, but there was
nothing to be done, there was no water. Living on the banks of a river, that there
could be such a scarcity of water was a shock I could not recover from. Even
drinking water came from outside. They called it �sweet water,� though it was not
at all sweet to taste. One had to use it sparingly, drinking only when one�s
throat was cracking with thirst. Sweet water was not available in this port. It
came by boat from Khulna. All the people of the port had to quench their thirst
with this supply. Bithi said, �Water from Khulna has only been coming recently.
Earlier one had to drink rainwater.�
E

�R
Rainwater?�

�At Mithekhali that is what we drink. We place big pitchers in the courtyard, the
rainwater collects in them, and that�s what we drink.�
r

�C
Can you drink that water?�

�W
Why not?�

Bitthi unexpectedly moved away from the topic of drinking water and asked �Achcha
Boudi, haven�t you brought any jewellery? You are the daughter-in-law of the
house, what will people say! Tomorrow evening there will be people coming home, it
is Seemu�s birthday. I will give you some jewellery, just wear it.�
i

The evening got over, and night fell. I looked at the clock repeatedly,
restlessly. �Your Dada hasn�t returned as yet,� I asked.
r

�He�ll come. Don�t worry so much. He�s a man. They have friends outside, they have
to meet them.�
t

�D
Does that mean he has to be so late?�

�He�ll come, he�ll come. His wife is at home. However late it gets he will return
home.� Bithi laughed, her laugh was like a shower of pearls.
h

Rudra returned very late at night. While he changed from his shirt and pant to a
lungi, my heart trembled on looking askance at the bed. Lawfully we would be
sharing this bed. Finally the day had arrived when we would sleep together. For
ages now, Rudra had been dying to spend one night with me. Tonight his wish would
be fulfilled. As though we were a couple used to married life for years, Rudra
casually said, �Let�s go to sleep�, and covering the bed with the mosquito net he
lay down.
l

�C
Come on,� he said.

�C
Coming.�

I am coming, let the shaking of my heart steady a little, I will come. I am dying
of thirst. I will drink a glass of water and come. Don�t get impatient. I am
coming. Do I have any other option but to come?
c

�What�s wrong, why are you still sitting? Will you spend the whole night over
t
there?�

I had to go to bed, but my body moved towards the wall. Rudra pulled my body which
was stuck to the wall towards his chest. He held me with both his arms, very
strongly, so that I couldn�t run away. Where could I possibly go, anyway! I had
nowhere to go. I had been preparing myself to come to Rudra. Hundreds of times I
had told myself �Rudra is your husband. Do not waste this opportunity to spend the
night with him. You are a young woman of twenty-two, not a little girl anymore. If
everyone else can sleep with their husbands, why can�t you!� Secretly, I too
wanted to taste the forbidden fruit. Rudra wanted to possess me fully. I had
already given him my heart and soul ages ago, only my body recoiled like a snail.
Hadn�t the time come for me to break out of all my modesty and fear! If I did not
uncoil my body tonight, if I didn�t break the chains and free my physical self, if
I deprived the man I loved today, it would actually be depriving myself. Rudra had
not demanded anything wrongfully. Surrendering oneself to one�s husband was not a
crime. Someday you would have to surrender what little you had kept back, so why
not tonight!
n

Rudra kissed me. He kissed my mouth deeply. Freeing myself from his kiss, I said,
�The light is on.� That meant the light had to be switched off. Switch off the
light, darken the room and then do whatever you want to do, I will not prevent
you. Rudra switched off the light, darkened the room and moistened my shut eyes,
dry lips and the fold of my chin. Opening the buttons of my blouse he buried his
face inside. He didn�t just wet the nipples he bit them with his teeth. He
gripped my breasts in his hands and squeezed so hard, it felt as though he would
melt them into water, like the muddy waters of the Rupsha River. Rudra was lifting
my sari upwards. I didn�t want to, but unknowingly my hands traveled to stop his.
Rudra lifted himself on top of my body. I didn�t want to, yet my hands tried to
move him off my body. His legs tried to separate mine. I had shut my eyes tight.
Let not my eyes open, let not a sight come before my eyes which would make me die
of shame. I gritted my teeth, and joined my lips together tightly, so that no
sound emerged from my mouth. However, a sudden assault made me scream. Rudra
closing my screaming mouth with both his hands, said, just bear it a little
longer, it�s almost done. Good girl, just bear with me a little longer. Just a
little. Rudra failed to remove the obstacle in spite of systematic assaults.
Lifting himself off my body, he used his fingers to dislodge the invisible
obstacle. My thighs were shaking terribly, and the shaking spread from my thighs
to my whole body. I felt as though I was dying. Rudra had begun to sweat, but was
not giving up. Why would he accept any obstacle in his path, by hook or by crook
he had to clear his path and forge ahead, before him was a gold mine, he had to
conquer it. I had clasped my mouth shut with my own two hands. Whenever any sound
breached the covering hands, Rudra stuffed my sari aanchal into my mouth. No,
nothing was happening. I was not in any pain; this lower half of the body was not
mine; it was no part of my body at all. This was some unconscious body lying on
the table in the operation theatre. Let it be thought I had been administered
Pathedine. Thaopental Sodium had been injected into my blood and I had been
rendered unconscious. All my bodily agony had vanished. The ceiling fan was
whirring over my head at great speed, yet my unconscious body was breaking out in
sweat. My sari aanchal, hands and lips, had been torn to shreds by my teeth. Rudra
removed whatever barriers and obstacles there were and finally entered the gold
mine, smashing my body into smithereens, from both inside and out.
m

Rudra got off my body. On one side was the wall, on the other side Rudra. I did
not have the strength to move even an inch in any direction. I remained still.
Gradually opening my eyes, I felt as though I was out of the operation theatre, in
the post-operative room. I was coming back to consciousness. On regaining my
senses I realized that this was no post-operative room, I was lying on the muddy
waters of the Rupsha River. I was floating on water. There was no one around, I
was alone. I had never felt so alone ever before. As though I had no one, and
never did have. I had no father, no mother. I had no sisters or brothers. I had no
friends, no lovers, no husband. I had nowhere to go to. I was floating like a raft
on the Rupsha River, not knowing where I was headed. When I got the strength to
lift myself, I tried to get off the bed, but found my way completely blocked by a
mountainous object, that was Rudra. I said, �Let me go.� This was the first time I
had addressed Rudra. When Rudra made way, I got off the bed groping for the toilet
in the darkness. The lower half of my body was splitting. I walked like a duck, in
the darkness of the waterless banks. In the toilet, not urine, but blood flowed,
flowed towards the waters of the Rupsha River. I did not have the strength to
wail. I groaned in unbearable agony.
w

The next day when Rudra left me alone and went out, I again felt very lonely. I
couldn�t quite make out what my duties were. Was I to massage my father-in-law�s
feet, pick lice off my mother-in-law, offer water when thirsty, proffer the
gamchcha, towel, when going for a bath, and the Jainamaz at the time of prayers!
Was I supposed to cover my head with a ghomta and go and cook in the kitchen, just
because I was the Bou of this house! Was I to sit on the kitchen stool and chop
the onions and garlic! I walked like a duck into the kitchen. The kitchen had a
roof of �golpata� leaves, a clay floor and a clay oven. Smoke emanated from the
fire in the oven, as though it was the smoke from Aladdin�s lamp. I wished a genie
would emerge immediately from the smoke and tell me what I should do. Should I
cook rice and vegetables, or teach Rudra�s siblings. What exactly would please the
inmates of this house, what would make them say I was a Lakshmi, a very good bou.
I moved towards the smoke hoping to see the genie. The minute I poked my head into
the kitchen, Bithi said �Why are you entering here? You will not be able to stand
the smoke.�
t

�Let me see what you all are doing.� Instead of waiting for the genie to appear, I
said, �Can I do something?�
s

Bithi laughed, all Rudra�s brothers and sisters also laughed. I felt very
uncomfortable. I had no idea where I should stand, where I should sit, whom to
talk to and if I did, what to say. I felt very isolated. I wished night would fall
soon, then at least I knew what I had to do. I had to lie down, and I had to
s
sleep.

Bithi told me while I stood at the kitchen door, �Go and have a bath! There will
be no water left later on.� Feeling reassured about what I had to do now, I
entered the bathroom and found that there was a door, but the door had no bolts.
Hesitantly I came out. Seeing this Bithi laughingly told me, �Go and have a bath
without any fears, no one will enter.� I had a bath, but not without my fears.
w

Firmly pulling my constantly slipping aanchal over my head, I went fearlessly

before my ailing mother-in-law. In a weak voice, she told one of her nine
children, one of the seven present at home, �Give your Boudi place to sit.� Making
sure I was removed from before her eyes, she closed her own. I was asked to sit in
a room next to my mother-in-law�s room. I sat on the edge of the bed. So that no
one could make remarks like the Bou doesn�t speak, the Bou is very haughty, I
talked to whoever I could find close to me, the little brothers and sisters. I
asked them their names, which schools they went to, which classes they attended.
Having got their answers, I sat quiet. I could find no other questions to ask
them, nor could they find any for me. The siblings were amazingly quiet; there was
no yelling or screaming in the house. If there had been so many brothers and
sisters at Aubokash, it would have turned into a fish market. A warm breeze blew
into the rooms from the river. You could hear the sounds. I felt lonely. In the
evening Bithi gave me gold ornaments to wear. If I didn�t wear gold ornaments, the
family honour would be lost. So to preserve that, I wore the heavy ornaments and
sat down, looking ugly to myself. So much jewellery on my ears, neck and hands did
not suit me at all. I couldn�t get used to it somehow. Baba had bought me long
dangling earrings at the inauguration feast of the Matri Jewellers showroom; they
were lost. I was unable to keep rings in my ears for too long whether gold or
silver, my ears itched. If I wore anything on my fingers, they itched. I would
take them off, leave them here and there, and of course it didn�t take long for
them to disappear. Ma regretted this, �She has no care for gold jewellery. She
doesn�t even know where she takes them off and leaves them.� Once the guests had
left, I took off Bithi�s jewellery. I felt like an inanimate object, as though I
was a puppet. I was being made to wear saris, jewellery, and was not saying
anything. If I was told to stand up I did, if told to sit, I did so, and yes, when
asked to sleep I did that too.

***

That night too, Rudra came home and cajoled me by saying, �Good girl, dear
Lakshmi, unwind a little, don�t keep yourself so stiff, soften your body a
little,� and entered the path he had opened up. In that dark room, made darker by
my shut eyes, when I was openly bearing the agony Rudra inflicted on my body,
bearing the pain � suddenly like lightning a sharp pleasure spread through my body
from head to toe. With the shock of that bolt of lightning I dug the ten nails of
my hands into Rudra�s back. I gasped for breath. Panting, I asked �What happened!�

Rudra did not tell me what happened. Murmuring endearments like Shona, dear Manik,
precious jewel, Lakshmi bou he collapsed on top of me. That night, not once, but
several times he brought me to orgasm. With this pleasure the nerves of agony
gradually grew inert and inactive. I continued to moan, but this time with
pleasure. I was now experiencing the pinnacle of pleasure.

At one point while I was still moaning, I noticed that Rudra was no longer beside
me. He had not been there by my side for quite a while.

�Where are you?�

In the darkness a single point of red fire glowed. The fire was moving.

�Aren�t you going to sleep?�

�I�m coming.�

The red glow went out, the cigarette smoking was over, yet Rudra did not return to
bed. My unruly, obsessive body wanted him intimately close, I kept one of my hands
on his pillow, wanting to hold him in my arms when he returned, and sleep for the
rest of the night, imbibing the scents of his body. I called again, �Where have
you gone!�

There was a smell of Dettol in the room.

�What�s wrong, what is this Dettol smell!�

�I am applying Dettol,� came Rudra�s voice out of the darkness.

�Why, what happened?�

�I have an itch.�

�Do you have to apply Dettol for that?�

�I am applying an ointment as well.�

�What ointment?�

�I don�t know.�

�Switch on the light, will you? Let me see where you are itching, and what
ointment you are applying.�
Rudra switched on the light and saying, �Coming�, took the ointment and went off
to the toilet. Under the lights I tidied my dishevelled sari, and sat waiting.
When Rudra came, I examined his hands and legs and; there were no signs of
scabies.

�Where are you itching?�

Without replying Rudra switched the light off, and lay down. Lying next to him, I
placed a hand on his chest and said, �I can�t find any scabies.�

�There is.�

�Where?�

�It is in that area.�

�That area, which area?�

�On the penis.�

�Where?�

�On the penis.�

�Why are you applying Dettol?�

�It will help.�

�Has any Doctor told you so?�

�No.�

�Who gave you the ointment? Some Doctor?�

�No. I bought it myself.�

�Will this ointment work?�

�I don�t know.�

�Then why are you applying it? Parmethrin ointment has to be applied for scabies.
Is it itching a lot?�

�Yes, it is. Even a boil has appeared.�

�Small?�

�Not so small.�

�It shouldn�t be big. Why should it grow big?�

�Quite big.�

In my enthusiasm as a doctor, I sat up, switched on the lights and said, �Let me
see what kind it is!�

Rudra kept lowering his lungi. The hair on his body grew gradually denser as they
moved downwards, till they reached the cold sexual organ. At the base of the
genitals was a red flower. No one had laid out my bridal chamber, on this my first
night, with flowers. No roses, no marigolds, no hibiscus or jasmine. This flower
on Rudra�s manhood had bedecked my first bridal bed of flowers. Yet, I had seen
many penises like this one. This sore on the penis was a very familiar one. At the
hospital, in the sexual diseases out-patients ward, the male patients lowered
their lungis and showed sores exactly like this one. These sores were identified
by the Doctor�s dealing with sexual diseases as Syphilis sores, and were the sores
we had seen many times from a safe distance. Although Rudra�s sore looked like a
Syphilis sore, one sore could surely resemble another one! There must be many
harmless sores, which looked like other ugly sores. There must be, my heart said,
there was.

�When did this appear?�

�Just ten or twelve days ago.�

�Does it bleed?�

�No.�

Whatever other disease Rudra may have contracted, there was no reason for him to
be afflicted by Syphilis! I thought of all the other diseases it could be. Was
this Eczema or Soriosis? Or maybe it was Penile Papiullus! Or Reitars syndrome! Or
even Pemfigas!

�Do you have any pain?�

Rudra shook his head. �No.�

This denial destroyed the possibility of all the other diseases. The Syphilis sore
also caused no pain.

�Doesn�t it pain even a little?�

Rudra was thinking. Think Rudra, think some more, if you just think a little more
you will surely realise that it did pain.

But Rudra again shook his head. �No.�

�Achcha, have you slept on any stranger�s dirty bed? Or used anyone�s towel?�

He again shook his head. �No.�

A writer called Razia Begum had spent three months at a tea-garden in Sylhet in
order to write a novel about the tea-garden workers. Was it possible that Rudra
had visited a brothel for writing poetry or a novel, and had used something there,
like a towel? Had touched something in a toilet, and from these places the
Syphilis virus, Triponema Pelidam, had travelled to his hands. Although I knew
Syphilis did not spread like that I still asked, just in case it had! By chance if
the virus had entered through some gap or hole!

�Have you been to prostitutes for some reason? For the purposes of your writings
or something?�

�Why, no I haven�t!�

�Never?�
�No.�

I was looking for other reasons, reasons for sores that looked like this.
Searching. Searching. This was Rudra�s first intercourse with someone, just like
mine. That is how it was supposed to be. That was what love was all about. One
saved oneself, for the person one loved. All the deep secrets, physical pleasures
were reserved. I stared at Rudra�s sore. Then how come this sore! This sore did
not look like any other! Even if it was Harpes Simplex or genital warts, these too
were sexually transmitted diseases! Suppose this was Syphilis, from where did it
enter into Rudra�s body if he had never been to a brothel! I was absorbed in deep
thought. I touched the sore, and examined it from the left and right side. I
looked at the form and shape of the sore. I looked at its colour.

It looked exactly like a Syphilis sore. My eyes confirmed it, but my mind
couldn�t. But there was no reason to contract Syphilis. Then, how could it be
that! A crease appeared between my eyebrows.

�Achcha, have you had any relationship with a girl?�

�What nonsense are you talking?�

Rudra pulled up his lungi. His sore got covered.

�Go to sleep, will you. It is very late.�

It may have been late, but my sleep had vanished. I was anxious to know the cause
of this sore. Without any intercourse why should such a sore have appeared!

�Have you shown it your father?�

�No.�

�You have it for over two weeks. Why haven�t you shown it to a Doctor?

�I haven�t.�

�If you apply ointments without a test, the sore will not heal.�

Rudra kept scratching his beard. He did this when he was very worried about
something.

I abruptly said, �Do you know these sores appear if you have relations with
prostitutes? You couldn�t possibly have gone to a prostitute!� I asked.

�No.� Rudra�s voice was icy.

�You really haven�t been? This is the first time you have ever had intercourse
isn�t it with me?�

Rudra�s face suddenly changed. His two black brows joined together. As though
somewhere inside his body there was some agony. He looked at my eyes for a long
time. Even though I tried, I was unable to read the language of his eyes.

For a long time the two of us sat silently. Suddenly Rudra said, �Actually you
know, I have been to the area.�

�Area meaning?�
The red-light areas.�

�You have? Why?�

�For the same reason other people go.�

�What reason?�

Rudra said nothing. Was my head throbbing? Did a tightness suddenly hurtle into my
chest,making it difficult for me to breathe? My subsequent words were spoken much
more slowly than before. The voice was breaking, trembling.

�Have you slept with a prostitute?�

He did not say anything. His eyes had turned stony.

�Speak, why aren�t you saying something? Speak.�

My eyes were full of anxiety. Say �No�, say �No� Rudra. Please say �No�. In the
hope of hearing the one word �No�, I sat waiting, like one bewitched.

�Yes,� said Rudra.

�Ki, you had sexual relations?�

I couldn�t recognize my own voice, as though it wasn�t mine at all, but someone
else�s. As though a button had been pressed on a machine, and the machine was
speaking.

�Yes.�

The light was on in the room, yet darkness was deepening before my eyes. I was
unable to breathe. For a long time I couldn�t breathe at all. Was this a sexually-
diseased patient before me, or was it Rudra! My lover, my husband! I couldn�t
believe this was Rudra. I couldn�t believe he was someone I had loved for years.

�When did you go?�

�Just two weeks ago.�

�Have you been just once?�

�Yes.�

�You have never been before?�

�No.�

�But your sore is two weeks old!�

�Yes.�

�The sore couldn�t have appeared the very day you had intercourse. It takes
sometime to form. Try and recall if you have been more than once.�

Staring at my eyes without blinking for a long time, he said slowly, �I have.�
I couldn�t believe my ears. I didn�t want to believe that I was not the first
woman in Rudra�s life! For a long time I sat benumbed.
w

�Y
You never told me about all this.�

�N
No, I didn�t.�

�W
Why not?�

Rudra heaved a deep sigh. Staring at the white wall, looking at what only he knew,
he did not reply.
h

�T
The red light area, right? Where is that?�

�A
At Banishanta.�

�W
Where is Banishanta?�

�I
In this port only.�

�W
Why do you go? Don�t you love me?�

�I do love you.�

�If you do, how did you touch anyone else? You lied to me all these days. You told
me you had not touched anyone but me ever. Do you know, I can�t believe any of
t
this?�

*
***

I found it painful to believe that Rudra had slept with another woman � the way he
had slept with me. That he had kissed someone else in the same way as he had
kissed my face and breasts. It was painful to believe that Rudra had entered
anyone else as deeply as he had me. I felt as though my boat had sunk in mid-
ocean. I too was sinking, as far as the eye could see there was no one, nothing at
all. I was alone, I was drowning. My sky had fallen apart, my world had
disintegrated and scattered to bits. The bits were now rolling into the bottom of
the sea. In the boundless, billowy sea there was not even a dry piece of straw. I
was drowning. It was as if I was not myself, I was someone else. I felt sorry for
that someone else. The pain circulated in my nervous system and finally descended
to my chest. It was as though all the rocks in the world were pressing down on my
chest. I did not have the ability to utter a single word. Losing all my senses I
wept copiously, through the night. The pillow, sari and bed sheets got soaked with
my tears. I clung to Rudra�s hands and feet and cried, �Please tell me you are not
speaking the truth. Tell me, you have not been to anyone else. You have not slept
with anyone else. Please.�
w

Rudra�s silence was like that of a stone. With a pale face he watched me crying
through the night.
t

He watched me crying in the morning, afternoon and evening. He watched me crying

the whole day going without any food or bath. He himself ate and bathed. He spent
the day like any other day. I wanted to sleep. To forget everything and sleep. But
sleep would not come. When I asked for sleeping tablets, Rudra fetched two strips
of Sidaxin from his father�s chambers. He had searched and found two strips, and
those two strips he had given me. From the twenty tablets in the two strips, I was
to take only one. I was to take one, so that I could take a tablet daily and sleep
for the next twenty days. But hidden from Rudra, I swallowed all the twenty
tablets at one go, that very day, that very evening, �I will go far away, but not
let you forget me� was not the tune playing within me. I really wanted to go far
away, wanted Rudra to forget me, never to remember that anyone by my name had been
part of his life. I didn�t feel as though I could have borne my own existence any
longer, or that my life had any value left any more. I didn�t think I could live a
minute more with these intolerable pains and unbearable insults. Just when I was
rushing towards this longed-for death, someone grabbed me from behind and stopped
me. When I was brought back from that path, I found a hard pipe in my nose and
beside me was standing Rudra�s Doctor father. The poison was taken out of my body,
but from my mind not a drop of poison came out, my heart was dying. Before my eyes
my heart moaned in its death-throes. I spent the whole night sleeplessly with my
dead heart lying next to me.
d

When the first rays of dawn appeared, I said, �I will go immediately.�

W

Rudra got ready. Not once did he say, �Stay a day or two more.� Everyone at home
was shocked. �What has happened, why are you leaving so abruptly?� They asked.
w

Rudra told them, �She has to go.� Why I had to go, he never told them. They asked
me to have breakfast, I refused.
m

Standing on the decks, the pungent smell of urine and the strong smell of fish
scales inside the launch, along with the intermittent �bho� sound of the engines
letting off steam, made my insides churn. After staying up the whole night crying,
when I went up at dawn to get a breath of fresh air, I flooded the decks of the
launch with vomit. Rudra was sitting amongst a crowd of people with his head
thrown back in sleep, his mouth wide open. This man did not look like anyone I
knew. I did not feel that he was related to me in any way.
k

The long launch ride and the equally long train journey was covered in silence.
Not a word was spoken. Even knowing everything, I kept telling my heart, �It is
actually another disease. A different sore.�
a

So many kinds of sores could appear in the sexual organs. Did I know everything?
There was still a long time for me to qualify as a doctor. Why didn�t I test the
sore once! It may happen that this was some new viral disease. It may even be that
Rudra was joking with me by telling me he had gone to a brothel, that too, many
times. He would surely one day surprise me by saying that all these were lies that
he had told me. He had been testing me. It was a test of how much I trusted him.
He had spent the night, the kind of night he had repeatedly wanted to spend with
m
me.

Alighting at Dhaka, I found the city swamped in darkness. This city so beloved to
me, this lively city appeared so lack luster. At night we went to Rudra�s rented
house at Muhammedpur. A dilapidated three storeyed house, Rudra had taken two
rooms on the second floor. It had a balcony and a small kitchenette outside the
room. Across the corridor was a toilet and bath, which the landlord and Rudra
shared. He had not rented it for too long. Of the two rooms, one was a bedroom,
the other a study. The study had a table, chair and a bookshelf, from which books
were spilling out. Even though the space was limited, there were no books on the
floor or scattered about, everything was tidy. Even the cot in the bedroom was
neatly made up. Rudra was a very tidy, ordered person. My bed and table were never
so neat and tidy. Therefore, I said my life was disorganised. Rudra too called
himself disorganised, but when he was so neat and clean, how could he be
disorganised? Did he then mean his unrestrained life style when he used the word
�disorganised�! What a contrast in meaning the same word had in our two lives!
Leaving me at home, Rudra went out to buy some food for us both. Lying on the
floor, I flipped through some books on the shelf. Two thick notebooks of poetry
were arranged at the bottom of the shelf. Turning the pages I realised what a
volume of poetry he had written in his lifetime! All of them were serious love
poems. Rudra obviously loved someone very, very deeply. Who was this, to whom he
had dedicated all his songs and poems? When Rudra returned with the food, I asked,
�Who is this beautiful woman you have devoted your life to?�

�I had.�

�Who is she?�

�Do you really need to know?�

�Come on, let�s hear.�

�Nellie.�

�The poems were written while you were at Lalbagh.�

�My mama�s house is at Lalbagh. I was there. Nellie is my mami�s sister. She used
to stay in that house.�

�If she is your mami�s sister, she would be your khala.�

�Yes, khala.�

�You were romancing your khala?�

Rudra nodded in agreement. That the khala was much older than him, Rudra
acknowledged.

�Did you only romance her? Or was there something more as well?�

�Something more.�

�You mean you slept with your khala?�

�Yes.�

�When you lived in that house you were in school. You mean you slept with her as a
schoolboy?�

Yes, Rudra had completed all his life�s experiences while studying in school
itself. He had learnt copulation in his childhood.

�That means the Yellow House, Fifty Lal Bagh, the dedication in the name of the
Bakul flower, Sorrow, all those poems in Upodruto Upokool were written about
Nellie?�

�Yes.�

I laughed and said, �Do you know, I fell in love with you after reading the poems
in that book? Now it makes me laugh to think of it. Well then, where is your lover
Nellie now?�

�She got married to a schoolmaster. There was a talaq. Now she is in Lalbagh.

�Don�t you go to her? Don�t you spend nights with her? With your khala?�
�Don�t talk rubbish.�

�This is rubbish, is it?�

�Of course it is rubbish.�

Rudra�s eyes were bloodshot, with greenish flecks in them. Once when I had asked
him what these were, he had said that it was moss that had accumulated. Rudra
stared at me for a long time with those mossy eyes, and said, �She did propose, I
did not agree.�

�Why? You have no obstacles in the path of this relationship! Why shouldn�t you
agree?�

�I don�t have any emotional relationship with her, that relationship I have with
you.�

�Bah, you have a good policy. You only sleep with those you have an emotional
relationship with, meaning those you love.� Laughing, I said, �Then what do you do
with the prostitutes? Do you love them and then go to sleep with them?�

Rudra got up without replying. He brought water in two cups. �Let�s eat. The food
is going cold,� he urged.

�Why didn�t you marry your khala? Of course, you still can.� My voice was calm.

�Why are you raking up the past?�

�Past! All this was there only in your past. At present you are the purest of men,
isn�t that so?�

Rudra did not make any reply. I watched him as I ate. Everything was so familiar �
his eating, his washing his hands, wiping his mouth, so well-known his manner of
lighting his cigarette, smoking!

Rudra changed the topic by reading poetry. On the 14th of February, a police truck
had run over a student procession on government orders. Innumerable people had
been crushed under the wheels of the truck. The protests against tyranny were
increasing, and the police were aiming their guns at the hearts of innocent people
on government orders.

�I do not want to loathe you anymore

I want to spit on the faces of the olive-green forces �

Who have caused a bloodbath in the Children�s Academy, Neelkhet,

Who have sent bullet-ridden bodies to the University

Who have slaughtered people by crushing them under their boots,

Today I want the blood of those olive-green forces ��

Rudra was reading one poem after another in a deep voice, and clear pronunciation.

�Once upon a time, the way we killed gigantic animals in the forests,
And brought back peace to jungle life,
Today let�s eradicate these gigantic, ugly wild savages
And recreate a world of equality,
Recreate a world of wealth and happiness. Create a world of industry and
t
tranquility.�

Lying on the floor and listening to the poetry, I began to forget the incident
that took place in the Mongla Port. As though I had come to Dhaka straight from
Chattagram, and I loved Rudra as I had done before, and had never seen the ugly,
dirty reality of his life. I became enchanted and absorbed totally in his forceful
voice and animated use of words. I kept thinking Rudra was only a friend, not my
lover, not my husband. Keeping the poetry book next to him, Rudra looked steadily
at the window and said, �Should I tell you one of my greatest dreams. I want to
die after being shot in a procession.� His two eyes mirrored his dream. His two
eyes were like two stars in the night sky. I had never before come across anyone
who dreamt so much of death. Why did Rudra want to die in a procession? Was it to
give rise to a procession for himself, so that the movement became more active,
and so that he remained immortal forever! Thoughts of death continued to touch me.
Moving them away, Rudra kissed me. His kisses gradually benumbed my body. Becoming
numb, I began to forget who I was, from where I had come, what was my relationship
with Rudra, as though this was not me, it was someone else, was Rudra�s beloved,
the lover about whom he had written in so many poems. He was caressing that
beloved, and she was accepting his caresses all over her body. Rudra was taking
off the cloth covering her chest. He was loving her whole body with his own. Each
limb was crying out for the other�s. One body was losing itself in the other.
Pleasure, intense pleasure was making the beloved hold her lover�s body in her
arms. When it was all over, and consciousness returned, the beloved walked like a
duck with the agony in her sexual organs to the bathroom to urinate. Drops of
blood fell on the way; there were more spots in the bathroom. Then she was no more
Rudra�s lover. Then she was me, who was Rudra�s wife. How did this happen! This
was not supposed to happen. How could I have had intercourse with Rudra again, how
could I have let him touch my body again? He did not have that right any more.
Hadn�t our relationship ended after that fatal night? It must have. Then,
knowingly, why had I again taken the disease from his body? Why this mistake? Why
was I involving myself in this sin again! Why was I taking in the virus into my
body and making myself diseased! Chhi Chhi! Didn�t I love myself at all? How could
one wish to actually make oneself sick! To infect one�s own blood with a dirty
disease! Or was the sexual pleasure such an overwhelming one that I forgot the
contagious disease he carried in his body! I didn�t know. I knew nothing! I felt
anger at myself and hatred. Yet I also thought that the virus of the disease had
already entered my blood! My body had already lost its purity, so what was the
point in preventing it now! If the virus was already dancing in my blood from the
time of our first conjugation, what was the harm in accepting it a second time!
Rudra had already destroyed me, so what obstacle prevented me from being newly
destroyed again! I felt like a spoilt, rotten worm who should not find place even
in a sewer. I was not the I, I used to be. My former self had died. This me was a
new one. This me was a rotten me. This me was like Rudra, wayward, and
uncontrolled. The reins had slipped from my own hands. Now anyone could do what
they pleased with me. I felt like I was a prostitute. I had the disease of the
prostitutes. So I was one. What else! The whole night I tossed this way and that
between heaving deep sighs. The next day I left that claustrophobic little room
and went back to Mymensingh. The cool, pure dawn breeze wiped out the fatigue from
my body in a second. Rudra came running. He, too, wanted to go to Mymensingh with
m
me.

�Why should you go? To protect me from trouble on the way? Because after all, you
wish only the best for me, don�t you? Nobody should assault my body, no man should
raise his eyes and look at me? These are the reasons, aren�t they?�
r

Rudra didn�t say anything.

�Okay, come along. Not for my sake. For your sake, come to Mymensingh. I will
arrange for your treatment there.�
a

It took two hours for the bus to reach Mymensingh from the Mahakhali bus stand.
During the entire bus journey, the only sound I could hear emerging from myself
were long, deep sighs. Sitting next to me, Rudra silently slept. In sleep Rudra�s
mouth remained open. How was this man able to sleep? I could not figure out from
where he got his capacity to feel so carefree. Alighting at Mymensingh, Rudra went
somewhere, to some hotel. I returned to Aubokash. Ma came running to hug me close
to her heart saying, �Ahare, how long my girl has been away from home!� Yasmin
came shouting, �Bubu�s come, Bubu�s come,� to meet me. From Yasmin�s arms, Suhrid
leapt into mine. I tried to hide the tears in my eyes, and couldn�t. I wished I
could cry loudly. Cry, wail if possible without restraint. I wanted to roll on the
floor and cry. Baba said, �Ma, how did you like the sea? I haven�t yet seen the
sea, and my daughter has already done so.� Ma ran to the kitchen, to quickly make
me something good to eat. Sufi laughed and said, �Ish, after how long you have
returned! How did you like being so far away from your parents! Mami has every day
been saying, �Lord knows, what my girl must be doing!� � Giving Suhrid back to
Yasmin, I ran to the toilet, I just had to urinate immediately. Sitting in the
bathroom I poured water on my face, so that my tears would flow out along with the
water. I poured pitcher after pitcher of water, the water in the bucket finished,
but not my tears. With great will power I could stop myself from screaming, but I
couldn�t stop my tears. It would have been better, if as soon as I entered the
house Baba had cursed me, given me two tight slaps on my cheeks and said, �The
Hygiene Tour group returned this morning to Mymensingh, how did you get delayed
Haramzadi?� If Ma had said, �Instead of going to the sea as you told us, tell us
where you actually went! You didn�t go and spend the time with that fellow who
wrote letters addressing you as �Bou�, did you?� If Yasmin had not come close, if
my coming home or not had made no difference to her, if Suhrid had turned his face
away and not wanted to come to me, I would have felt better. I did not want
anyone�s love any more. Let everyone loathe me. Loathe me terribly.
a

The next day, without attending any classes in college, I picked up Rudra from the
canteen, and walked along the Chorpara Road, past innumerable chemist shops,
Doctor�s chambers and laboratories. Where was I to go, to which Doctor? Any doctor
would know me, would know my name, my face, or would know me as Baba�s daughter.
Any Doctor would be shocked to see me bringing in a patient suffering from
Syphilis, and would definitely want to know who this patient was. How was he
connected to me? I thought maybe it would be better not to go to a Doctor at all,
but first get a blood test done. On second thoughts, I entered, not a Doctor�s
chambers, but a Pathology lab for the test. I told a square�jawed black man, his
eyes bulging out of their sockets, who I gauged would be a technician, �He needs a
VDRL test.� My voice shook as I spoke. The man looked at me sharply. The question
in his eyes was, �How is this man related to you?� I lowered my eyes, as though I
had not read the unspoken question, had not noticed the penetrating look. After
all, medical students did bring in patients known to them, in fact even patients
lying in pain on the roadside, and arranged for their treatment out of pity. Maybe
this was a similar case. A man was walking in the corridors of the hospital, and
asked me to help in treating his disease. So, because I had time, and right now
there were no classes, I had brought the man to find out what needed to be done,
where he needed to go. Whatever excuse I gave with whatever expression, a crooked
smile continued to play on the man�s lips. I could make out that he had seen the
two of us many times before. The man knew me very well, and even if he wasn�t
aware that Rudra was my husband, he certainly knew he was my lover.
a

Rudra�s test report came to hand. �VDRL Positive�.

R
Looking at the paper, the last thin ray of hope that I had nurtured, was trampled
over by a pair of strong feet. There was nothing left but despair. That was all I
was left with for life.
w

The blood test was done in the Medical College compound. The square man kept
looking at me on his way to and from the hospital. Was he telling all the doctors
that there was a bearded man with me always, who had Syphilis! In that compound
itself in the evening I took the Pathology report into the chambers of the sexual
diseases specialist. Rudra was behind me. The specialist frowned at the paper, at
Rudra, and looking frequently at me wrote out the treatment on a paper, asking me,
�I
Is this patient known to you?�

�Y
Yes, Sir.� My voice was calm.

�O
Oh!�

The specialist would never have thought this patient could be related to me. Even
if he let his imagination run riot, there was no way he would have pictured that
the man could be my lover, or husband. That is why, instead of asking if the
patient was related to me or not, he had wanted to know if the patient was known
to me or not. Of course, he was known. Rudra was someone I had known for ages.
Without giving him an opportunity for more conversation, we left his chambers.
Coming out, I breathed in the scent of fresh air deeply and said in a calm voice,
�Now? It�s all done. Go and get yourself Penicillin injections in Dhaka. Go to any
pharmacy and tell them; the compounder will push it for you.�
p

�W
What about you?�

�W
What about me?�

�Y
Yes, you.�

�Y
You, what?�

�W
What will you do?�

�W
What else will I do, I will study, become a doctor and treat patients.�

�T
This relationship?�

�W
Which relationship? With whom?�

�W
With me.�

I began to laugh. �Hasn�t my relationship ended with you as yet, Rudra?�

After remaining silent for a long time, Rudra said in a broken voice, �Can�t you
forgive me?�
f

�Forgive? Of course I have forgiven you. Without caring for my own reputation, I
brought you to this city which has known me from birth, and arranged for your
treatment. I could have abandoned you in that Mongla Port itself, couldn�t I have?
�

�Y
Yes, you could have.�

Rudra�s eyes were greyish as always.

R
�What is left in my life, tell me? After having loved you for so many years, I
married you and this was my first union. After long years of waiting the day
finally arrived. This was a time of great happiness for me, great joy. Isn�t that
so? Freeing myself of all my fears and shame, I gave myself entirely to you, the
complete me that you had always asked for. You had wanted me fully. You did get me
finally, didn�t you! All your desires were fulfilled, weren�t they! At my wedding
I did not wear a red Benarasi sari, or any jewellery, no music played at my
wedding, no guests came; only you and I celebrated. I gifted you my full love and
trust, you gifted me a disease. From you, this is my only wedding gift. What do
you say?�
y

�Y
You too have to take injections. Come on let�s go to Dhaka.�

�You don�t have to worry about me anymore. You have worried enough. Now worry
about something else. Worry about your own life. If you can, stay away from
diseases and other harms.�
d

�Y
You are leaving me?�

My tone was detached. �Yes, I am leaving you. Don�t think I am abandoning you
because you have Syphilis. It is sheer bad luck that you have contracted this
disease. Even if you go to brothels and stay with prostitutes, this disease may
not have infected you. It doesn�t happen to everyone. I am leaving you because you
have cheated and deceived me.�
h

Rudra�s eyes were bright with unshed tears.

R

�W
What would you have done in my place, Rudra?�

�Y
You are really leaving me and going?�

�R
Really.�

�Y
You won�t give me even one opportunity to improve?�

I smiled sadly. I was someone who was utterly ruined, empty, one who had lost
everything. Who was I to give opportunities? Was I human? I felt ashamed of
myself. I loathed myself. Rudra kept standing on the Chorpara Road, all by
himself. I came away, not once wishing to look back. Not once did I feel like
telling Rudra to come again, or to write letters. I didn�t feel like it. I knew
this was the last time I would see him. And if I ever did see him again, it would
be suddenly on the streets of Dhaka, maybe someday at a book fair. I didn�t at all
feel Rudra was my lover, let alone my husband. He was like an acquaintance. An
acquaintance who wrote poetry. Because this acquaintance was sick, and I had the
means to get him treated, I had arranged for his treatment out of pity. The known
person was returning to his known place. I was returning to the place familiar to
me. I had no dreams which involved this familiar man. He would never come to me
again, to my life, to my body, to my mind. No more love letters. No more going to
bed either. No family and household anymore. No ties at all. To erase the lie,
someday I would sign some paper. The familiar person would gradually grow
unfamiliar. Only the man�s poetry would remain familiar. Nothing more. I might
read this known man�s poetry, some greyish memories might distract me for moments.
That would be all. Nothing more than this.
T

CHAPTER XVIII
C
The Darkness of Remorse
T

Seeing my photographs taken at the sea, Ma said that it seemed as though I was a
mermaid. Sometimes I was being washed up in the white waves, sometimes I was
drowning, my wet body shining in the rays of the sun I was walking barefoot
towards the sunset, very often with a whole group of girls. Ma said, �None of the
others look as beautiful as you. Only you look as though you have emerged from the
sea.� If Ma knew what had happened in my life, that my body was no longer as pure
as a mermaid�s, she would surely not have called me by this name. If only Ma knew
that I had not returned after taking the sea air alone, but had disappeared into
thin air as well for a few days. In that air there had been the heat of fire. I
laughed dryly. To whom was I to tell this story of self-defeat! There was no one
on whose shoulders I could weep. I sat all by myself on the terrace, resting my
head in the lap of silence. This mermaid had to hide her tears. Shaukat teased,
�K
Ki, has your hymen been ruptured?�

I smiled cheerlessly.

�K
Ki, mermaid, aren�t you going to write a poem on the sea!� Yasmin kept asking.

No, my mind was no more on poetry, it was on my body. I had not written poetry for
ages. There was no inspiration. In my mind I put the mermaid to sleep on a magic
bed. I understood mentally that there was no sleep in her eyes and covered in a
blanket of anxieties, she remained awake, all alone. The mermaid received a
letter, �I have taken it immediately on arrival. It did not hurt so much. The
wound still remains unchanged. I have brought my life under much more regulation
than you would ever believe. However the pain of repentance is very acute � Do not
worry. We have not lost anything. My dearest jewel, the dark sun of erotic folly
will never touch me again. I am keeping well. I will stay well. I will remain good
like your dream. The scent of your body lingers all over the room � I play with
that scent. The sunshine in your heart keeps my life shining. I will rise like the
morning sun, the rising sun.�
m

In my letters I used to address Rudra as �Sunshine.� And Rudra called me �Dawn�.

All that unbridled love now seemed so meaningless. Rudra wanted to emerge as the
rising sun. He now wanted to become �my� Rudra. But why now? Why wasn�t he mine
from the very beginning! Why had he constantly told me he was mine! Why had he
cheated on me! Why had he lied to me! How could I now believe that he would rise
as the morning sun! Why was he writing letters to me? I was not going to involve
him in my life any more. I had shaken off the name of the cheat, Rudra, from my
heart. Let the grey skies shower rain ceaselessly, let the waterfalls cascade and
flood the banks, exile is better. A few rays of sunshine suddenly bring happiness
to the threshold of the room, secretly destroying the dreams awash in the bridal
chamber, termites nibble and eat the beautiful sanctity of the human body, drink
the heart�s blood, and consume the nutty intelligence. The limitless future is
burnt to cinders in that sunshine. The flames of the fire dance on the burnt body.
Even if my courtyard is full of crumbling earth and broken bits of straw, and a
terrible storm brings down darkness in this world, exile is still preferable, even
a dismal sunless morning. The pure sun retreats leaving the world in darkness, the
fresh beauty leaves behind disrepute, the sly jackal grabs and eats its prey and
leaves, the debauched gambler leaves, as does the inhuman, drunk vulture. Please
leave in the same way, sunshine of my life, leave the deep black darkness of the
night and go into exile, go my golden wings of the sun, fly away to another abode.
There is not a drop of moonlight, but that�s alright. Pure darkness! Let me drown
in the moonless Amavasya, yet this �dawn� will not search for her �sunshine�. Yet
the �sun� continues to search for this �dawn�. Whatever else he may have lost, he
does not want to lose his �dawn�.�
d
Not just letters, Rudra sent poems along with his letters. In the poems were
thoughts of that night, the night of our first union, the night I had stayed
awake.

�On a heap of destruction sits a myna,

Next to it is a lightning-struck tree in its death throes,
The grey sky looks on with empty eyes.
My sad one, your dreamless eyes remain awake.

The arrows in your eyes fall into the river that has flooded its banks,
Close by your heart lies awake a solitary stone.
Some festivities create a noise all around �
My melancholic one, you lie awake, a defeated bird.

Finding the perfect opportunity, a snake entered the iron bridal bed,
The poisonous sting caused a cold darkness to descend on the blue body,
In the river water floats a black raft of pain.
My unhappy one, you remain awake on a river of sand.

The universe has gone to sleep at the end of the day, wrapped in the blanket of
night,
Sleep rests its chin on the delicate eyes of charming women,
The light of fireflies has burned out listening to the dreams of the world �
You are awake, only you are awake my sorrowful one.�

Had Rudra really experienced my pain? If he had anything called a heart, then why
had he touched other women? Because I had a heart, I could never imagine any other
man but Rudra. Everyday, I had seen the handsome, intelligent jewels of boys in
college. I had never even looked back at them.

Not just Habibullah, many more studs as precious as diamonds had sent me love
letters, but I had unhesitatingly thrown them away. Why couldn�t Rudra have done
the same! I too had a body, but this body had never desired anyone. This body had
slowly, but surely prepared itself each day for Rudra. This ripe body had been
putrefied by Rudra�s dishonourably promiscuous character.

�I can hear the sounds of breakage, as though there is no other sound.

Inside my head logs seem to go on crashing forever
The sound of sawing awakens me,
The blood in my veins and arteries feels the felling of trees all night.

Why are so many trees being felled, why are there so many sounds of breakage?
Is there no other sound on earth, in the world, in the entire universe?
Where is the disintegration taking place? Where? Or is it deep
Within my own self the secret breaking of trust!

From a sorrowful distance, I call dawn, dawn �

Then does dawn break my dawn on this earth!
Does this town disintegrate, this beloved solitary town of mine?
Then does hope break, the ultimate dream of desire?

The signs of damage in a flood are wiped out by manmade silt deposits
When does a house remember the grief of a scorching fire?
After the night of danger ended, I built a house again
Will I then all my life, still have to hear this breaking sound?�

Yes, you will have to hear the sounds of breakage all your life. I will never
return to this ruined life of yours. I sighed deeply on reading the poem. The poem
made me weep, but no, poetry and life were not the same. If to become a poet, one
had to sleep with a prostitute from Banishanta and contract a disease, then I
could love the poetry of that poet, but I could not join my life to his. You have
hoodwinked me enough, how much more Rudra! Taking advantage of my stupidity, do
you now want to draw me close and ruin what little I have left un-spoilt! How much
more will you deceive me, do you think I don�t understand your trickery! Hiding
the hell within you, how you make excuses like a good little boy! The sting of a
poisonous snake lay behind the taste of your kiss, as soon as I unmasked you. I
saw the reality of your hideous similarity. How much more treachery is there? Is
this cruel game of destroying so merciless! The moon, deprived of its fullness,
invites the inauspicious Amavasya, the moonless night, calling out come, come�
Mistaking fireflies for moonlight, I had enjoyed the festivities of the pure
darkness of night, that was my fault, this was how I got enmeshed in a web of sin.
Now I want to be free, want to tear away the ties with my teeth, now I want to
live, I desperately want to breathe pure air. How much more will you trick me, do
you think I do not understand your cunning? Your lips offer a scented smile hiding
the mess in your life. Your past is full of disgrace; your body is full of filth,
a hateful life. Thinking it was like ambrosia, I touched the poisonous fire. Was
this my love, the beautifully arranged and decorated treasure trove to which I had
devoted myself? This is my house, a false home built with neither clay nor wood. I
want to save myself from sure death, I want unblemished freedom, I want beautiful
dreams, and the scent of my heart should be pure white. �But I cannot get this
beautiful freedom. I cannot get a pure, unblemished life.� Rudra was writing �The
Darkness of Remorse� while being treated for his sickness. But his penitence did
not save me from the disease. I was alone with all my agonies. Suddenly one day I
noticed sores appearing in my private parts. So I had been infected! I had nursed
a tiny hope, that maybe I hadn�t been. Only hope dwells eternally. In this
familiar town it was not possible for me to get myself tested, or to go to any
chemist shop and ask for penicillin injections. It was not possible for me to
inject myself. Not possible to ask anyone else to push the needle. Seeing the high
dose of the penicillin, everyone would get to know for which disease such a high
dose was being given. While Rudra was gradually regaining his health and his scars
were healing, my sores were increasing slowly, and I was falling sick. I hid this
disease in the deep cave of my body. Nobody should see it, nobody should know
about it. A fear clung to me all the time, wherever I went, whatever I did, this
fear did not leave me. In the nurses� room in the hospital, there were heaps of
penicillin. I was writing innumerable prescriptions for the various illnesses of
the uncountable patients admitted in the hospital. I was prescribing the names of
different kinds of penicillin and the relations of the patients were bringing the
medicines. I was telling the nurses to administer injections to the patients, in
front of my eyes the nurses were pushing in the needles. But I was unable to take
even one injection for myself. I was unable, to ask any doctor or nurse to give me
an injection, to give me a high dose of penicillin. If instead I had got cancer,
or any other incurable disease, I would have been more relieved, at least I would
have been able to name the illness I was suffering from, I would not have been
ashamed to seek treatment. Who would I tell now what disease I was suffering from?
The thin blade of diffidence was slicing me into pieces. Fear and shame had tied
me up with strong ropes. My boundaries were now reduced, and finally limited to a
spot. But how long could I hide this illness! Even though I knew that the Canestan
ointment would not help, I still purchased it. As I could not buy the correct
medicine for my problem, I bought another. This medicine reduced the fungal
infection it could not destroy such a deadly bacteria like Triponema Palledum.
Even then, I hid the tube in my clothes and entered the bathroom everyday, as
though I was going for a bath or to the toilet. No one noticed anything, except
Ma. I had hidden the ointment under the lower most mattress on my bed. No one put
their hands under this mattress. Even then, Ma said, �What�s wrong with you, why
do you constantly go to the bathroom?�
�N
Nothing is wrong!� I said, hiding my pale face.

�A
Are you sick or something?�

�W
What are you saying? Why should I be sick?�

�I think there is something wrong with you.�

I could not look her in the eye. I let my palpitating heart remain concealed
within me.
w

The exams were ahead. The students were studying day and night. I went to college,
attended classes. My eyes were on the professors and their lectures, but my mind
was elsewhere, my mind was on my body. At home I sat with my books before me, but
my mind moved away from the letters in my books towards my body. Something
terrible was about to happen to my body. Treatment was required immediately. But
how was I to get that treatment? Where could I get it? Rudra was sitting in Mongla
writing poetry. I could not even go to Dhaka and get myself treated. High doses of
penicillin were used not just for Syphilis, but also for heart diseases. I would
have been saved even if I had some heart disease. At least for that reason I could
have taken an injection nonchalantly. But I could not wish disease on my heart.
Once in a while I felt pain in my elbows, a pain that leapt from one elbow to
another. In the case of rheumatoid arthritis, it could cause Mitral Stenosis of
the heart. Mitral Stenosis could cause breathlessness. Very often I would suddenly
feel breathless at night, as though I was locked inside a small trunk, and there
was no air to breathe. I would sit up and take air into my lungs, or I would
stand, if that did not work then I would open the windows and breathe. This was
called Occasional Nocturnal Disnea. If that was so, then I did have the condition
which needed high doses of penicillin. Taking advantage of this condition, I told
one of the simple, good students of the class, Naseema, �I get Nocturnal Disnea. I
fear it might develop into Mitral Stenosis. I�m thinking of taking a penicillin
injection. At least, I can prevent Mitral Stenosis this way. What do you say?� If
Naseema were to say I should take penicillin, only then could I take the injection
with Naseema herself as witness. Only Naseema could help me save my heart. But on
hearing of my great illness, Naseema only laughed. She said, �Why should you take
the injection in advance? Check your heart first. Is there a murmur?� I was in a
predicament. I had never examined my own heart with the stethoscope. Busy with
other peoples hearts, who had the time for one�s own? It was just a conjecture. Of
course, no one would allow me to take a penicillin injection on the basis of such
conjecture, no one would secretly give me such an injection either, not even
Naseema. A good student, with a good ear, but no untoward sound travelled up the
stetho tube to her ear from my heart. There was no murmur. So there was no need
for me to take penicillin. I knew I had no way out but to take this injection.
f

Once Rudra returned from Mongla, I boarded the bus to Dhaka without telling anyone
at home. If I waited for permission from someone at home, it would not do. Rudra
took me to a chemist�s shop at Shahbagh where he bought his injections. I could
clearly see the crooked smile on the lips of the man who pushed the long needle
into the flesh of my buttocks. Clenching my teeth, I suffered both the needle and
the smile. Next to the chemist�s was a tea-shop. Sitting there, Rudra said in a
very gentle tone, �Stay back today.� Surprisingly, even now if I looked into
Rudra�s eyes, I still got the same feelings I had felt before. Back in his room,
Rudra stroked my hands with his fingers. Looking at the fingers I thought of them
stroking another woman�s body similarly. Rudra kissed me. He must have kissed
other women in the same way. Rudra touched my breasts, just as he would have
touched another woman�s. Rudra lay me down on the bed. He caressed my body, the
way he did other women�s. In this way he would have slept with other women.
Somewhere I felt acute pain. Inside my heart. I kept telling myself, no, not such
a life again. I would return to Mymensingh today itself, and would think of a man
called Rudra no more. Rudra, lying next to me, played with my hair, and in a
choked voice told me how he had been addicted to wine and women from the
beginning. He had hinted to me about this, but I had not understood. He had really
wanted to tell me everything about his life openly, but had never actually done
so. After marrying me, it was not that he had really wanted to continue his former
lifestyle. It was because I had denied him intercourse that he had had to turn to
prostitutes. However his love for me had not been spoilt by his visits to
b
brothels.

*
****

The penicillin that was supposed to cure me was making me worse. In the place of
one boil, another five had erupted. The boils were no more boils, their mouths had
burst open, and pus was now traveling down my pyjamas from the open sores. The pus
thickened, from white it turned black. The smelly pus began to stick. From white
it turned to nutty brown. From nutty to deep brown, from deep brown to reddish,
and from red to a blackish colour. From blackish to black. From black to black as
tar. I moved my body away from other people. I bought attar and kept applying it
to my body so that no one would get the smell. I kept bright lights on in my room
the whole night apparently to study for my exams. The exams were around the
corner. Not just on the table, my books and copies were scattered in such a way
all over my bed that with me and the books there was no place for Yasmin to lie
down. I didn�t want her to find place. I didn�t want this virus from my body to
travel through my pyjamas, to the bedsheets and pillow-slips, and touch Yasmin. I
had a bath not just once, but twice, sometimes even thrice a day. I said I felt
warm. So hot in fact that I couldn�t stay without bathing repeatedly. The real
reason for bathing was to wash my pyjamas. My pyjamas would get wet with the
smelly secretions. Finally I had to use cotton wool. Even that had to be done
secretly. This was because even if I did not keep track of my periods, Ma did.
Every month I suffered lower abdominal cramps and landed up rolling with pain in
bed. So to have my periods minus the usual accompanying cramps would raise many
questions. Yasmin and I were used to throwing our blood-soaked cloth and cotton
wool pads in a closed verandah, behind the bathroom. Baba would clean that
verandah once in a while. He picked up our bloody pads with his own hands. If any
cotton wool minus the blood was found in this verandah, then Ma would become
suspicious. This thought made me recoil. If I dropped the cotton wool in the
toilet, then even several pitchers of water would not be able to wash it away. It
would get stuck midway, and all the dirty excreta would rise up like a fountain.
From my head, surgery, medicine, gynaecology had all disappeared. In it there now
was only one disease, and how to save myself from it. A disease was emerging out
of my head and spreading in my body, hidden from the public eye.
o

Everyday I was treating diseases in the hospital, yet I had a disease myself. I
could go to no known doctor with this disease. The disease was no longer in its
first stage; it had already reached the second. The penicillin injection I had
taken had no effect. In the third stage, this illness would incapacitate the
nervous system. To be infected with neuro-syphilis meant death. I waited for death
to come. At night I slept with death beside me. I woke with death in the morning.
I went to college and a little bit of death accompanied me. I returned from
college, so did death. In the evening I sat on the verandah alone, with my face
towards the courtyard. A little of death sat beside me. In this condition one day
I bought penicillin tablets which could be taken orally. I knew even these would
not work, but I still bought them. Maybe if I took a higher dose, I would get some
relief, however minor. I hid the medicine under the mattress, so that no one would
see. There was a time when if I had fever, I used to secretly throw my medicines
away. I was so scared of taking them and swallowing tablets. Now I secretly took
medicines. Now instead of twelve I had to take seventy-two. But even then there
was no effect. I looked for sleeping tablets in the medicine chest Dada had left
behind, and swallowed them. At least while sleeping one could set death aside.
b

But one had to wake up sometime. I had to face Ma, too. Even if no one else at
home noticed, Ma definitely took note of the fact that I was not my former self. I
was lying down with my eyes on the beams, when Ma came and stopped near the door,
�W
What are you thinking of?�

�N
No, I am not thinking! I�m just lying down.�

�W
Why are you hiding from me?�

I told myself silently, what option do I have Ma, but to hide?

�Something has happened to you. Something really bad has happened to you.
Something really awful.�
S

I turned on my side so that I didn�t have to see Ma�s face. Or so that Ma couldn�t
see mine.
s

Rudra had gone to Mongla again. He was keeping accounts there of the grains of
rice. He counted money. Wrote poetry. And intermittently worried about me. I wrote
back an answer to his anxiety.
b

A
Aubokash

1
16.8.83

S
Sunshine,

I am returning home with your tiny letter in my hand, written on the 11th. �You do
not like anything, you do not get peace thinking of me� reading all this makes me
laugh. Please don�t make such statements, a second time over at least not to me.
Believe me, whatever else I can stand, such affectation only makes me burn inside.
How many more fires will you light? I have been on fire ever since and am now
reduced to ashes. Don�t you realise that even a little? Don�t you understand that
at all?
a

You used to complain that I didn�t talk. But now I talk endlessly, laugh a lot, in
fact lately I have been laughing so much that tears come out of my eyes. There is
a sea hiding within my eyes, I have brought salty sea water with me. This disease
that is constantly eating into me, is a disease which afflicts ruined women who
sell themselves cheaply in the bazar. I thought I was good, I thought I was as
beautiful and pure as a flower, that I had never committed even the smallest sin.
Maybe that�s why I am being punished, for my inordinate pride. A flower too, when
a worm eats up its petals, loses its beauty. After living with mankind�s dislike
and negligence, one day unnoticed by everyone, it just drops dead. No one even
feels sad about it.
f

I had too many dreams. No one could have seen so many. The dreams were built on
too much trust and love. In front of my eyes I can see the abode of my desires
burning down. Reduced to ashes. Now I am an ordinary person, with no dreams. There
are no expectations in my heart, no hopes, no desires. I only have the body of a
human being. Everything is empty inside, a vacuum. I feel myself to be quite
light. I have no one, nothing, no worries about the future. Because I want to
forget where I am, what I am doing, I take a Dyzipan. I feel I am floating in the
sky, the night sky. There is no moon, no moonlight, only a deep dark sky.
s

Trampling over my parents high expectations of me, crumbling to bits all the ideas
my relatives had had of me, disregarding those who criticised me, I came to you.
What you gave me in return was the greatest thing I have ever got in my life. I
will always treasure this gift of yours.
w

There is no deliverance from this. That is why I am neither getting better, nor
will I get better. I am full of big sores all over. Their constant discharge
rapidly changes its character. The black waste-like discharge leaves the body
steeped in a terrible odour. A very complicated, a very big disaster is taking
place. That is very clear.
p

Now I have begun to suffer from an inferiority complex. Suddenly I have become
very quiet. I do not speak to anyone. Everyone is studying hard. The exams are
approaching. I am unable to study anything. I do not feel like touching my books.

There is only that sky. The still night sky. I have no one, nothing, no sorrow, no
happiness. I want to forget. I want oblivion. I want to live without any memories.
You have no idea of my trauma. You cannot understand. Sometimes I am surprised. Am
I human?

Humans at least have pride, anger, desire for revenge. A human being feels hatred,
contempt, distrust. Can one be left only with a sea of salty waters?
c

I want to go away somewhere far. Where there is no one, nothing, no sorrow, no

happiness. Where I can forget everything and live, where my pains don�t torment me
so much. You have no idea what fire you have ignited in me. I know what is about
to happen to my body. You will not understand all this at all. These are terrible
things. These don�t happen to good people; they happen only to fallen women who
sell themselves for a few takas in the bazar.
s

D
Dawn.

A
Aubokash

2
20.8.83

S
Sunshine,

I had a great desire to address you as �Sunshine�. Actually this name does not
suit you. You are a man of darkness. You invite a black curse on a brightly lit
life. You paint nightmares over beautiful dreams. You are like the fire in an
inferno; you burn one to ashes. You do not know how to love; you only know how to
cheat. It is a sin to trust you, a sin to love you. This sin has entered my body.
I am burning to death, constantly suffering in agony and pain. I am being
destroyed, you know that at least. How much more destruction is required for
death? How much more? You were the treasure found after a lot of dedication. After
a lifetime of worship I was given a ruined man. Don�t you feel like laughing at my
fate, Sunshine? You must surely be laughing aloud in your mind.
f

You know, Sunshine, when you are close to me, it is amazing how I actually want to
forget everything. I have no other shelter, nowhere to go, no place on which I can
turn around and stand � maybe that is why I want to forget � I want to think of
the dreams I had pictured, I want to deny your depraved past. Actually it doesn�t
work that way; it would be playacting with myself. The hurt suppressed in my
breast spreads out like fire. You do not know how to love, that is why you do not
understand what agony this is, how scorching it is.
This whole evening I have cried my heart out. Even now pain chokes my throat. I
can�t take this. I can�t take this any more. I only see nightmares now, nightmares
of being completely ruined. No more dreams of creation, I only see nightmares of
destruction and breakage. People drown their sorrows in liquor, I need gallons of
it. I need tranquilisers to sleep, I need sedatives. Later maybe just a little
higher dose will do, to kill me.
h

I have not an iota of attachment to life, no love; I want to turn to stone, but
can�t. In my eyes, lies a whole sea of salty water.
c

That night when you gradually brought your excitement to a tumultuous high-tide,
my body was numb. In these situations, the normal stimulation that sexual organs
undergo did not affect mine. All I could feel was the throbbing ache in my head.
Severe pain. Intense pain.
S

Why didn�t you sleep? Because I bothered you? Because you didn�t sleep, did you
try all morning to do so!
t

Don�t you feel repentant, Sunshine? Not even a little contrition? Don�t you want
to die? Can�t you take poison and die? Please die, so that I can save myself.
Please die, so that I can get some peace.
P

D
Dawn

*
***

Neither the injections worked, nor the tablets. There was no other medication
mentioned in the books. I couldn�t go to a doctor even though the medicines were
not working. Let the illness remain; let it worsen as it ultimately would. Such
tough studies were not possible at home, saying which, I packed my clothes and
books and moved into a hostel. I was displaying the courage required to flout the
strictures made by all at home. It was my wish to go. It was not that group study
helped me; not really. I got into Safinaz�s room, which she shared with three
other room mates. In the place for four, there were now five. No one had any
objections. They knew I was a lively person. They knew I could laugh, have fun. I
said wonderful things. My melancholy was as beautiful as my passion. They knew
everything, but no one knew that I was secretly nursing a disease as well. Living
in the world of a medical college, a hospital, where diseases, medicines and
treatment abounded, it was my fate to nurse a disease secretly. The secretions
from the sores would gradually dry up, slowly changing their hideous appearance,
and would swell up yet again with pus without notice. The disease was playing the
game of hide-and-seek with me. So was Rudra. He said he�d return to Dhaka, but he
did not. He had said he would return in a week. Two months passed without any
signs of his return. There was now no need that Rudra�s letters come to Dalia�s
address. His letters now came to the hospital�s post office address. The Post
Master took care to keep my letters aside. I picked them up towards afternoon. In
the envelope there was again a poem.
t

�I
I do not know when I handed you a cup of poison

Which you accepted as water for your thirst.

W

When I delivered death, wrapped in an envelope of life.

W

I do not know when I gave you the forbidden fruit mistaking it for grapes.

Night falls, in the dwelling of the body descends the darkness of death,
In this night there is no moonlight, not even fireflies.
I

Only darkness, the deep darkness of disintegration

O

Only the shadow of death, hovers in two dreamy eyes.

O

I don�t know how I mistook the bloody oleander in my memory for a rose

When I handed over the responsibility for my hemlock-life

W

When I pulled you into my worm-eaten barren past .

Today only the cheerless light of lamentation adorns the evening lamp.
T

Darkness does not die in this diseased,

disintegrating dark world of ours.
d

Yet with the hope in one�s heart of finding the sun, one takes to the road amidst
the desolate fields.
t

The deep desire for life spins its web in the pure heart �
T

The night sky still brings with it the dawn of the sun.�
T

Hostel life was different. There was a time for study, a time for talk, and time
for sleep. There was no way Safinaz would break any of these regulations. I
created chaos as soon as I arrived. My life was one of indiscipline. Watching so
many girls at close quarters, so many girls collectively in their personal
domestic lives, was such a new experience for me, that I would often leave my
books, and chat at sleep time, laugh loudly at study time, and of course chat
again at adda time. I had seen these girls in aprons all these years at the
college or hospital. Now instead of my studies, I was more interested in watching
them without their aprons. Out of aprons, these girls looked like ordinary girls;
they laughed, cried, threw tantrums, ate, slept, sang songs, danced and read
�outbook� kind of things like all girls. They, too, fell in love and had dreams of
their own. I wanted a Rudra-less life now. A life which would allow me to forget
my past! I did not want to be alone. The minute I was alone, a disease left my
body and traveled to my brain. I dreamt of suicide. However, even in the hostel,
one had to be alone sometimes. When this happened, this disease crawled over my
nerves like a caterpillar. Again the nightmare called Rudra returned. Again the
tears rolled down on the words in my letters, wiping them out.
t
H
Hostel

15. 9. �83
1

S
Sunshine,

Since morning I have been in the hostel, chatting. After eating, everyone has now
gone to sleep for a while. I am writing because I can�t sleep. It seems you are
going to write everything to me about yourself, in great detail. Why? At the end
of everything, after having completely destroyed my life, why do you now need to
explain yourself? Couldn�t you have done so earlier? Why did you take a cover of
words? I did not know then the meaning of the words ruined, darkness, wild,
disorganised. Why didn�t you explain them to me clearly? Why did you play with me
for so long hiding behind an array of words?
f

What else is left for me to know! What else do I need to know? What else do you
want me to know? Tell me, after all this time, is there any need for me to know?
In how many different ways do you want me to know about your dissolute life?
Believe me, I want to die. As long as I�m chatting with the girls, I am cheerful,
I am well. At home I am alone, my pain increases. If I had one room to myself in
this hostel, I would never go back home.
t

Have you expressed doubts about whether you are really an unforgivable darkness or
not? How surprising! Don�t you have any shame? Don�t you feel even a little
ashamed? Are you a human being or an animal? How come you don�t want to die? If
you are not an unforgivable darkness, then what are you? What else do you want to
be? Tell the most benevolent persons in this world, tell them of your deeds, who
will forgive you? Bring one person to me� bring even one person in this whole
country before me, who will say you deserve to be forgiven, who will say you are
not a dissolute darkness. Can you?
n

I know you are an aesthete. That you write good poetry is also well known to me.
So what? What do you mean by saying I should judge you differently? How do you
think I should observe you? Yes, if you were no one to me, if you had remained
only an artist, then maybe I would have seen you differently. You could have had
affairs with a hundred and eight women, gone to brothels, had Syphilis, got drunk,
taken ganja, drugs� it would not have bothered me in the least. I would not have
been concerned about your personal life at all. You are an artist. Whatever you
create, whatever you write, I would have only thought about them. But you are my
husband. Whether you are artistic or not, you are my husband. If you think of
other women or write poetry about them, it breaks my heart. You take drugs, you
drink, I cry in sorrow. How much more? You have had love affairs with thousands of
women before marriage; there is no harm in that. But you have spent nights with
women as if they are your wives and you have enjoyed other women�s bodies. Believe
me, this cannot be tolerated. My heart breaks when I hear you saying your ecstatic
love for a girl made you madly want to marry her. You have married me yet you
drink and frequent brothels, things that I had never even imagined. Girls cannot
accept such things, no girl can tolerate this, believe me. If you get excited,
that�s fine, there is nothing unusual about that, you can masturbate. But why
should you go to a prostitute? Why should you insult me so greatly?
s

After deceiving me and bringing me along so far, you have now revealed your true
character. This is an insult to my womanhood. No woman will stand for this. No
wife can tolerate this. You have very often lied to me even on being caught red-
handed. Telling lies is something I detest extremely. Yet you did so easily, you
can conceal your true self beautifully! What any other woman would have done at
such a time I do not know. Here the question of tolerance does not arise. But one
thing is definite � no one would stay with a fraud, in the name of a husband, for
even a moment. Either they would have poisoned you to death, or killed themselves.
Or, they would have got out and regained their original status by some other
method. Yet, why I can�t free myself even now is something I find surprising. What
do I lack? Without you my life will not change by even a jot. Then? Maybe I am
actually a coward. I am worried about what others will say. Yet ironically denying
both these things I loved you. I did not look at your appearance, only your art, I
did not look at your wealth. I only saw your art. I made you completely my own.
d

Now in our deeply passionate moments when we reminiscence, you dig out from the
past your rotten, putrefied, dissolute life, and I can�t bear it. What a wonderful
disease you have infected me with! It has developed strong roots and dwells within
me. What else do you want to give me? Hasn�t my life already ended? Where is my
future? My dreams are all over, my desires dead.
f

You have written, �I will write everything, everything.�

Y

What will you write? What will you let me know? What will I gain by learning about
your life? Your life has no single minded devotion for me, there is no desire for
my well-being, no love. You can, after all, never again become that beautiful
person of my dreams!
p

What will learning about you do for me? What will I get back? You have never loved
me. Only I have stubbornly and obstinately loved you. You have not been able to
love me and turn human. Do you want to give me respect as your wife only by
writing poetry? Do you want to gratify my womanhood only through your poetry?
Could any woman want it in this way?
C

You don�t understand, because you have never been a woman, a wife. These things
destroy, burn to cinders the mind and heart. I did not get your love. I did not
ensure your well-being for my sake. Then how can trust remain? Do you want to
build a home on distrust and deception?
b

That is why I tell you, you are wonderful as a friend. But no woman will tolerate
you as a husband. They can�t. Search all over the world and find me one woman who
will tell you � you are an artist, and so should be judged differently.
w

If you are so keen to seek the generosity of others, then how come you didn�t show
some generosity yourself? Why didn�t you marry some heroic woman raped in the war?
Why didn�t you marry and rescue a prostitute? Why didn�t you marry a homeless
unfortunate woman abandoned by her husband, and help society and the country? Show
me, marry a dark, ugly spinster, marry an orphaned beggar girl and show me!
Nothing affects me anymore. Nothing at all about you has any effect on me anymore.
But, before you expect me to be liberal and open hearted, why don�t you show me a
little of your own benevolence?
l

D
Dawn.

*
***

I will not return, Rudra, I told myself mentally. I will never return. I have
bound myself to dwell in silence. Do not, please, remind me anymore of your
dissolute past. Leave me alone. However, Rudra would not leave me alone. His
poetry kept coming and depressing me.
p

�S
Silence is the name of some melancholy stone �.

Life for her will never I

L know return to its pristine glory.
Never will it become a heavenly flower, never will there be another dawn,
N

I know life will always remain suspended at the conjunction of day and night �

She will remain always a virgin in flesh and blood.

S

No more will she join the procession of disgraced and distressed humanity,
N

She will never more take upon herself the wounds, blood and filth of afflicted
persons,
I know she will never again go into youthful retreat.

No more will her hand touch her chin trembling with hurtful anger,
N

That hand will never again touch her sorrowing hair.

T

Her two moist eyes will no more open with the scent of a breath,
H

The memory of stars will live only in the dark interiors of her veins.
T

She will no more, I know, be fascinated by the river water

S

Her raft will float no more, no more will float even her courageous dreams,
H

This fascinating dream-raft will never float on water �

T

Whose name is silence? In whose name does she burn in exile?�

W

When Rudra returned from Mongla, I left for Dhaka from the hostel. No one at home
needed to be told I was going to Dhaka. There was no one to ask why I was going. I
was going, it was my wish. There was no need for me to explain this either. It was
necessary to check how far the disease I was harbouring had affected me. I needed
a doctor, an unknown one. Rudra took me to a doctor�s chambers at the corner of
Shahbagh. He told the doctor, �She is sick. She has a sore. It isn�t healing.�
S

The doctor asked, �Where�s the sore?�

T

Rudra turned to me and said, �Tell him where the sore is.�
R

�Y
You tell him.� I said.

Rudra turned back to the doctor and said, �In her private parts.�
R

�W
When did it appear? What kind of sore is it?� asked the doctor.

Rudra tried to count the days on his fingertips. Stopping him and without showing
any temper I said, �He is my husband, he had Syphilis, he has infected me. I had
taken penicillin. But I am not getting well.�
t

�Oh, that�s the problem.�

The doctor looked stupidly at us for a long time. That he had seen us earlier in
this area, was evident from his eyes. The doctor prescribed a blood test. After
giving blood; back to Tajmahal Road, Muhammedpur. Sit waiting there. Read poetry
there. Dream of a home with Rudra there. Rudra would buy the utensils and
crockery. He would set up a home in this house. A small home! A happy home! Rudra
would turn pure from head to toe. I would never be hurt again. Never again would I
feel pain. I had to forgive him once at least. I had already spoken to him about
forgiveness. Rudra was a womanizer; he enjoyed playing with the flesh of women.
This was not an accidental mistake on his part. If he had openly told me earlier
about his lifestyle, I would never have involved my life with his. But he had not.
Here was the mistake. The mistake was not in his habits. He was addicted to all
these. People had these addictions. I was not objecting to these. I was blaming
his deception. Such deception could have only one answer; that was to abandon him.
Very simple.
V

VDRL positive.
V

Again I had to take the injections. Not just on one day. On three days.
A

I returned after three days to Mymensingh. To the hostel. I did not have to answer
anyone�s queries regarding where I had been, and with whom. In a way a free life.
I had desired a free life so much. With it I would actively participate in the
literary and cultural world of Dhaka. But where! I didn�t at all wish to any more.
I returned. After my departure, Rudra sat and wrote in that room of his:

Her heart is on fire, ignited by the flame of her exile.

H

Engulfing her life in flames today, dawn is going into exile

E

Igniting her body today, dawn is going into exile

I

Engulfing the world in darkness, dawn is going into exile �

E

The secret plunderer has torn out the essence of the flower.
T

Termites have taken over the blue starry skies,

T

The colourful kite has been torn by a hamlet in the sky,

T

The useless string drifts back, as does the heartful of broken dreams.
T

The killer time is standing holding the cup of poison �

In these two naked eyes burns the harmful waste,
I

Time has placed in these hands limitless filth,

T

In life�s blood and flesh, seething darkness

I

A deep moonless night, she still dared to touch,

In darkness today her lonely city of dreams has burned,
I

In darkness has burned her blue sky of trust.

To this dreamless, burnt homestead, burnt room � who will bring her back?�
T

Not just poetry. I sat down to reply to Rudra�s many letters written in quick
succession. His sores having healed, Rudra was now a man desperately dreaming
again of home and family. As soon as his sores healed, he had forgotten that
between us now there may not be a disease, but there was the memory of the
disease. Between us remained a burning distrust. Something I could not forget.
d

Aubokash
8
8.10.83

S
Sunshine,

I came home this afternoon. It is not possible for me to stay anywhere but at
home. I can stay away, at the most, only for a day or two. Ultimately I couldn�t
stay even in the hostel. In reality, the atmosphere I have been accustomed to all
my life, I find difficult to change in a hurry. Lying on a bed, and studying my
texts at a table, did not allow me to progress in life. There was so much of adda,
so much of fun. But still my life did not seem to move on. I need to spread myself
out or recoil into myself when and how I want to. I have a lot to read outside of
academic texts, a lot to do. I have to write. Inside my head two lakh ideas and
thoughts dance around chaotically, I have to be left alone in absolute silence.
t

Leaving all the hassles and troubles and the hundred and eight odd jobs aside I
have to turn melancholic� this has been an eternal habit of mine. That is why I
could never adjust myself to any place except home. Here I have my own personal
tangled, untidy lifestyle. I alone am its lord and master. On this bed covered
untidily with my varied books, paper and dust, I make place for myself to sleep on
the edge, and the night passes in deep slumber. Yet on other beautifully
decorated, neat, tidy beds, I did not get even a moment of sleep. Uncomfortable, I
would toss and turn to get through the painful nights.
w

There is no surety of my finding books and copies, I can never find anything. One
would be in the sky the other in the underworld. One at this end, the other at
that. And yet I can study. I can study with great concentration for a short period
of time.
o

It is not that everyone at home loves me greatly, is very fond of me, and
favourably considers my requirements, my conveniences and inconveniences. No one
does that. I possibly exist as an unaccountable, un-required person in this house.
It is true that if I died now, no one in this house would drop a tear, and it
would not bother anyone. At home I am thought of as someone who has sinned
excessively. Lately I have not allowed myself to be affected by all this. Now I do
not ask for any favours from anyone as I had done earlier, the beloved daughter of
the family. I do not complain about anything. I am grateful to everyone that I
have now got time to myself and that I now also have the unbridled freedom to
explore the world of my rambling thoughts for a greater length of time. Actually
the simple disciplined life of the hostel gave me claustrophobia. I was like a
wild bird in a cage, who wanted to escape back to the wilds.
w

I feel exactly the same about your room. Maximum two days, after that I find
everything intolerable. In fact even you, your behaviour, your conversation,
e
everything.

The way you are able to control yourself after taking me to the ultimate heights,
is something I am unable to do. That is why in ignorance the ultimate of mistakes
was committed by me. Of course by this I have also gained one thing. That is, I
now feel immense disgust for these things. I can now quite easily control all my
other normal desires. This has proved very beneficial for me. However, apart from
the benefits, I have also incurred loss, the consequences of which I will
experience in my very bones, in a few days. Kindly at least save me from those in
whatever way you possibly can. If I can rely on you even a little I will be at
p
peace.

Bas, I do not want anything else. There is no point running between Dhaka and
Mymensingh trying to cure a disease which will not go. Because this disease is
incurable. This disease has attached itself to me stubbornly. It will only be
satisfied when I am destroyed.
s

I had told you long ago that in my excitement I did things rashly for which I have
to repent all my life. That is true. If you want an example I will tell you. I
wrote letters to you, I fell in love with you, I married you, I went to your home,
I surrendered myself � sometimes I question myself, to whom did I surrender?
Should I answer this question? From all around arise loud signs of laughter, ha�
h
ha�

I don�t know the correct answer to this. People say when the straightforward
people turn crooked, there is no escape. I sometimes feel like turning crooked for
once. I feel like messing up, breaking into bits your beautifully constructed
dream once. For once, I feel like burning up your household. As much as you have
broken me, and made me cry, I wish to make you cry. I want to burn you in this
agonizing fire. Why shouldn�t I want to, tell me? I am a human being, not a God.
And because I�m not a God, I will not go to your room. Beautifully arranged life,
tidy and orderly affairs, going home, the marriage ceremony, social obligations,
long stays, resting after meals, work at the Dhaka press, buying utensils,
cooking, eating at home, coming home routinely, going to sleep with your wife at
night � all this I will not allow to happen. I do not want that a bird of
happiness should so easily fall prey into the hands of a man like you. Why should
I hoodwink everyone at home, all my friends and relatives, for you? Why should I
leave my favourite carefree lifestyle of so many years and go away like a mad
woman in love? What have you given me and what will you give me in exchange for
which I can dare to go away with you? What reason will you give? That one signed
marriage document! Exactly the same kind of document can be obtained for a
talaqnama. You must know that. If you say we have had a long association, I will
say it was a mistake. From the beginning the whole thing was a mistake on my part.
It was something done rashly in excitement.
I

I am a human being, not a God. And so I made a mistake. But I have the courage
also to free myself from that mistake. Let a little courage remain with me. Forget
all your plans and ideas. I have accepted my adverse circumstances as best as I
can. I like being on my own now. There is great pleasure in saving oneself from
all the enmity around. Here I am not beholden to anyone. No one worries about me,
and nor do I worry about any one. Bas, life is passing by beautifully.
a

You have not been able to become the lover for whom this beloved would leave home.
You have not even gained the stature of a husband, for whom this obedient wife
would keep home devotedly. You have not even become the kind of human being for
whom I would put my life at stake.
w

In my own room, more than in yours, there may not be happiness, but there is
peace. I still sleep well. Staying away from you, I can forget my mistakes. In
whatever way I live, I will be okay. I can give you at least this assurance. I do
not need to go anywhere. I have come back home. I have come back to my parents,
brothers and sister � but that is not it. I have come back to myself. And for the
rest of my life, I will remain with myself. In this world no one can love me more
than I can love myself. No one is as close to me as I am to myself.
t

You will please forget me. Many unfortunate incidents have taken place, don�t try
to create anymore. Kindly forget me and let me save myself.
t

I am human. And because I am human I want to live long.

D
Dawn.

*
***

When I was concentrating on living, Rudra came to Mymensingh. He came, but nothing
was as before. Our earlier meetings, our swaying in the breeze of love, our
looking into each others� eyes without speaking, without words, nothing of this
kind happened. The poem which he wrote sitting in Masood�s house, he posted to me
while returning to Dhaka. When I read the poem, sitting on the terrace of the
house, in the gradually fading light of the sunset, waves of dejection arose in my
breast. His every word touched me. I sat and cried alone. I cried for a very long
time. I cried for myself, I cried for Rudra.
t

�L
Love will make you return, the dew in your eyes at midnight,

The deep wound in your heart, the burnt moon will bring you back.
T

The gloomy clouds of Ashwin will call for love,

T

Dreams will make you return, heavenly flower, flower of the earth.
D

Your life will make you return, this life, the forbidden fruit of heaven,
These eyes will make you return, the eyes whetted by fire,
T

Your hands will make you return, these hands, with their skilful creations,
Y

Your graceful body will make you return, your pure body of sterling gold.
Y

The sleepless owl of the night will make you return,

T

To the left of your breast lies a black coffin stuffed with pain,
T

The frothy foam will make you return,

T

The longing for the limitless sea,

T

The eyes fragrantly moist, the blue fly will make you return.
T

This poison-ivy will lovingly guide your path,

T

The dead flowers of the horsinghar will lie strewn on your path,
T

A solitary burning ember will always make you return,

After touching death, repentant darkness will bring back the dawn.�
Exile was not for me. Triponema Palledum, however strong it was, did not have the
strength to diminish even a little of my love for Rudra. Possibly in one�s life
one can only love once, not several times. For no one else did so much pain gather
in my breast, for no one else did tears fall so readily from my eyes! It was only
my love for Rudra that brought me back, nothing else. I could only be defeated by
my love for him. I wished desperately to hate Rudra, but I couldn�t. Every word in
his poems blew away that wish into the wind far and wide. Watching the sun set
with wet eyes, I thought of a new day. The day which would dawn tomorrow, wiping
out all the darkness, surely that day would be very different.
o

CHAPTER XIX
C

Forbidden Fences
F

Why were things forbidden! Just so that one could stay safe, right? My connection
to such matters had now been snapped for life. Why then were orders forbidding me
given? For what reasons was I to obey these orders that my parents passed? I had
nothing to fear from them anymore. Something had happened in my life that was much
greater than those reasons for fear. There was nothing left for me to remain
alert. What benefit was there in imposing those prohibitions! I had crossed the
forbidden fences. Not to eat grass but to take Rudra to Aubokash. Let everyone see
the man I loved. After all, let them know, now what they would ultimately have to
know one day. The day my medical studies would be over I would have to spend the
rest of my life with him. Rudra was taken home not for any introductions to be
made. My classmates constantly visited me at Aubokash. Not just friends, senior
class brothers too dropped in to give advice, and juniors to take advice. Aubokash
was not out of bounds for anyone anymore. Possibly, Baba did grit his teeth
secretly on seeing some of them, but never in their presence. He displayed
disinterest, but had never been able to tell anyone on their face to leave, the
teacher-student relationship creating a formidable barrier. Some of the credit for
this went to me as well. From my first year of Medical itself, I had little by
little made the presence of students in the house a normal practice. Only for
Rudra there was an unwritten ban. I was especially fearful regarding Rudra. This
fear of mine suddenly diminished, that was why my heart did not tremble while
flouting the ban. Yasmin was at home. So was Ma, but none of them got the time to
meet Rudra. He did not even get to drink a cup of tea. He did not get the chance
other boys did, to sit and chat with me over a cup of tea. This was because Baba
arrived. At this hour of noon, completely unscheduled, with no reason to return
home, Baba walked in. The two of us had just entered the house; the entrance door
was still wide open. Rudra had hardly seated himself on the sofa. I had just about
crossed the drawing room and was standing on the inner verandah about to call
Lily, Nargis, Sufi or Ma to send some tea, when on hearing the sounds of the black
gate opening, I turned around to see Baba crossing the field, passing the
staircase, the verandah room and heading towards the drawing room. He saw Rudra.
Looking at him with his two eyes widened, he raised his forefinger towards the
black gate and in a voice that shook the whole house, said �Get out!� Ma came
running from the kitchen on hearing Baba shout, and Yasmin from the bedroom. As
soon as Rudra disappeared through the black gate, stunning everyone, I too began
to walk towards the gate. Behind me lay Baba�s bloodshot eyes, his forefinger,
Ma�s wailing scream �Nasreen don�t go, come back�, behind me remained Yasmin�s
call �Bubu, Bubu.�
The tar was melting on the roads. I caught up with Rudra walking in the direction
of Golpukur Par. Rudra was fuming with anger. That I had come to him flouting a
ban, that I had chosen him out of the painful choice between my family and Rudra,
that this choice was such a big step for me to take, was possibly something he had
no idea of. That I had forcefully rejected the one person that I respected the
most, the one person who had helped in shaping my life, that I had dared to
disobey an order from that person, for the first time in my life that I had
ignored his bloodshot eyes, and had dashed his pride with one blow from its peak
to the ground, that I had reduced his honour to dust and shattered his dreams into
pieces, were obviously facts beyond Rudra�s comprehension, for he said, �Did you
take me home to be insulted!� No I had not done so. I had no idea Baba would come
home so suddenly and unexpectedly! You are the one who wanted to visit Aubokash,
and meet Baba! You did, didn�t you! Of course, you did! Taking a rickshaw from the
melting streets of Golpukur Par, the two of us headed towards the bus stand. I was
not prepared at all to go to Dhaka, but I boarded the bus. I had not taken
permission from home. In fact I boarded the bus without informing anyone that we
were leaving for Dhaka. In spite of knowing that everyone would wonder where I
was, why I did not return home, that their anxieties would increase as evening
turned to night, I still boarded the bus. The bus was moving towards Dhaka.
Scorching winds raised fiery dust particles and spattered our faces and eyes. With
cold eyes I stared at the swirling dust particles, with cold eyes I looked at the
crows, dogs and people hurrying about on the streets. With cold eyes I watched
bullock-carts, motor-cars, rickshaws, buses and trucks. With cold eyes I saw the
empty fields harvested of their crops, and I looked at myself.
e

Right at the back of the bus, on the seat next to Rudra�s, a man was discussing
politics with the passenger sitting next to him. Gradually, Rudra too entered into
this discussion. That the Ershad government would fall, he was sure, all the bus
passengers too were sure of this. The discussion moved from politics to the market
prices. From the price of rice, daal, oil, salt to the price of fish and meat, and
how at this rate of inflation, all the food stuff would soon be out of the reach
of the common man. Only after people had expressed their agitation and distress
did this discussion end. After this, they started a discussion about the
character of man. Honesty and dishonesty. Some time was spent on this too. Since
the man sitting next to him agreed almost hundred percent with Rudra�s opinions,
he kept looking at him with great delight. Now the kind of questions normally
asked while traveling in buses and trains were directed towards Rudra, �Well,
brother, where do you stay?�
b

�M
My home is in Khulna.�

�D
Do you stay in Mymensingh?�

�N
No. I stay in Dhaka.�

�O
Oh. Then how is she related to you?�

�S
She is my wife.�

�I
Is your in-laws� home in Mymensingh?�

�Y
Yes.�

�W
Well, brother, what do you do? I mean what kind of job, service ��

�I write.�
�M
Meaning?�

�I write.�

�Y
You write?�

�I write poetry.�

�You write poetry?� The man laughed, very amused. By turns his eyes narrowed with
curiosity and widened in great astonishment. The alternately small and big eyes
were fixed on Rudra�s eyes, on Rudra�s peaceful eyes, on his moss covered eyes.
w

This time the man maintained eye contact, pronounced each word separately, but
made sure both his voice and mind were being expressed loud and clear, and that
not a single word escaped through any gap, and said, �I have understood that you
write poetry, so does my son, but what is your profession?�
w

�M
My profession is writing poetry,� Rudra replied in very calm tones.

The man had possibly heard such a reply for the first time. Without continuing the
conversation any further, he looked out of the window for the rest of the journey.

Rudra had told me also ages ago that he was not interested in working anywhere. He
wanted to make poetry his profession. Why a poet�s profession was not given
importance in this country even today, was beyond his comprehension.
i

�It isn�t considered as a good profession because you can�t earn money with it.
Tell me, how much do you get for one poem? Twenty taka, twenty five taka, at the
most fifty taka, that�s it, right? Can you manage board and lodging within this?
m

�T
The respect due to poets has to grow.�

�W
Who will help it grow?�

�T
The publishers.�

�I
If they don�t, what will you do?�

�I will agitate. I will not give them my poems.�

�If you don�t, they�ll merely take them from those who charge less or write for
f
free.�

No one would write for free.

N

I too wrote, but I had never thought of earning money through my writing. I felt
ashamed to think of my poems existing in exchange for something. You give me
poems, I will give you love. That was fine. But give me money, only then I will
write for you, poems were an item of barter! If that was so then I felt poems
would be no different from onions and garlic. Money was something that always
slipped through my fingers, if I gave away my poetry for money, the same would
happen to them; they would slip away.
h

Even if I was unable to persuade Rudra to become a �lover� in spite of hundreds of

pleas, I was able to make him take the MA exam. Initially he was not allowed to
take the exam, but finally after major requests and solicitations to the V.C. he
was able to do so. Though there was no future in this country even if you
qualified as an M.A. I cajoled him saying that as he had entered the University,
he now should exit it, as whenever one got into something, one had to also get out
of it. Since it was not seemly to get out through a window, it would be better to
exit through the main door. He did so undoubtedly, but his dream of taking up
poetry as a profession did not wane either.
p

When the bus stopped at Mahakhali, we took a rickshaw to Muhammedpur. Late in the
evening we went out. Standing in the Chitrashashi compound, Rudra looked out for
friends to adda with. In the darkness of dusk, while standing in the grounds
drinking tea, we met friends. Writer friends, poet friends, journalist friends,
actor friends, politician friends, singers, and friends with no occupation. One
invariably met someone or the other. Rudra now introduced me as his wife, and I
did not object. We were living in the same house, we had flouted Baba�s commands,
what need was there for any more diffidence! At the end of our adda, while
returning home, we purchased two plates, four tea cups, two glasses, two small
pans, rice, daal, oil, eggs, salt, tea-leaves, sugar etc. Rudra laughed and said,
�Our first household shopping.� He was sick of eating in restaurants. From now on,
meals would be cooked at home, and eaten at home. But who was going to do the
cooking! I had never cooked before, but even if I hadn�t I would now have to do
it. He wanted to be a family man from now on. No more for him the �outside�, the
�roaming around�, and the �undisciplined life�. I was unable to tell him that I
didn�t know how to cook, that the very next morning I would have to return to
Mymensingh. I had classes, very important classes and that there were exams, very
difficult ones. In order to inaugurate our domestic life, the rice I made remained
undercooked, the daal I prepared with spices borrowed from the neighbours was
placed on the stove to cook, but turned into something else. Finally I fried eggs
to save face. Rudra delighted with even this meal, caressed me at night. Whenever
Rudra touched me, my body went numb. All self-control, resistance, will-power,
reason � everything got destroyed. I flowed like water into the vessel called
Rudra. Was this love or custom and tradition, I questioned myself. Just because
gradually people were getting to know of my marriage, whether on paper or in my
mind, and because once married you could never reverse it, and because people said
one should spend the rest of one�s life with one�s husband, whatever compromises
it entailed, like ten other good girls did, was that it! Was that why I was
unable to move away from Rudra, in spite of knowing everything? Or was there a
very simple, straightforward reason, that I loved him. Did I really follow
traditions so much? If I did, I would not have made friends with Habibullah,
because friendships between boys and girls were not customary. If I did, then my
relationship with Rudra also would not have withstood the test. After all, Rudra
was neither a doctor nor an engineer, something the husband of a doctor girl was
bound to be, in fact, should be, according to everyone, meaning my relatives,
neighbours, people whom I knew and didn�t know. Instead I had ignored that custom
and had declared my love for a man like Rudra, who could provide neither food nor
shelter. Seeing his sexual pleasure and satisfaction after intercourse, I wondered
whether Rudra really loved me. If he did, how could he touch the bodies of other
women? I couldn�t do it. When Habibullah stared at me continuously with eyes full
of love, I didn�t feel the need to touch him and see. Even if a handsome man like
Habibullah were to stand naked before me, I would not feel any desire for him. The
body was not very far from the mind. These thoughts were exclusively mine, even if
I wished to push them far away, they did not move even an inch.

I returned to Mymensingh. Ma asked, �Where were you?� I did not reply.

Where I went, or didn�t, where I stayed or didn�t, was no business of anybody�s, I

declared. I made it very clear.
d

�Why don�t you get out of the house? Go and stay with the man you spent the night
w
with.�
�W
When it is time, I will. No one has to tell me to do so.�

Ma was cursing, but she was at least talking to me. Baba did not speak. He
deliberately did not cross even my shadow. He did not pay my rickshaw fare for
college. Seven days passed by, but Baba did not relent. That I was a person living
in the house, Baba pretended not to know or else he had forgotten. After seven
days, Ma mumbled to him in the morning, �Is she to give up going to college and
sit at home. At least leave the rickshaw fare for her.�
s

Throwing a look at Ma which could kill, he said angrily, �Tell her to get out of
the house. She has no right to live in my house any more.�
t

Directed at me, Baba continued to shoot one poisonous arrow after another. �Who
has told her to stay in my house? Who is that man? Where is he from? What does he
do? How dare the girl bring this man home? How dare she walk out of the house with
him, in front of my eyes! What is she doing in my house? Should I kick her out of
the house or will she go herself?�
t

Once Baba had left, Ma told me, �Now look what you have done, now face the music.
See how you have destroyed your life. Your father will never again pay for your
education. Your medical studies are over. Your father had a great dream that at
least one of his daughters would become a doctor. It�s all over.�
l

I sat and heard the lamentations because, �It was all over.�

Sitting next to me at night, Ma said softly, �What is the name of the man with
whom you went? Is it Rudra? Have you married him?�
w

I got up and left without answering. Ma followed me and said, �If you haven�t
married him then say so. I will tell your father. He might soften a bit.�
m

I began to feel claustrophobic in the atmosphere at home. Everyone�s eyes were

watching me. Eyes of hatred! Eyes of suspicion, distrust. It was as though I was
not the same person, I was crazy, and was sitting at home having lost my mental
balance. Purposely I left the house and went out. I went wherever my two eyes took
me. I was turning blue with attacks of anxiety and uncertainty. At that time, Ma
temporarily found a solution to my problem. Ma personally went to Notun Bazar and
caught hold of a green coconut-seller. Not Rashid, someone else. Selling the
coconuts on her two trees, she gave me the money to go to college. She gave me the
money, but she also asked me to ask forgiveness of Baba for my wrong doings, to
promise him never to do anything wrong ever again, and then ask for money to
regularly attend college and hospital. No, I didn�t do that. I wrote to Rudra
explaining the circumstances at home. I also asked him to send me some money.
Rudra sent a money order on receiving my letter. One thousand taka. This money
removed every worry surrounding me to distances far away. The money was not spent
on transport alone. As soon as it was evening, I took Yasmin and sat in a hooded
rickshaw, dropped our mandatory odhnas from over our heads, and roamed all over
town. There was a strange joy in this roaming around. We were like two free birds
that had just that moment broken free of our restrictions. If we wanted to eat
malaikari, we would stop immediately at the Sri Krishna sweet shop, and even ate
rasgollas floating on top of curd. Baba had not sent biscuits in a long time.
Going to the store, I picked up a pound of biscuits and went home. Ma wanted to go
to Peerbari, she didn�t have the rickshaw fare. I generously gave her five taka.
When there was nothing but daal and rice at home, I would take Yasmin and go to a
restaurant at Ganginar Par and eat meat and rice, sometimes even visit the new
Chinese restaurant.
C

Baba noticed that I was going to college, and yet was not asking him for money. He
also noticed that even if he did not arrange for any food at home beyond daal and
rice, yet no one was still handing him a list of groceries to be bought. All this
caused his pride and arrogance to take a beating. He called Ma and asked her �Who
gives that girl money to go to college? Do you?�
g

�W
Where do I have the money to give her? Do you give me any money to spend?�

�T
Then where has she got it from?�

�H
How do I know?�

�W
What do you mean you don�t know? Don�t you need to know?�

�How will it help to know? You have stopped giving her money. So she has to
arrange for it herself! She must have done so.�
a

�H
How did she arrange it? From whom?�

�Why don�t you ask her yourself? Why have you stopped talking to her? Can all
problems be solved by not talking?�
p

�I told her to leave my house, why hasn�t she done so?�

�W
Where would she go?�

�L
Let her go to the guy she�s taking money from.�

�You will be happy if she does that, right? Now you don�t have to give any money
to Noman and Kamaal. You don�t ever give me anything, anyway. Now you can�t even
bear to give the little you were giving the two girls. You want to enjoy all your
money yourself, sure, go ahead. If not today, someday the girls will leave this
house. So why do you want to shoo them away right now? If you want the house to be
vacated, say so, we�ll all leave. Stay by yourself.�
v

Baba did not make any reply. He looked at the courtyard with vacant eyes. Baba
could have called Yasmin and said, �Now you alone are my dream. You must now
uphold my honour.� But that possibility was also dim at that moment. Yasmin, the
scholarship student, the first class SSC with star-studded marks in chemistry, had
secured only a second class in her intermediate. After extinguishing Baba�s lamp
of hope, and treating it triflingly, Yasmin had started saying, after her results
were declared, �Actually it was Debnath sir who is responsible for my poor
r
results.�

Debnath Pandit had not come home and tutored Yasmin, as he had done for me. He had
taught her in a group. If you had to tutor a hundred students, there was no option
but to teach in groups. Left on the edge of one such group, Yasmin had not
understood a word of Math. I, of course, felt that the two new members of the
house, Haseena and Suhrid, had excited her so much that she had not concentrated
on her books at all. When I had asked her to sit down and study, she had scolded
and brushed me aside. Baba said she had studied but not seriously. With a second
class, there was no way she could get admission in Medical College. In a grave
voice, Baba said, �You have ruined your life. Now see if you can take the
improvement exam and secure a first class. See if you can get admission in a
Medical College. Otherwise like those dumb donkeys, go and take admission in
Anandamohan with B.Sc. What else can you do?�
A

At home, affection for Yasmin lessened. Of course, not as far as Ma was concerned.
Ma said, �No education is bad. If you studied hard, all education was good.�
Baba turned up his nose on hearing this and said, �What is this illiterate woman
talking about!�

Ma turned around and said, �Why, Sulekha did not study medicine. She passed her
MA, and is now working as the G.M. of a bank.�

Baba laughed sarcastically. Trying to move away from Baba�s scorn, Ma proceeded
towards the kitchen, but he stopped her and said, �Tell me, what does G. M. stand
for?�

�A big officer.�

I, too, laughed mockingly.

Ma went away to the kitchen. That room was Ma�s only salvation, she knew that, and
so did we. I advised Yasmin to take up Honours in some good branch of life
sciences. She sat swaying in her chair, her feet on the table.

�Physics?�

�Impossible.�

�Why impossible?�

�It�s tough.�

�Then chemistry. You got a letter in your SSC.�

�No. Chemistry is also tough.�

�Then Math?�

�The question does not arise.�

�Take Zoology.�

�No.�

�Then do one thing.�

�What?�

�Give up studies.�

Yasmin�s studies were in a way almost over. She didn�t look as though she had any
desire to take up books ever again. When she returned, after filling up her form
for the improvement exam, Dada had come on a two-day visit from Bongura. He said,
�Come along and visit Bongura.� Yasmin excitedly went off to Bongura for a
holiday. The pain in Yasmin�s shoulders and knees thanks to Dada and Haseena�s
bounty had not yet healed. After that incident in the courtyard, we had stopped
talking to both Dada and Haseena. I still didn�t, but Yasmin had begun to talk to
them, though only in the abstract. When Dada returned with Yasmin to Mymensingh,
Baba called his eldest son, and sat close to him.

�How do you like it in Bongura?�

�Good.�
�How good?�

�The company pays the house rent.�

�What kind of house do you have?�

�Not bad. There are three rooms. Drawing, bed, dining.�

�Do you have a courtyard?�

�No, there is none, why should there be? It is an apartment building, after all.�

�Do you do your own shopping? How are the prices of goods there?�

�Well, the prices are a little high there.�

�Does all your money get spent in household expenses?�

�Well, there are expenses, some of it does go.�

�How much could you be possibly earning as a representative?�

�I am not a representative anymore, I became a supervisor ages ago.�

�What�s the difference?�

�The touring is less.�

�Are you saving any money for the future?�

�A little.�

�You go around spraying perfume all over your body like an aristocrat; you are
spending as much money as you wish. How can you save?�

�Where�s the perfume? I don�t buy any, nowadays.�

�Why do you stay away, leaving your own home?�

�I have to work.�

�Leave that job and return to Mymensingh. I am giving Arogya Bitaan to you. Work
in the medicine business. If you work hard in your business, you will earn much
more money than you are getting in your job.�

After a long four-hour meeting, decision was taken that Dada would leave his job
at the Fisons� company and look after his father�s business. He went back to
Bongura. After a month or so, he returned with wife, child, belongings, everything
except the job of his choice. After Dada had left for Bongura with his job, Baba
had purchased new furniture, a TV, fridge, and other stuff. Dada�s room was not
vacant any more for him to land all his own furniture in it. The huge dining table
and the locked glass almirah for keeping crockery was kept in Dada�s earlier
bedroom. On Baba�s direction, their huge bed, almirah, dressing table, clothes
stand etc. were arranged in one of the two tin sheds in the courtyard, and he
began to stay there with his wife and son. After their return, I had nothing to
say to Dada and Haseena, except to reply �Yes� or �No� to their questions. Only if
absolutely necessary, two or three words were exchanged, but only in the abstract.
An expert in talking without addressing anyone, this was not too difficult for me.
Baba had rented two rooms next to Arogya Bitaan. He had in turn rented out one of
them to a businessman selling beddings, and he had converted the other into
separate chambers for himself. Dada was in charge of Arogya Bitaan, the pharmacy.
In Baba�s hands were the patients to be treated; in Dada�s was the business. To
develop the business, Baba generously put a few lakhs into Dada�s hands.

My expenses were met with Rudra�s money. Baba did not even look back to see if I
required anything or not. He had no enthusiasm regarding me anymore. I had gone to
the dogs, I had torn my way out of all restraints, I had crossed all forbidden
fences, I was not myself anymore, I was ruined. He had no more hopes for me. This
Baba, I used to think, had dedicated his life to making me a doctor. Yet, because
I had walked out in protest, against his insulting Rudra and throwing him out of
the house and had not returned home one night he had almost turned me into a
forsaken daughter! His castle of dreams for me had disintegrated! How easily it
had collapsed! What a fragile dream he had lived with! It was not as if I had told
anyone I had any relationship with Rudra, or that I had married him, or that I did
not care for them all! If I had told them, I could understand him losing his sense
of good and evil and doing what he had done. I was very upset with Baba�s
attitude. I felt that in this whole world, the only person close to me was Rudra.

Rudra came to Mymensingh. We roamed around the whole town in a hooded rickshaw.
Let people see us. If the news reached Baba, let it, what more was I scared of!
Rudra demanded that I spend the night with him at a hotel. In a dingy area of
Mymensingh, he had rented a room in a hotel called Shastaneer, in Chhotobazar. It
was fearful climbing the dark staircase. In a damp small room on the fourth floor,
in which only a single cot fitted, I entered looking for a breath of fresh air, I
did not get it. The air was heavy, laden with the stench of urine and the smell of
mucous and spit. There was no window in the room that I could open. The bed sheet,
pillow cases and even the tiny toilet, appeared to be crawling with the Syphilis
virus, which if touched, would climb up one�s body like a scorpion. My body
revolted. �Tell them to change the sheets on the bed. To change the pillows. I�m
feeling sick. Let�s go to some other better hotel,� I said. No, Rudra would do no
such thing. He pulled me to the bed. He pulled my clothes off me. He climbed onto
me naked. My mind was on the dirty sheets, dirty pillows. Rudra enjoyed my body
which was cringing with fear. He lit a cigarette after it was over. In the stuffy
room the cigarette smell mixed with all the other existent smells. Nausea rose up
from my intestines to my throat. My head spun. Rudra said, �Let�s go to Dhaka
tomorrow.�

�My ward-ending exams are two days away.�

�Forget the ward-ending. Nothing will happen if you do not appear for them.�

That something would happen, I knew. Knowing this, I still packed two extra
dresses in my bag, and went out to catch the afternoon bus. Ma called from behind,
�Where are you going?� To Dhaka. �To whom in Dhaka?� Without replying I walked
away like a deaf and dumb creature. Behind me lay Ma�s worries about my crossing
the forbidden fences, behind me were my important classes. As were my all
important ward-ending exams. On reaching Dhaka, there was my sitting around and
sleeping in Rudra�s two rooms, reading his new poems, cooking dishes I had never
cooked in my life, going out to enjoy the evening air in a hooded rickshaw, at
dusk sitting at Ashim Saha and other printers, discussing politics, literature
society-culture with Nirmalendu Goon and Mahadeb Saha and returning home at night.
Rudra played with my body at night. Entering deep into my body, he would say, �I
seem to be going over stone chips. So many stone-chips! So many stone-chips!�
After racing over the stone-chips in the deeper and darker, more inaccessible
parts of my body, he collapsed with fatigue, saying �Oof, your teeth are so sharp,
you bite so deeply that I just can�t escape.�

As soon as dawn appeared, I became restless to return to Mymensingh. �What is

there to get so impatient about? Stay on for another two days.� I stayed two more
days. After two days, Rudra�s stay in Dhaka too came to an end. He had to return
to Mongla.

�I need some money.�

�Is the money I sent you over?�

�Yes.�

�How?�

�I didn�t keep accounts.�

�How can you afford to be such a spendthrift?�

My head automatically bent. The way it did when asking Baba for money, exactly in
the same way. My eyes were lowered. In front of Baba, too, my eyes remained
lowered.

�How much do you need now? How much will suffice?�

I picked at my nails. The nails of my fingers. The nails of my toes.

�Will three hundred do?�

�Yes, it will.�

I took the money though I felt very ashamed to do so. I felt I was an irritation.
I could not stand tall. I was spineless. I felt like I was a parasite. My shame
would not go. I wished I did not have to take money from anyone. If only I could
earn my own keep! I wished I could raise my head lowered in shame even a little!

When I returned to Mymensingh, Ma said, �Who were you staying with in Dhaka, with
Kamaal? With your Boro mama? At Jhunu�s house?�

�No.�

�Then in whose house?�

I didn�t say anything.

Ma said, �I don�t know which path you are treading! What is in your fate! You
don�t believe in Allah Khuda. You do what you wish. The guy who is enticing you
into leaving the house, will you be happy with him? Leave him even now. Spare a
thought for everyone. Think of your parents, your brothers and sister. There are
so many doctor-boys who want to marry you. You don�t give any of them any
attention. Who you are going around with now, only you know. Don�t ruin your life.
Go and tell your father, you will reform and mend your ways. You will listen to
him. Your father will pay for all your expenses. You still have time to talk to
him, speak to him.�

Passing Ma by, I took my apron from the clothes stand, and left for the hospital.

****
I couldn�t be a spendthrift from now. I could not now leave money in the bathroom,
on windows, tables and beds like I left my gold ornaments. I made a book into an
accounts register, and made the entries � two days rickshaw fare � twelve taka,
nuts � one taka, tea � three taka, comb � one taka, pen � two taka, paper � five
taka � after which I never wrote in it again. The accounts register could also
never be found again. Almost every evening, when the heat of the sun would go
down, I would leave my study table and tell Yasmin, �Let�s go, let�s spend
sometime outside.� Yasmin would leap up at the thought of going out. Ma kept
saying, �She has ruined herself, now she will ruin Yasmin.�

Chapter XX

Woman

In the fifth year, there was only one thing to be done from morning to night, and
that was study. I was unable to escape from that. The whole day was spent at the
hospital and now there were classes at night as well. The Professors taught during
the day, they taught even at night. Not just the Professors, even seniors who had
just qualified as doctors, came to teach. Rajib Ahmed came to teach in the
Medicine Department. Rajib Ahmed had come first this time as well; he had stood
first in the fifth year, from amongst all the medical colleges affiliated to Dhaka
university. I was absolutely bewildered, how did he pack so much knowledge into
that small head of his! My table was full of Rajib�s surgery, medicine, gynae
notebooks. If printed, I believed his notes would surely be better than the books
written by the sahibs. I was the only grateful recipient of Rajib�s compassion, to
whom he endlessly supplied his gems. Yet, he hardly ever looked at me. I doubted
whether he had any other interests apart from medicine. Standing at the head of a
patient�s bed, he would give us all the details of various diseases, and teach us
how to make a diagnosis, and treat the disease. After the night classes, I was
scared to return home alone. I was very afraid of the dark. Very often I requested
my classmates to escort me home. The day there was no one, I would ask one of the
boys living in town to follow my rickshaw with his own, through most of the dark
streets, even if he couldn�t take me all the way home. Was there any end to the
darkness! Even if the escorting rickshaw followed me through most of the dark
patches, pockets of darkness remained for me to cross alone. The right turn in
front of Vidyamoyee School that I had to take to enter the road for my house, was
always very dark and eerie � my heart thudded, and I would tell the rickshaw-wala
to hurry up, so that this path could be crossed as fast as possible � I kept
thinking that any moment a gang of boys would stop my rickshaw, take me down and
rape me behind some bush, and afterwards stab me in the chest. Even the rickshaw-
wala might stop his rickshaw and pull me to some place. It was not as if nothing
happened during the day, so far whatever had happened had occurred in the daytime.
While sitting in a rickshaw, someone would deliberately spit at me, or spit paan
juice in my direction, laugh loudly or cough suggestively. A stone would be
thrown, which would by pass my ear and land on my chest or head. The culprit would
laugh loudly, cough deliberately, displaying all his thirty-two pleased teeth.
Someone would extinguish his burning cigarette on my arm while I would be riding
in a rickshaw, and enjoy the fun. Someone else would pull my odhna, another would
bar my path, or someone would press my breast, laugh loudly and cough. Still I
felt that the nights were more dangerous than the days, something worse could take
place. The night could drown me for life in the darkness of a well. I was able to
breathe again only after reaching home. Every time I came home safely, it was like
another day of survival.
I was on duty in the Gynaecology Department, all night. From eight in the night to
eight in the morning. For this eight p.m. duty I reached the hospital at 6
o�clock, before darkness fell. There was no problem in reaching early for duty,
but one could not leave early without causing trouble. These night class-duties
gave me my fears about darkness no doubt, but they revealed something wonderful to
me as well. On the stretch of road between Chhayabani and Ajanta Cinema hall,
women of different ages from the villages, sat with small oil lamps lit, selling
rice, daal, vegetables, beaten and puffed rice etc. The sight really stirred me,
and I told Ma about them. She said, �If I could be like them, I would have been
safe.� I felt Ma was right. The courage and grit displayed by these women on the
footpath, I noticed, Ma did not have. For that matter, did I? Women inspired me,
inspired me to take up my pen, take up a couple of blank pages, to write. I
couldn�t help but write.

�Today women spread out their wares over a wide space, not their bodies, not their
beauty, before them laid out in the dust are their merchandise, the pumpkin,
parwals, gourds, greens, and aubergines from the fields. Someone in the distance
plays a sad, discordant tune on his pipe. Someone�s wife, someone�s sister, or
even someone else�s mother, you know very well, have doffed their ghomtas from
their heads, and have wiped the traditional lime off the customary paan. Famine
has descended on the nation, the devilish strength in our bodies is treacherous,
it has a huge shark like mouth, it pulls out the roots of the mustard plants. The
unlucky scarcity sucks up the favourite scent of rice, and militant animals grab
with two hands the shades of tranquillity. Snatching sleep from the nights,
destroying any dreams of the future in a flaming house, having lost one�s
ancestral land, a handicapped soul only cries within a burnt body. At the door of
this dark life knocks illuminated hunger. Misshapen, shameless hunger dances madly
shaking its odd hands and legs. These destitute women who work hard physically for
a meal, aim an arrow at the body of hunger. Not dressed in multi-coloured saris
with paint on their faces, but extremely simply, they stand with courage on the
footpaths of the city, these virtuous beauties, selling not their bodies cheaply,
but these proud women are selling milk, bananas and beaten-rice.�

The life of a woman beckoned me. Women made me think constantly. I perpetually
experienced the sorrows and pains of women. The pain that I had suffered in my
life was the pain of a woman. Was the pain mine alone? I knew it had to be the
pain of thousands of other women.

�A gentle virgin, her face lowered modestly on her wedding day, trembles in fear
of an unknown happiness, her body blue with uncertainty of the future. The shehnai
stops playing, the night deepens, the bride�s voice faints, what will the man come
and say in this silent, empty room! The husband in place of God locks the door and
looks with slanted eyes at the desirable, untouched flesh of the young modest
girl�s body. He who had uncovered many times, many such bodies in the prohibited
areas, now wrote the fate of this woman with the ink of his practiced hand. The
unknowing innocent virgin�s dreams and desires shatter, her heart is filled with
sorrow, was this how it happened, was this the way of the world? A ghoulish
exultation beats into dust the body, and kills desire and the bride accepts her
greatest marital gift by contracting a secret disease. Within a year, the woman
gives birth to a physically handicapped child. The poison of the complicated
disease announces its arrival in her body by lighting a fire! The name of the
disease is Syphilis, it comes through the blood and lodges itself within, tearing
the soft purity, and its poisonous talons tear the flesh and bones. The cruelty of
the night eats into the sun of life and extinguishes the dawn. The incurable black
sin consumes the woman untimely, snatching away years of her life. The lifeless
muscles of the legs and arms lie spread out, both deaf and dumb, some demon has
struck her � that is what people are always told.�
I was obsessed with women. I was obsessed with their distress.

�The girl had no father, no property, she was very young. The whole village was
full of talk that her mother would give her a stake in the old house. No one took
the girl, I hear even the flute-player was interested in a dowry, then who would
come forth? A senile old man wore the bridegroom�s attire. He suffered from
asthma, four wives slept in his house freely. The girl looked around in distress
searching only for a safe shelter. Where was the bridal chamber? All her dreams
shattered into pieces. Her youth was wasted, defeated in her battle with fate.�

Ma too was a woman. For the first time I felt her pains and sorrows.

�She had tried verbally, she had even resorted to Tabiz and Kabaj in order to get
him to return, but the husband did not come back. One was not enough for him, how
strange was such a character. In great joy the amorous Nawab danced. Alone in her
room the woman�s tears flowed like a river, she offered money endlessly at the
Mazaars, she became a Peer�s disciple and turned away from the world, within her
heart a mountain of pain gathered, her mind was disturbed. With an imaginary
trust, the twisted nerves tried to display an appearance of happiness. Visiting
the Peer, prostrating herself at the Mazaar, the sad woman searched for her next
life, not having been fated to attain happiness in this one. In order to fill her
empty life, she immersed herself in Khuda and Namaz. Finding her dreams
unattainable in this world, the woman finally closed her two eyes on this
distasteful life.�

One day, late in the evening, I was returning from the hospital with Safinaz on a
rickshaw. As soon as we turned right from Ganginar Par, she said in a hushed
voice, �There goes a prostitute.� �What are you saying?� I protested. �That�s an
ordinary girl.� Safinaz laughed on hearing me. I saw them very often on the
streets, I had never thought of them as fallen women. Poor girls, wearing cheap
saris, they may have painted their face out of some fancy. Such fancies any girl
could have. I did not feel any hatred for these girls, called prostitutes, on the
street. Instead a strange kind of sympathy was born in me.

�With no one in her family, the girl experiences as soon as she grows up, how the
ferocious hand of scarcity digs into life and tears it apart. Housewives seeing
her young figure do not invite danger by employing her. With hunger gnawing at her
entrails, fate directs woman to the wrong path. If a woman is able to beg at doors
she can still survive, if she finds stations or courts she can sleep, hidden
amidst the crowds. Wicked men wink and laugh at these women. Enticing them with
the promise of food, they trick them under the cover of darkness. No family, no
one anywhere, with only dreams of food, the woman forgets her shame and joins
hands with the pimp.�

Everyday, women made me think. I didn�t think even one woman was happy. Not even
those who were dancing, singing and wearing wonderful clothes.

****

�The father has cancer, and is at death�s door. All near and dear ones have turned
their eyes away, and pulled back their helping hands. There was no working member;
the tiny siblings were starving morn and night. The woman stepped out on her
tender feet in search of work. In such a big capital city, where office buildings
touched the sky, the woman was unable to reap a harvest in the fields of this city
in her hour of need. Wherever an offer was made, her body was asked for in
exchange. In this crowded life of duality, there were no human beings; everyone
was fake. The scent of flesh made the foxes and vultures attack. Hanging on to a
straw, the woman saved her life in the high tide. There was no ground for her to
stand on, the river broke its banks in the tumultuous storm.

Tying a handkerchief around his neck, the city Romeo makes the woman forget. Under
the cover of bushes, the woman passes sleepless nights, learning to love.
Mistaking the flames of destruction for love, she melts like wax. The innocent
virgin takes her lover�s hand and leaves behind her community. Having no idea of
the wicked world, she is shocked! After having run far away, she discovers an ugly
face under the mask of the lover. With no well-wisher around, she is caught in a
clever trap. Blinded by love the young woman had not learnt to recognise reality.
In a dark alley, the boy sold beautiful bodies at high prices. All the high minded
scholars of our society blame fate. All night the flesh trade goes on, bargains
are made. They are our sisters. In exchange for money, they gratify a little. The
bodies of my country women float in the sewers. The dangerous grip of the night
chews away desire and leaves poison. Who are those who have forcibly poured poison
into these mouths? Are they born to experience the pain of death throughout their
lives?�

Many more faces of women floated before my eyes, many more women continued to make
me cry.

�The baby in arms cries, her body is covered with pus and sores, there is no milk
in her breasts, the jobless woman asks for affection at every door. She asks for
work, in exchange for a meal at night. She wants education for her child, and
wants the security of health care at hand. Are not children dying yearly of hunger
and disease? Every month husbands appear, and raise their fangs, like cobras. They
pour the poison of children into the grown bodies and secretly escape. Every woman
is keen to taste the security of a safe haven. Not alone, but in a gang one must
break down these citadels.�

***

I wanted to write everyday about women�s traumas. However, the complicated study
of medicine took up most of my time. By the time I came home from college after
classes in the evening and rested a little, it was time to go back to the
hospital. It was not possible to remain involved with women everyday. This was not
like studying at a desk, where one could once in a while move one�s eyes away and
look at something else. I had to run to the hospital in the day and at night. One
had to examine patients, and test them in order to study. One could not become a
doctor by only reading books; one had to read one�s patients. Just as in medicine,
Rajib took our extra classes, in the gynae department Hira took them. Hira had
been in this department of female diseases and obstetrics for a very long time.
She had not herself obtained any great degrees, but was number one in Gynaecology.
Many of the professors were not as expert in surgery as she was. Hira got
innumerable patients as well. Many said Hira�s practice was better than Zobayed
Hussain�s. That might have been an exaggeration, but that Hira earned more than
the college assistant professors, associate professors, registrar and clinical
assistants, of this, there was no doubt. In medicine there was a Prabhakar
Purkayastha, whatever else he was, at least he was no tiger. The sight of Zobayed
Hussain made both tigers and goats drink from the same stream; he was so scary.
Just like Enayet Kabir in surgery. These two did not need to scold or grit their
teeth while speaking; their presence was enough to chill the bones of students.
Zobayed Hussain was six feet tall, bespectacled, he wore loose shirts and pants, a
long apron, and spoke in the Khulna accent. When he went on his rounds from ward
to ward, followed by a whole lot of doctors and students, it was as if God was
walking. Trailing behind Him would be His messengers, prophets (doctors) along
with his disciples (students). But when I had to walk behind Zobayed Hussain, I
did not feel like a disciple. It was as though I was an accused awaiting
judgement. The Day of Judgement was approaching; the exams were round the corner.
I don�t know for what reason, but he kept an eye on me. Professors had two kinds
of eyes, one good, one bad. Once I felt his eye on me, I was not sure which kind
it was. He knew exactly for which class I had reached late and how many births I
had supervised in the delivery room. Suddenly he would ask complicated questions
on female diseases just anywhere, in the ward, corridor, operation theatre or
delivery room. I had to remain alert. After class I religiously avoided the path
taken by Zobayed Hussain. If I saw him even at a distance, I quickly changed both
my speed and direction, so that I did not have to face him. There was a great
danger in coming face to face with him; of course, there was equal danger is not
doing so. Face to face, he could suddenly ask a question, the answer to which, I
was not sure I had in my basket of knowledge. And not facing him might lead to the
danger of him one day declaring my face was not very visible in the hospital,
which meant I was neglecting my studies. However beneficial it might be to be
recognised, I still avoided even his shadow. Other students when they saw him at
distance, pulled their aprons in place, in fact even opened their books and going
over the pages, advanced towards him with slow steps. As soon as they came close
to Zobayed Hussain, they raised their hands in salaam. The reason for doing this
was to drill into the memory compartment of Zobayed Hussain�s head, that his
students not only studied in his class, they even studied in the corridors, and
also knew their manners well. Hopefully during the exams his memory would be
jogged. Just by studying hard one could not pass one�s medical exams. If you did
not arouse the pity of your teachers you could lose everything. To save oneself
from the clutches of the external examiners, one had to rely on the internal
examiners. If one fell under the eagle eyes of the internal as well, then in
between the clutches of both, there was no way out but to sacrifice oneself. Just
because Baba was a professor of the college, I had no reason to think I would
escape the clutches of such ferocious tigers as Enayet Kabir and Zobayed Hussain.
This was something Baba himself had told me. All those students, who were nearly
doctors and yet unable to pass out as doctors from the medical college, were
victims of this final exam syndrome. In my class itself there were students who
were two, three or even five years senior to me, who had got stuck at this stage.
Seeing their gloomy faces, I thought of my future. Was I about to become one of
them! As a result, it was not that I became serious because of Baba�s advice or
out of fear of Zobayed Hussain, I had to become serious for my own sake. If I
spent two years in the same class, the problems in my own life would certainly not
get solved, in fact would get more complicated. The faster I got over this bother
and went to live with Rudra, and was able to regulate his undisciplined life, the
better! He was desperate to start family life � a domesticity which he believed
would give his life stability. He had vowed that the mistake he had made would
never be repeated in future. With this hope, the years of waiting too were going
to get over. Rudra had already planned to permanently shift to Dhaka, and start a
printing business. These efforts of Rudra were like a sprinkling of water showered
on my scorching and burning house of dreams.

***

Into the obstetrics department�s delivery room flowed a continuous stream of

mothers of different ages. Some for the first child, some for the second, some
even for the seventh child to be born. The mothers screamed in pain and agony. I
advised them to bear down in a particular way. This pressure would cause the water
bag to come down, once the bag was pierced, the baby would begin its journey into
this world. I prayed that this journey was auspicious, and kept my ears and eyes
open, to detect the sound of the heartbeat regarding which there should be no
doubts. I cleared all obstacles in the baby�s journey. However, whenever, whether
the first, second or third arrival of a baby occurred, if it was a girl-child, the
baby�s mother invariably began to wail. Outside the room, when I informed the
waiting relatives of the arrival of a girl, in front of my eyes the faces were
transformed with gloom. How undesirable was the arrival of a girl-child, was
something I witnessed almost everyday. Only after giving birth to seven sons,
someone might want a daughter, but such people could be counted on one�s fingers.
Relatives of the mother crowded outside the delivery room fervently praying and
hoping that it would not be a girl, not a girl, they wanted a boy, a boy. To stop
the young wails of a twenty-one year old woman who had given birth to a girl-
child, I had said, �Being a woman yourself, you do not desire a girl-child, chchi,
what a shame!�

The woman told me in a low tone, �I will be given talaq, if that happens, where
will I go?�

�Why should you be given talaq? You have given birth to a beautiful, healthy baby.
You should be happy. Distribute sweets to everyone.�

�I have given birth to a girl, Apa. I am unlucky.�

The girl was crying cry her heart out. The walls of the delivery room seemed to
echo her words �I am unlucky�, �I am unlucky.� Pressing my hands to my ears, I
came out.

For doctors, to-be-doctors, nurses, baskets of sweets would arrive outside the
delivery room. This would happen always to celebrate the birth of a boy-child. I
waited to see the contentment of a couple after the birth of a girl-child. I never
saw it.

�So what if it�s a girl. Girls are better than boys. They are the ones who look
after their parents. Educate your daughter, send her to school and college, your
daughter will become a doctor like me. Please do not feel unhappy.� No matter how
often I tried to say all this to prevent the distressed women from crying, they
cried even more. They cried their hearts out in the delivery room. The flower of
the womb had been shed, but innumerable thorns remained embedded within. Only when
a son was born, did the face clear up from the birth pangs and express a peaceful
smile and there was laughter in the delivery room, and outside it. Everyday I left
the delivery room with more agony in my heart than was experienced at the time of
delivery. The ugly face of society was slowly becoming clear to me as my awareness
increased. Who was I, why was I, were questions which began to rotate in my head
like one rotated the beads of the tasbih. I could not find any difference between
an unwanted girl-child, an unhappy woman bewailing the birth of a girl-child in
the delivery room, and myself.

Just when my hands were itching to tear up the customs of society, I dealt Lily a
strong blow on her cheek. I slapped her because she had not come to ask me what I
wanted, even after I had called her four times. I then pushed Lily, who was
embarrassed by the slap out of the door saying, �Go and get me tea immediately.�
Silently weeping, Lily, who was a ten year old girl, went towards her mother who
was carrying a pile of dirty vessels from the kitchen to the tap area, to tell her
I wanted tea. Lily�s mother lowered the pile, and put the water for tea on the
stove. Walking slowly, so that the smoking tea did not spill, Lily came and left
the cup on my table. A soiled half-pant was covering her; she was naked chest
upwards, with dust uptill her knees, on her nose was a two paise worth tin nose-
ring. While drinking my tea, I was trying to write a poem on the birth of a girl-
child, and did not want anyone to enter the room and break my concentration at
that time. Ma, however, not only entered, but in a bitter tone said, �Just because
you are becoming a doctor, don�t you think of people as human beings? You have
such a temper!�

�Why, what has happened?� I asked in irritation.

�You hit this little girl. Was it right beat her like this? The girl�s cheek is
still red.�

�I called her many times. Why didn�t she come?�

�Maybe she didn�t hear. May be she was too far away. Just because of that, you�ll
beat her? A poor child, she has no father. Her mother works in people�s houses to
fill her stomach. The kid is sent on errands, she runs and does them. What she
does is already too much. Her mother is working day and night. Do not beat poor
people. Do not make Allah unhappy. Allah will punish you for it. You don�t believe
in religion. You don�t believe in Allah. I don�t know what is in your fate!�

Ma moved away. After a couple of minutes she returned, pushing the poems on women
towards me, from amidst the scattered papers on my table. She said, �On one hand
you write poems about girls, on the other, you raise your hand on them! What is
the use of writing all this then?�

My hands were on the white paper. On it were two lines of poetry with several
scratches. My eyes were on the two lines. My mind elsewhere.

CHAPTER XXI

Another Day at Peerbari

I had another occasion to visit Peerbari. Not with Ma this time, but with three
friends. The hostel girls had expressed their desire to organize a Milad,
celebrating the birth anniversary of the Holy Prophet. Theirs was a strange
desire, considering girls studying medicine hardly had the time to sing �Allahumma
Salillulah,� and would find no reason to sing thus. Strange though it was, since
the desire was there, the need for a learned Maulvi had arisen. The girls looked
everywhere for a Maulvi but in vain. Finally they came to me, I was the local
girl, I might know someone. I gave my word I would find a Maulvi, and in my zeal
even said that I would find a Lady-Maulvi for them. In the girls� hostel, a Lady-
Maulvi would come and recite the Milad for them. What could be a better proposal?
However, since I did not believe in Allah Rasool, Milad and Masjids, I would not
participate in it, except to partake of the Milad sweets. To join in that
�Allahumma Salillulah Sayednay� was not my cup of tea. Well if that was my stand,
so be it. Safinaz, Halida and Parul set off with me. In two rickshaws, the four of
us reached Naumahal. I was visiting Peerbari after many years. On this visit as an
adult the place gave me the same creeps it did when I was a child. It was as
though I was entering not some place on earth, but some world beyond it. In this
world everyone stared wide-eyed at us. Ignoring the looks, we entered the inner
apartments looking for Fajli khala. I noticed that Fajli khala was not very
surprised to see me. It was as though one day I would have had to come anyway. I
told Fajli khala, because she was my khala, and also because although everyone
else was crazy in this house, she was a little less, that we needed a Lady-Maulvi,
this very evening. She would have to recite the Milad in the hostel for the girls.
This invitation should have evoked a smile on Fajli khala�s face, because in the
whole town, this was the one place, in this Peerbari, where Lady-Maulvis were
bred, and there was a demand for them in the market. Many came to request for a
Lady-Maulvi and others might also come. Standing before Fajli khala�s unsurprised,
displeased face, I hurried her on; we needed someone immediately, we had no time.
Any woman would do, Humaira or Sufaira or any one at all. Fajli khala was not
surprised even by this proposal of mine, but she did laugh. Maybe she laughed
because I had mentioned the names of her two daughters. Fajli khala was as
beautiful as ever before. Her laugh, too, was as unadulterated. Even before her
smile faded away, Humaira arrived. The layers of fat on Humaira�s stomach seemed
about to burst out of the light dress she was wearing. Her head was covered with a
big odhna. Humaira�s odhna-covered head nodded when we said we needed a Lady-
Maulvi. This Humaira had made sure she married her own excellent lover, a first
cousin, even though it entailed bringing him from Medinipur. She achieved this
when all the young girls in Peerbari were sacrificing their marriages, family
life, children etc. in order to dedicate themselves to the path of Allah, as the
Peer had himself announced that there was no point in marriage at the end of one�s
life. But this Humaira, being the grand-daughter of the Peer, had been the first
to disobey the Peer�s announcement, and had done so just when she had reached a
marriageable age. On the other hand, in order to obey the Peer�s orders, a whole
group of young women older than Humaira, remained unmarried. Thanks to Humaira,
Allah�s instructions changed overnight for all those coming to the Peer, and stood
at the point where Allah now wanted everyone at the end of their lives to choose
their partners as fast as possible. If the followers married at the end of their
lives, Allahtala would be very pleased. Allahtala obviously changed His decrees
rather often. The decisions were taken according to the conveniences of the
members of the household at Peerbari. Hearing our wish Humaira said, �That�s okay,
I�ll arrange for it; you�ll get what you want.� Instructing us to wait, she went
into the inner wing of the female quarters. Fajli khala, too, disappeared. Maybe
Humaira herself was going to wear a burkha and come with us. But after we had been
waiting for almost twenty-five minutes, she did not arrive in a burkha to
accompany us, instead, she took us with her to Peer Amirullah himself, and entered
his own room. Peer Amirullah was sitting on the bed wearing a loose white garment
and a white cap. His henna covered beard shook as he used his head to welcome us
into the room. Humaira remained standing at one side. Apart from the Peer there
was also the Peer�s daughter, Zohra, and some other unmarried girls in the room.
The reason for pushing us into this room was not very clear to me. I guessed that
to get a Lady-Maulvi, just Fajli khala and Humaira�s permission was not enough, I
had to personally request Peer Amirullah himself. Once we got his permission our
job would be done. However, once we entered the room, Peer Amirullah did not want
to know why we had come. I had doubts whether he knew at all the purpose of our
visit to this house. Speaking completely out of context, if no one else, he
shocked me, Safinaz, Halida and Parul, and said, �Well, have you realized that it
is not so easy to follow Allah�s path? Those who have been able to give up the
material pleasures, for them Allahtala has arranged for the highest honour in the
next world.� From the mouths of others in the room, the cries, �Aah Aah� arose.
The desire for that highest honour was in that �Aah� word. Worldly studies,
temporary families, the web of illusion � only those who could tear themselves out
of this net, could expect this kind of honour in their next life. Every detail of
this was described, and he did not forget to describe in frightening, horrifying
detail Allah�s punishments reserved for those who were sunk in worldly pleasures.
The delineation was lengthy; the explanation even more so. Safinaz, Halida and
Parul were looking at me with questioning eyes, not being able to understand what
was happening. They kept whispering, �Let�s go, let�s go. It�s getting late.� Even
I was unable to understand why we were being made to stand here, and being given
knowledge about the whole saga of Allah�s punishments and rewards. I tried to
indicate to Humaira that we had no time to spare for all this. We had come for a
Lady-Maulvi, not to hear a sermon. Humaira did not even notice my hints and
gestures. I felt really embarrassed before my friends. I had brought them to this
house tempting them with the hope of getting a Lady-Maulvi, but now I could
clearly see we were stuck. Peer Amirullah glanced at us once in a while, the rest
of the time he looked at the floor, or the ceiling, at the trees in the courtyard
or at the unmarried girls and continued singing Allahtala�s praises. It was as
though the words were not coming out of a human mouth, but out of the mouth of a
robot. Every word in the Quran Hadith had been memorized by Amirullah,
internalized and was on his lips at all times, the way an examinee would study the
texts in his syllabus before an examination. The words were spewing out of
Amirullah�s mouth like sparks of fire touching our bodies. Suddenly it felt as
though the man was not Amirullah, but Allahtala himself. As if this room was not a
room at all, it was the congregation on Doomsday, where four sinners were being
judged by Allahtala. When the endless speech caused the Peer Amirullah to foam at
the mouth, Humaira played a cassette. In the cassette, too, could be heard the
words of the Quran Hadith in the voice of Amirullah. The same words, the same
language, the same tune. I had meanwhile glanced several times at my watch. I had
many times asked permission to leave. Humaira had scolded in a subdued tone, �Why
are you so impatient when listening to the words of Allah? You must listen with
extreme patience to the words of Allahtala. You have come to Allah�s path. Now you
must shake off the devil from your mind. It is the devil who turns your mind away
from Allah.� This statement clarified what she was thinking. All eyes in the house
were directed at us, the eyes knew we had left the �worldly life� and joined the
�path of Allah�. Even if we hadn�t, since we had entered this house, every effort
was being made to brainwash us with holy water into joining this path. The hours
were passing, one hour passed, and another. I could see the astonishment,
irritation and immense despair on the faces of Safinaz and Halida. I felt creepy.
I felt the way I did when at one time I was scared of ghosts. I kept thinking that
none of the people in this house were really human. I looked desperately for a way
to leave this ghostly house and run. But until the explanation of Amirullah
regarding the Quran Hadith on the cassette ended, Humaira would not let me get up.
We were tied by invisible chains. I could make out that the day would pass like
this, as would the night. When one cassette finished, another one was played.
Every exit out of this damp, blind alley of Allahtala had been closed. We were
dying of hunger. The evening was passing, as was the time for the Milad in the
hostel. We had our backs to the wall for a long time. Our breathing was becoming
faster. This time in the middle of the mechanical discourse, I got up suddenly and
moved towards the door. The quicker one could escape this ghostly world the
better. This was something which I knew well, and so did my two fast feet. Many in
the courtyard stared wide-eyed and whispered, �Hamima Apa�s daughter has joined
Allah�s path. She does not want to pursue her worldly studies anymore. She will
now regularly come here to listen to the Quran Hadith.� I listened to these weird
statements. �How sensible girls have become. They are leaving medicine. All those
who leave the ways of the world,
are never sent away by Huzoor.� Not heeding Humaira�s orders and advice, we ran
out of the room. Behind us Humaira screamed, �They came to the path of Allah, yet
the devil sits on their shoulders. This was all hoodwinking.� In the courtyard, we
encountered Fajli khala. She was amazed, �Why are you going away?� she asked.

�I came to take some lady who could read the Milad to us. Why don�t you tell us
whether someone is available or not!�

There was no reply. It was as if Fajli khala was hearing for the first time that
the hostel girls desired to have a Milad read by a Lady-Maulvi, or that even if
she had heard she hadn�t understood, or that she didn�t think the true reason for
entering that house was a Lady-Maulvi. After getting out of the female-quarters, I
breathed easy. I realized very acutely my stupidity in having expected to enter
the tiger�s den and to take its own milk.

The small rooms that had been made after clearing the jungle were rented by people
who had joined Allah�s path to stay in. One of these rooms had been rented by Runu
khala. I didn�t initially recognise the woman who was standing, holding on to the
door, as Runu khala. She had now given up wearing saris, and was wearing the
pyjama-dress worn by the inmates of this house. A huge odhna covered Runu khala�s
head and chest. I could not believe this was the same Runu khala who used to wear
anklets and sing and dance all over the place, the B.A. pass woman, who had had a
love affair and had run away to get married. I couldn�t believe that this woman
within Peerbari, standing with an empty, vacant appearance, was the same Runu
khala. This Runu khala looked as if she had spent her whole life in the dark
alleys of Allah and was someone who did not have a very colourful past. Rashu
khalu had worked as an accountant for the Mymensingh Municipal Corporation.
Against that sharply pointed pant and pumpshoe wearing Rashu khalu, were charges
of financial bungling, and embezzlement of huge funds from the office. Rashu khalu
lost his job. After that, he had joined Allah�s path along with his wife and
daughter. Now he looked for jobs, but didn�t get any. He now brought his share of
money from the Begunbari harvest sales, and stayed in town, joining Allah�s path.
He offered namaz five times. He had a big black mark on his forehead. The mark had
developed as a result of him beating his head on the floor while offering namaz.
Runu khala�s daughter Moli, had had her name changed to Motia in this Peerbari.
Changing names was an old ritual in this house. Ma�s name, Idulwara was swept
aside and changed to Hamima Rahman. Ma was known as Hamima in this Peerbari. Runu
khala�s tiny frock-wearing daughter was now covered from head to toe. Taken away
from school, Moli was now placed in the Madrassa in Peerbari to read the Quran.
Runu khala had had a son as well. His stomach swelled up like a drum, and one day
he died. The incantations and blowings of the Peer did not work nor did any
worldly medicines. When Runu Khala pulled me into her tin shed and urged, �Will
you eat something? Eat some vermicelli pudding? I�ll make some,� I said no. I felt
great sympathy for Runu khala. I looked at Fajli khala�s in-law�s house behind me.
The pond in front of the house had been filled up with earth. The lychee tree was
also not there anymore. There was no jungle now, no fear of ghosts and spooks, but
I felt the house was even more haunted than before. Humaira was now the right-hand
person for the Peer. Sufaira had married one of the Peer�s disciples and become a
housewife. Mobashera was of course not there. Mobashera�s younger sister, Attia
had measles and died unexpectedly one day. Attia was very beautiful to look at. Ma
had brought five year old Attia to Aubokash for two days. In those two days Dada
had taught her to dance the twist, saying �my name is Attia Gilbert.� All
wickedness had been removed from Attia�s head after she was brought back to this
house. Attia had many younger sisters. I had only heard their names from Ma though
I did not recognize them. In spite of being so closely related, we were unable to
meet because of one reason: we were �worldly people�, and they were people
following the �Path of Allah�. I felt great pity for all the inhabitants of this
house. In Allah�s path there was a lot of delusion and deceit. We had been
deceived into waiting a whole afternoon. We were hoodwinked into hearing the
message of Allah-Rasool. We were promised a Lady-Maulvi, but the promise was not
kept. This path of Allah was rather full of lies. Not only did we not get a Lady-
Maulvi, we had wasted so much time. If we had been told at the outset that we
could not get a Lady-Maulvi, we would have returned. Instead we were given the
hope and made to wait, only to be brainwashed. I didn�t know about others, but was
sure myself that where my head was concerned, it would never again get
brainwashed. Safinaz, Halida and Parul could not comprehend what my connection was
to this world. I felt ashamed in front of them. They had had no idea about this
town�s weird Peerbari and the strange world within it.

I told Ma about the incident. Ma said, �Why did you go to that house looking for a
Lady-Maulvi to read the Milad? None of them go outside that area. Whatever they do
they do it within their compound area.� That was true. They had no contact with
any Masjid or Madrassa even, beyond the Peerbari area. Even people outside the
Peerbari who believed in Allah Rasool, did not have any contact with them. Nana
was himself a Haji. He had gone all the way to Mecca for the Haj, had kissed the
black stone within the Holy Kabah and had visited the Holy Rowja Sharif of the
Prophet in Medina. He had never needed to recite the Namaz Kaza as he had never
missed a namaz or skipped a Roja. Every day, early in the morning, he woke up and
read the Quran � even that Nana did not get any respect in this Peerbari. That was
because unless you were Peer Amirullah�s disciple, no one was given any attention
in that house, no one in Peerbari thought anyone else was truly faithful. Nana had
never given any importance to the Peerbari. He had practiced his own religion. He
had even told Ma about her going to Peerbari, �Call Allah sitting in your own
home, Allah will hear you. You don�t have to run around.�

***

The fact that four doctors-to-be in search of a Lady-Maulvi had failed to have
been successfully initiated into following Allah�s path was not news that had been
publicly disseminated. But in that �area� at least, people had had the opportunity
to say that nowadays even the eyes of doctors and engineers had opened, they had
understood that being involved in worldly affairs would not give them any reward
in their afterlife. Hence they were now trying to adopt Allah�s path. I did not
listen to all this meaningless talk. But the news that I heard at Peerbari which
shocked me was that Peer Amirullah had got married. He had married a girl forty
years younger than him. One of the unmarried girls.

�Ki Ma, doesn�t he already have a wife? Why did he marry again?� There was a
crooked smile on my lips.

Ma hesitated to reply, haltingly she said, �My sister�s mother-in-law has become
old, and she can�t look after the father-in-law any more.�

�There is a houseful of people to look after him. Do you have to get married to be
cared for?�

The father-in-law now has to be helped to the toilet. At night too he has to be
taken out of his room. You do need someone to clean up all this!�

�Why, there is no dearth of maids in that house; they can do all this. The house
is also full of his grandchildren. They too can help.�

�Don�t they have their own work?�

�What is all this you are saying! The work of the Peer is their main task. By
working for the Peer, they actually work for Allah.�

�At night they all sleep.�

�Does your Huzoor go to the toilet all through the night?�

�Don�t talk nonsense.�

�They both stay in the same room. They sleep on the same bed, don�t they? It is
not that his new bride only cleans his excreta.�

Ma was embarrassed. I was sure Ma, too, had not found any justification for the
Peer�s marriage so late in life. Even though she hadn�t, taking the Peer�s side
was kind of Ma�s duty.

�Don�t speak so sourly about a renowned follower of Allah. It will be a sin,� said
Ma.

Sin, sin, sin. I had been hearing this word �sin� for years. At one time the word
sin frightened me a lot, later I felt angry over the word, now I felt neither fear
nor anger.
�Let it be a sin, if it is a sin that will be good. I will go to dozakh, hell, if
I sin. If I go to dozakh, I will be able to meet your favourites Dilip Kumar,
Madhubala, your Uttam Kumar and Suchitra Sen. Your Chhabi Biswas and Pahari
Sanyal. And you, who will go to behesht, you will get to see all the Muslim
fanatics. You will meet the wicked scoundrel Mollahs, four-times married. They are
hunting people, creating jealousy, backbiting and killing people. They are
committing 108 rapes, troubling their wives, beating them, but because they are
chanting Allah, Allah the whole day, they go to behesht. What happiness will you
get living with these devils! It�s better to commit sins and put your name down in
the list for dozakh. There you will find world famous scientists like Einstein,
you will find Nelson Mandela, great singers, actors, and you will enjoy their
company. In heaven you will find Baba romancing seventy-two virgins of paradise.
And you have got this one Baba, who has never looked back at you all your life.
You are unable to stand Baba�s relationship with one Razia Begum, how will you
stand Baba�s relationships with seventy-two of them in heaven? What happiness are
you seeking in your wish to go to Heaven? For what do you observe Rozas and Namaz?
�

Ma looked at me with helpless eyes. Thinking of my future, her two eyes were full
of fear.

�Don�t you fear Allah even a little?� Ma asked in a petrified voice.

I laughed aloud. Laughing I said, �What is the good work Allah is doing, that I
should fear Him? Women�s status is way below the men�s; this is Allah�s own
statement. Just because men earn money, women have to live in subjugation to them.
Allah hasn�t said that if today women earn money, men will have to live in
subjugation!

�What is all this you are saying, Nasreen? You have lost your faith!� Ma�s eyes
were wide.

In front of the bursting eyes, I also burst. In a voice of sarcasm and hatred I
continued to speak.

�I do not know, how being a woman yourself, you accept so many insults to women.
Men can follow the Quran Hadith, and they are given respect. As a woman how do you
accept it? How can you accept that you are of lesser status? Why do you accept
that your husband has the right to beat you up, that your brother will get all
your father�s property, while you have no right to it. How do you accept that a
man just by saying talaq can divorce his wife? Why do you not have the right to
say �talaq�. How can you accept you will not get the seventy-two nymphs in heaven,
only your husband will, just because he�s a man! If you are a witness in court,
your sole witness will not do, two women witnesses are required. Yet a single
man�s witness is acceptable, two men are not required. Men as a race will live
happily in this life and in the next as well. For you, for me, for all women,
Allah reserves suffering in this world and the next. This is the justice of your
Allah. What makes you prostrate yourself before this Allah?�

Sobbing and sniveling, Ma stopped me. She held me in both arms and said, �Whatever
you have said, that�s enough, don�t say anymore. Now go and do your ablutions, and
ask Allah to pardon you.�

�Why should I ask pardon? I have not done anything wrong.�

***

Ma was sure I would burn in the fires of dozakh. Ma did not see me anymore when
she looked at me; she only saw the blazing inferno in which I was burning. I was
drinking rotten pus and blood. I was being bitten all over by snakes and
scorpions. The sun had come down to within an arms length from my head. I was
being immersed in boiling water. Imagining this heart rending sight, Ma in her
fear not only sobbed, she wailed like a two-and-a-half year old baby.

Chapter XXII

Awakening

Just before the exams, Baba himself came and spoke to me, �Study really hard.
There is no way out.�

That there was no way out even I knew. I had taken a holiday from poetry ages ago.
Now disease and patients filled my days, not just my days, but nights as well.
From hospital to home, from home to hospital, that was how most of the days
passed, and the nights passed, without sleep. Ma would bring hot milk for me. The
milk remained untouched and got spoilt. Ma would say, �Drink the milk, you will
understand your books better if you do.� I would be racking my brains over my
books and Ma would come pussy-footed so that no sound may break my concentration
and apply cold oil to my head. She would whisper, �Your head will remain cool.�

Living with all the disease and illness, I would think, so much must be happening
in the world outside, only I have no news of it. Once in a while I would push my
chair away and get up, and stretch myself standing in the fresh air in the
courtyard. Life in Aubokash carried on the way it always had. There were highs and
lows. Good and bad. Happiness and sorrow. Suhrid had learnt to walk, run and talk.
He had learnt to love all members of the house. Of course, one thing he had not
learnt, even though he was taught, was to think of his parents as his own. He had
not learnt to go to them, or to go to Dhaka when they wanted to take him. The
other boy was more Haseena�s son than Dada�s. He was just as skinny as Haseena. He
looked like a stick in spite of eating six meals a day. To put some flesh on these
two sticks, Baba bought bags full of meat and fish. Most of the meat and fish was
served on the plates of the two sticks. And yet, the sticks remained sticks. Ma
said, �Actually it�s their constitution.� Thanks to Baba�s insistence, Haseena had
qualified for her B.Ed. Now she was B.A. B.Ed, and could get a school teacher�s
job at anytime. However, Baba�s pressurising, heat and smoke, did not succeed in
compelling Yasmin to take her Improvement exams. Finally, she took admission in
the Botany Department of Anandamohan itself.

�What will you do studying Botany?�

�I will become a Botanist,� was Yasmin�s imaginative reply.

�Yes I suppose you will become a gardener. Ha Ha.�

Even though Yasmin did not actually become a gardener, she became something very
similar. The plants in the house would be growing well, but seeing their leaves
she would say, this plant has this disease, that plant has that one.

�What are the medicines for these diseases? Will you feed them antibiotics?�

I was no less than Baba in humiliating Yasmin. However, it was not clear how
humiliated she really felt because the exuberance she had shown the first few days
after joining the Botany classes, had slowly begun to ebb. Everyday her friends
circle increased like water-hyacinths. She was always visiting her friends. She
was very popular in the colony as well. She had invitations all the year round for
Bhaiphota, the special day for all brothers, weddings, birthdays, all the thirteen
festivals over the twelve months. I was never invited.

�Why don�t they call me?�

�You don�t know how to mix with people, so they don�t invite,� pat would come the
reply.

My boundaries were much more restricted than Yasmin�s. For Suhrid�s birthday,
Chhotda bought a twelve pound cake from Dhaka�s Purbani Hotel and arranged a
party. Friends from my class came, six of them. From Yasmin�s own world came
eighteen. Yasmin was very much like a tiger capable of creating uproar and also
striking out.

***

Haseena still carried on like she did earlier with her �Why does Suhrid have this,
why doesn�t Shubho have it, why is Suhrid getting more love and care, why is
Shubho getting less ��, constantly complaining, moaning and groaning. For Id, Baba
gave everyone at home money to buy their own clothes. He gave the same amount to
Suhrid and Shubho. Yasmin and I got the same. Geeta and Haseena got equal amounts.
As did Dada and Chhotda. Lily, Lily�s mother, Nargis and Jharna also got the same
sum each. Ma was given nothing. Chhotda would give Ma, one or two cotton saris a
year as she was looking after his son. Almost like giving wages for labour. I did
not celebrate Id as I used to earlier. In fact, on Id I didn�t even wear new
clothes. I somehow found all the rituals of Id rather meaningless � the cow
sacrifice, the new clothes, the pulao, meat, saffron vermicelli. The only thing I
liked was sitting outside with a bucket full of meat, and distributing it to the
hundreds of beggars who crowded the black gate. Dada was the most enthusiastic
about cutting and dividing the meat sitting in the inner verandah. That was what
he did the whole day long. After keeping the best meat for ourselves, our rich
neighbours, and relatives, the lean, boney leftovers were given to the beggars.
There was nothing which could be called bad for the beggars; Saying
�Shukurallahmadulillah�, they pounced on whatever they could get.

***

Rozas came and went. Since I did not believe in them, I never kept the fasts. At
sunset, I would partake of the Iftar snacks and drinks served to break the day�s
fast, because I liked them. Of course I didn�t have the patience to wait for the
siren. Very tasty savouries like onion pakoras, aubergine pakoras and fried gram
were arranged on the table. So I didn�t resist the temptation. I was amazed at
Baba. Known as a kafir, non-believer at Peerbari, someone who did not offer the
namaz, and showed no interest in the Quran Hadith etc. he actually kept roza for
the whole month of Ramadan. I never got to ask Baba why he kept the roza, I
believed Baba did so in order to become one of the community. Since everyone of
his age kept the roza, he did, too. He observed this ritual in order to carry on
life free of questions and problems. Dada, too, kept rozas, although like Baba he
too offered only the namaz for Id. Chhotda went for the Id namaz, but the rest of
the year there was no mention of namaz, or of rozas. Haseena believed in Allah, in
namaz and rozas, but did not keep any fasts, because she had yet to put on any
weight. She was scared that if she kept rozas, then the skin on her bones might
disintegrate in a shower. The Ershad government had started a new system, whereby
all food stalls would remain shut during the daytime for roza. This was quite
crazy, did everyone observe rozas! There were so many coolies, porters and
labourers who if they got no food in the afternoon, would not be able to work.
What would they do if they were hungry? One had to think of the Hindus, Christians
and Buddhists as well! Also about the atheists. The country was not only for the
Muslims. Even the Muslims here did not all observe the rozas. How could one close
down the eating places! I of course kept a chewing gum in my mouth during the
rozas as a mark of protest. I chewed gum the whole day. I went frequently to the
college canteen and drank cups of tea. Since the canteen was within the college
premises, the police did not come and check; a blessing, indeed. The Jamait-e-
Islam party was very happy with Ershad�s new rule, but some who were secular,
voiced their objections. Ershad was however not one to listen to anyone�s
objections. He wanted to stay in power at all costs. Believing that if he showed
humility in the face of the Muslim religious majority, the majority would applaud
him, and he governed the country accordingly. I had never felt that Ershad was a
religious man. Although he put on a serious face and talked of religion,
introduced something called national religion in the constitution, declared that
national religion to be Islam and destroyed the secular constitution, I felt he
was deceiving his countrymen, and wanted to make fools of them. He only wanted the
votes of the illiterate, unlettered, god-fearing masses; he had no other motive.

***

Baba told me that I could not afford to get involved in religion and politics.
When the exams came close, he shook me awake at three or four at night to study. I
would also scramble out of bed and sit at my study table. Even at that time of
night, Ma made tea for me in a flask, and came and left it on the table. As soon
as the written exams were over, Baba got busy finding out who were coming from
other medical colleges as examiners for the viva. He found out whether he knew
them, whether they were his students, or whether they were his classmates. His
enquiries got him the information that some of them were at some time his
students. To only these people, he went with a hesitant, embarrassed face and
wringing hands, to tell them his daughter was taking the exam, to please �look
after her.� Looking after meant please don�t willfully give her low marks.
Actually no one could make one pass. They couldn�t because the responsibility of
making one pass was not in one person�s hands. The request to look after was so
that one didn�t willfully fail you. It was not that all the Internal Examiners
were happy with me. Because I did not Salaam and greet them, most of the
professors knew me as �disrespectful.� Whatever the case, the exams carried on for
a long time. Baba remained anxious for this whole length of time. Having feared
for ages that I wouldn�t pass, with a trembling heart, dry throat, feeling
constantly thirsty and wanting to go to the toilet, I finally took my viva voce.
The viva voce did not seem like an exam. It felt as though I was crossing a
bridge. As though I was walking on a slender rope. If I tilted a little I would
tumble amidst snakes, scorpions and a blazing fire. Studying from a good student
like Rajib Ahmed�s copious notes on medical science could help one take a written
exam, but my anxiety about the viva kept taking away the words from my mouth.
Whatever little I knew, too seemed to evaporate like camphor from my brain. That
was how I faced the viva. Inside the ward, the professors sat at a huge table
amidst rows of patients. The professors did not seem like professors, each one
appeared like Ajrael, the angel of death. Whose throat was being cut, it was
difficult for anyone to fathom. The exams were over, but I still didn�t know
whether my head was still on my shoulders or not.

***

I was wild about going to Dhaka as soon as the exams were over. However, Rudra was
not in Dhaka. He had not returned from Mithekhali. I sat in Mymensingh awaiting
Rudra�s return to Dhaka. Waiting was a very disturbing experience. Even though it
was irritating that was a great relief for me. At least I didn�t have to sit with
my books anymore. After Haseena passed her B.Ed, Baba got her admitted into the
M.Ed. course. Leaving Shubho in Ma�s charge, she left for college everyday wearing
garish saris, and various kinds of makeup on her face. Ma was now burdened with
the care of both her grandsons. With one hand she managed Shubho, with the other,
Suhrid. The first thing Haseena did on her return from college was to check
whether there had been any lapses in the care of Shubho. No, Ma did not leave any
thing out in taking care of Shubho. It was because if even a single mistake in
Shubho�s care was committed, Haseena would create a big rumpus. To keep the house
free of disturbance, Ma did not make any mistake even by chance. Ma would bathe
both Suhrid and Shubho, apply powder to their bodies, feed them and put them to
sleep. Haseena would come and immediately swoop down on Shubho saying, �Ish, the
boy is sweating. Suhrid is lying under the fan, how come Shubho has been made to
sleep away from it?� There was only one ceiling fan in the room. Both Shubho and
Suhrid had been sleeping under it, but it seems Suhrid was closer to the fan. Ma
said, �What is this you are saying! Shubho has rolled away to that corner.� Ma did
not like the way her daughter-in-law shouted and screamed. This was basically
because whenever Haseena screamed, Dada would arrive, and would readily accept
anything Haseena said, however unjustified and illogical. Dada declared that, Ma
had purposely put Shubho away from the fan to make him suffer. Ma secretly wiped
her tears. Soon she would again begin to look after Shubho with four times as much
care as Suhrid. After bathing him, while combing his hair, she even made sure that
the parting was absolutely straight. That was because once it had happened that
Shubho�s parting was crooked by a hairs-breadth and Haseena had said, �Suhrid�s
parting isn�t crooked, how come only Shubho�s is?� Ma had no answers to such
questions. And that was the reason why she was filled with fear, physical and
mental. Haseena returned from her M.Ed. classes, her high heels tapping on the
floor. Immediately she shouted for Jharna. Jharna ran to inquire what her orders
were. Haseena checked on everybody�s welfare at home. Jharna took a long time to
relate all the news about the household that which she knew and that which she
didn�t. Once Shubho�s clothes had been washed, his bottles cleaned, bed tidied up,
toys arranged neatly, Jharna sat in the verandah with her legs spread out. Haseena
had given her strict instructions not to do anyone else�s chores in the house,
except Shubho�s. All the other work had to be done by Lily�s mother, Lily, and
when even they couldn�t cope up, by Nargis. This work included washing Haseena�s
clothes, ironing them, cooking and feeding her, washing her used utensils, and
many other chores. Lily and Lily�s mother went to their village for two days. Then
Nargis had to stop looking after Suhrid and take over the cooking, sweeping,
mopping, washing of the entire household. Jharna just sat on the verandah.

�Jharna, where�s Shubho?�

�Shubho�s playing.�

�Why is he playing? It is now time for Shubho to sleep! Why hasn�t Ma put Shubho
to sleep?�

Instead of 1.30 in the afternoon, it was quarter to two, and Shubho had not slept.
What happened? Shubho was supposed to sleep at 1.30, by the clock, he was to drink
milk at twelve, chicken soup at one, and after eating rice, fish and vegetables at
1.10, he was to sleep at 1.30. Shubho had been fed his milk, soup, rice
everything, but instead of sleeping he had begun to play.

Haseena�s voice was harsh, �If this is the state of affairs, I will not be able to
go to college. I will have to stay at home and bring up the baby.�

Haseena did not go to college the next day.

�Ki Shubho�s mother, won�t you go to college?� Ma asked.

�Nah! I am not feeling well today,� saying which, Haseena spent the whole day
lying down. In the evening she took Shubho from Ma�s lap sat with him in her room
sporting a sad face.

Those days Baba would return home and call Haseena, �Bouma, Bouma,� and find out
how her classes were progressing, and whether she was studying well or not.

That evening, with a gloomy face Haseena told Baba, �I wasn�t able to go to
college.�

�What do you mean by you couldn�t go? Why couldn�t you?� Excitedly, Baba took off
his spectacles.

�I have to look after Shubho, that�s why. Jharna can�t, after all, bathe and feed
Shubho as well.�

�Isn�t Shubho�s Dadi there to do all that?�

Haseena heaved a deep sigh, �No, Ma doesn�t get anytime. Ma has to look after
Suhrid.�

�Go and call that hussy.�

�Which hussy? Lily�s mother?�

Baba barked, �Why should you call Lily�s mother? Don�t you have any brains? Call
Noman�s mother.�

Haseena called Ma. There was a lustrous smile on her lips.

Gritting his teeth, Baba told Ma, �The boy�s mother goes to college, if you don�t
look after him, who will?�

�I do look after him,� said Ma in a quiet voice. �What can I do if Shubho�s mother
does not like the way I bathe and feed him?�

�What do you mean by what can you do?�

�Get someone to care for Shubho. I can�t cope with two babies anymore.�

�The boy will have to grow up in the care of maids when his Dadi is there?�

�Send for Kamaal. Let him take Suhrid away. I am very sick. I get no rest at all,
no sleep. I can�t manage so much anymore.�

�Look at the way she speaks,� Baba looked at Haseena, indicating Ma with slanted
eyes and lips.

The glittering smile clung for a long time to Haseena�s lips, like a newly born
scorpion.

***

Suhrid was not sent to Chhotda either. Nor was another maid hired for Shubho. Ma
alone continued to look after both the grandsons. Haseena would leave buckets full
of clothes. Lily�s mother would take the whole day to wash them. Ma would have to
run to the kitchen to cook for the entire household. Ma was unable to get Lily�s
mother to leave Haseena�s clothes. I got the feeling that Ma was scared of
Haseena. Ma possibly did not fear even Baba as much. Ma�s fears concerned Dada.
Suppose Dada again left home, suppose he was displeased at seeing Haseena�s
unhappy face, suppose he stopped calling her �Ma�! Ma�s bleeding body became
weaker by the day. Even with her weak health, Ma carried on with household work
from early morning to the middle of the night. She would plead with Baba, �I don�t
have any blood left in my body. I will have to eat some nutritious food. Will you
please get me some milk, two bananas and two eggs?� Baba looked with anger at Ma�s
gumption. Ma demanded of Dada, because she was caring for Shubho. �Kire Noman,
your father doesn�t give me anything. Will you be able to arrange for some milk
and bananas for me? My health has broken down completely.�

Dada laughed. Sticking his tongue out and pressing it bashfully between his teeth,
he said, �What are you saying Ma? How come your health has broken down! In fact
you are becoming excessively fat. You better control your diet. Start eating less
now.�

�Do you have any medicine for piles in your shop?�

�No. There is no medicine for piles.�

�There was no medicine�, was the straightforward reply. Dada was now the head of
Baba�s medicine business. The business was doing extremely well. He had done up
the shop marvelously. He supplied medicines to hospitals and to the big clinics.
Baba, too, had extended the area of his chambers. He had installed an x-ray
machine. Purchasing a microscope he had set up a pathology laboratory. Baba had
asked Abdullah, Professor in the Department of Jurisprudence, to man the
laboratory in his spare time. Abdullah came there in the greed for extra money. If
one went to Baba�s chambers for any reason, one had to push through a huge crowd
of patients in order to get in. The crowd consisted mostly of poor patients from
the village. Even if someone came complaining of pain in the stomach, I found Baba
asking him to take a chest x-ray and get urine and stool tests. An old man who
came from Dhobaura was coughing up blood along with phlegm. Baba took an x-ray and
said it was tuberculosis. I asked the old man, �Since when have you been coughing
blood?� His sunken eyes were drooping with exhaustion. Breathless, gasping he
said, �It�s a year and a half today.�

�Why didn�t you come when the bleeding started?�

�Where do we have the money, sister? I have taken a loan to come to the city.�

�Isn�t there a doctor in your village?�

�No.�

Even if there were doctors in the village, patients came to Baba. He had a very
high reputation as a good doctor. Even now the old residents of the town called
for Baba whenever they were sick. Baba had no fixed fee. He took whatever anyone
could give. Some gave five takas and left, others two taka. Baba only made one
request to his patients, that before they left they should buy their medicines
from the shop next door called Arogya Bitaan. After getting all their tests and x-
rays done, many patients had no money left for medicines. They went back. This
tuberculosis patient who was about to return, but I held him back and took him to
Arogya Bitaan. I told Dada, to give him the medicines free of cost. Dada said
contemptuously, �Are you mad?� I took out money from my own pocket. Dada counted
it and gave him the medicine. Nowadays, he loved counting money. Whenever he was
free, he would count his money arranged in the drawer over and over again. From
this money nothing was spent on household expenses. Whatever was spent was to
fulfill all Haseena�s desires � her saris, jewellery, cosmetics, check-ups once in
a while. Yasmin would stop at Arogya Bitaan to take two taka for the rickshaw
fare. Dada would lock his drawer, keep the key in his pocket and sit glumly
holding his cheeks with his two hands. He would tell Yasmin, �There have been no
sales. I haven�t even made my first sale as yet.�

The tuberculosis patient was overwhelmed with gratitude on getting the medicines.
He would now not return immediately to Dhobaura, and would stay the night at the
�back and side� hotel. The hotel bedding was laid in a long continuous row. The
tariff was not much. If you lay on your back you had to pay eight annas, and if
you lay on your side, four annas. The hotels were swarming with people. Villagers
who came to the city to see doctors, or lawyers, if they had come from very far,
did not cross the rivers back again at the end of the day. They spent the night at
the hotels on the wharf, and took a boat home in the morning.

Ma never got any treatment for piles. Lately, an idea had taken root in Ma�s mind,
that her illness was not an ordinary disease like piles, but an incurable one. Ma
lived with her suspicions. No one had the time to listen to worthless talk about
illnesses. Before my wails of agony became worthless, too, I took steps to save
myself. When I began to suffer the agony of an anal fissure and the use of the
pain relieving ointment Neoparkinol did not work, and it was not possible for me
to show my private parts to any of the known doctors in the hospital, I went to
Dhaka to get treatment from some unknown doctor. After seeing a well-known
surgeon, Chhotda made arrangements for me to be admitted to Dhaka Medical. It was
difficult to get a cabin. The Minister Amanullah Choudhary had to be approached to
get one. The operation was two days later. Just when I was about to be admitted,
Rudra returning from Mongla, found my letter telling him I was in Dhaka, and
pounced on me at Nayapaltan and took me away. Chhotda was not home at the time of
the raid. Geeta was taken aback. Rudra�s cousin was working as a doctor in Dhaka
Medical. Rudra took me to 50 Lalbagh, to tell that Doctor-cousin of his to be
there at the time of my operation. There, sitting on the drawing roam sofa was
Nellie, with her hair spread out. This was the first time I had seen Nellie. I
noticed Rudra�s eyes repeatedly went towards Nellie�s loose hair and dishevelled
sari. They chatted together about the olden days. They laughed. Taking a journal
in my hand, I buried my face in it, as though I saw nothing, I noticed nothing, I
did not notice the memories shimmering in their eyes as they conversed, all those
memories of tumultuous love, all those kisses, that sinking of one�s body into the
other�s amidst the scent of roses � I did not see any of this, I did not notice
how both of them were dying to touch each other again, wanting to ignore all
relationships and jump into the depthless waters of romance, wanting to arouse
every fibre in their bodies with kisses like before, and to plumb the depths of
their bodies while talking of their dreams � I saw, nothing. My eyes were on the
words in the journal, they could talk about anything they liked without
hesitation. They could talk of all those dreams, all that great excitement, those
passions with which Rudra had gone to break up Nellie�s wedding. I was
concentrating on the words, I wasn�t listening. I stared at the words; they were
getting wet in the rain. The wet words stared at me, the wet words felt sorry for
me.

I was anaesthetized on the operation table in the hospital. While I was falling
asleep, someone was asking me my name and address. Even though I wanted to, I was
unable to answer. From somewhere a bird came and placing me on its wings flew away
in the sky. I began to float like a cloud, it felt very nice. I felt happy. When I
came back to consciousness, I found myself on a different bed. Next to me were
Chhotda, Geeta and Jhunu khala. Geeta was stroking my hair. Chhotda and Jhunu
khala were asking if it hurt. I couldn�t make out if there was any pain. Even if
there was, these beloved faces had reduced it considerably. Rudra entered the room
suddenly embarrassing everyone. Chhotda left the room. Who was this Rudra and what
relationship I had with him, I had never told anybody. Everyone, of course,
understood. Even Chhotda who left, understood. I had to stay two days in the
hospital. Geeta brought all my meals for me on both days. She made me sit in hot
water basins. On the day I was to be discharged from hospital, on my one side
stood Chhotda, on the other, Rudra. Chhotda said, �Let�s go home.�

I shook my head, �No.�

�What do you mean?�

I was silent. Chhotda pulled me by the hand. �If you won�t come home, where will
you go?� I slowly loosened the grip of Chhotda�s hand. I looked calmly, without
regret at his pained eyes. Tears brimmed over from the corners of his eyes, he bit
his lips secretly. I left with Rudra without replying.

After returning to the Muhammedpur house, I sat silently nursing a fear. Suppose
Rudra�s cousin was not aware of our marriage! Rudra said, �You don�t want to tell
anyone about your marriage.� After I was rendered unconscious, my private parts
had obviously not remained private for any of the doctors. It also meant that they
would know that I was not a virgin! At least let the cousin know that we are
married. Otherwise he might think I�d lost my virginity before marriage, chhi,
chhi. I kept my face lowered in shame. Rudra loved my blushing bashful face.
Turning my face towards himself with his two hands, he kissed me. He promised that
he would inform his cousin about our marriage the very next day. That night when
we were in deep sleep, dead to the world, Rudra�s friend Minar banged on the door
and stormed into our room. Minar had come to sleep there with his beautiful wife,
Kabita, as he had not been able to find any other place to sleep in the whole
town. We gave them the bedroom, and Rudra and I spread a mat on the floor of the
other room for ourselves. Early in the morning I found Rudra missing from my side.
He was sleeping next to Minar and Kabita on the bed! What had happened? How come!
Rudra�s simple explanation was that he wasn�t getting any sleep on the mat. He had
sensibly slept next to Minar. If Minar had found him next to Kabita, he would
surely not have laughingly left with his wife, after his friend�s doings. That
day, I found our marriage document, while looking for some letter paper in the
drawer. The document said that I had signed it, in front of the Magistrate.
Surprising, but this was a lie! The minute I said this, Rudra snatched the
certificate from my hand and put it back into the drawer. After spending two days,
sitting around, lying down, tidying the room, eating out, gossiping, attending
poetry meets, I began to miss everyone at Aubokash. I missed Ma, Yasmin, Suhrid,
and Minu the cat. How were they! Ma must be talking about me everyday, as would be
Baba, Yasmin, and even Suhrid would be saying, �Why doesn�t Dolphupu come?� I had
taught Suhrid to call me Dolphupu. One day while pushing him to and fro on the
swing, he learnt to say it as I kept repeating, �Swing (dol) me, swing me phupu,
swing me, swing me.� My heart remained at Aubokash, in my disorderly yet
disciplined life. I felt really sorry for Minu. She must be walking all over the
room and verandah searching for me with hunger in her stomach. She must be feeling
very lonely at night! I did not feel at home in Dhaka. Dhaka was a place to visit
for a short while. Even today I am unable to accept Dhaka as a city for permanent
residence. When I wanted to return to Mymensingh, Rudra requested me to stay for
one more day. In that one evening of one day, he took me with him to Mogbazaar, to
the Kazi�s office. Rudra�s two friends also accompanied us. The marriage contract
would be signed in his presence and the two friends would be witnesses. Surprise!

�Would I have objected if you had given me some warning Rudra?�

�For what sum will the contract be made?� he asked.

�Does the amount have to be mentioned?�

�Yes, it has to be.�

�Can�t one write zero?�

�No.�

�Then what about one taka?�

�Dhoot, how can it be one taka!�

�Write whatever you like, none of this has any meaning. Do you think we will ever
have a talaq? And even if we do, that I will demand money from you?� I laughed.
Loudly and silently. �What is the need for a marriage contract Rudra?�

�There is a need.�

�What for?�

All this was meaningless. Could any marriage contract make two people live
together? Could love? I believed in love, not in a contract. I don�t know to what
extent Rudra believed in love, but he obviously did in a contract, so he made the
marriage contract. I returned the next day to Mymensingh. Learning of my
operation, Ma took care of me. She made me sit in basins of hot water mixed with
dettol four times a day. I gave Ma my old Neoparkinol ointment, the ointment which
reduced the pain of an anal fissure. Ma thought it would stop her bleeding. Ma did
not stop passing blood. She thought, it would surely stop someday. Ma�s wish for a
quart of milk, two bananas and two eggs was never fulfilled. Ma possibly hoped
that her daughter was becoming a doctor and she would earn and would treat her,
and buy milk and bananas for her. This daughter did pass her medical exams. Her
internship commenced. She began to earn money. Whatever else happened with the
money she earned, it never bought her mother�s long time wish for some milk and
eggs. Bhagirathi�s Ma came and delivered milk for the two babies. Sitting on the
verandah and measuring out the milk for the two babies, she would very often ask,
�O Mashi, didn�t you say you�d be taking an extra quart of milk!� Heaving a long
sigh, Ma would say, �No Bhagi�s Ma, I am not fated to drink milk.�

***

Spreading her two legs out on the bed, Ma would painfully crack her knees, rocking
Suhrid to sleep, reciting rhymes. Ma was staring sadly out of the window. Suhrid
had fallen asleep, but Ma did not pick him up and put him down on the bed. There
were dark circles under her eyes, which were both puffy and swollen. Turning her
eyes away from the window she said, �Noman�s wife calls me by the name of hussy.�

�How do you know?�

�I went to the kitchen and heard her telling Lily�s Ma, �That hussy can�t bear the
sight of my son.��

�Oh!�

�She dares to do so because of your father. He calls me hussy in front of

everyone.�

Again looking towards the window sorrowfully, Ma said, �I am her mother-in-law,

and she has no respect for me at all.�

I looked at Suhrid�s sleeping face. I had seen many beautiful babies, but none
like Suhrid. Asleep, he did not look the extremely mischievous imp that he was.
Everyday he would fall down from the bed, table or the staircase, trying to run
before the wind. He was not bothered in the least. Shubho always looked before he
placed even one foot anywhere. He was a very careful boy, he never jumped around.
On Shubho�s body there were no signs of any cuts or bruises. If Suhrid grazed his
knees today, then tomorrow his elbows were darkened by blood clots. His whole body
was covered with signs of his antics. Suhrid babbled half-words. Shubho never
spoke in baby-talk till the time he learned to speak correctly. He was always
clear and distinct. Shubho never said no to any food item. Suhrid was always
refusing to eat. Ma�s sufferings increased. The older the boy grew, the more
difficult he became to control. He would run to the terrace. Ma had to chase him,
as he just might decide he was the �six million dollar man� and leap off the roof!
If he found the gate open he would go out onto the streets, and Ma had to run and
bring him back. But Ma�s worries were double than all this work. Chhotda sensed
the atmosphere when he came to Aubokash. Haseena�s displeasure was palpable.
Haseena was convinced that Suhrid was being given more love than Shubho. Ma had
told Chhotda, �If you get anything for Suhrid, you must get the same for Shubho.�
To satisfy Haseena, baby clothes and toys bought abroad were given to Shubho. In
spite of this, Haseena thought that whatever Shubho may have, Suhrid had much
more. Chhotda had brought a tricycle for Suhrid. The boy rode this cycle at a
thunderous speed all over the house, verandah, field and courtyard. At short
intervals, Ma took Suhrid off, and let Shubho ride the cycle saying, �Shubho is
your brother, let him ride.� Ma had even given Shubho, Suhrid�s perambulator.
Shubho was six months younger than Suhrid. Suhrid had no need for the perambulator
when Shubho needed one. Yet Haseena told Dada, �Buy a new one for Shubho.�

�These things are not available in Mymensingh.�

�So what? Go to Dhaka; go and buy it from there.�

�What are you saying Mumu! I have to go to Dhaka just to buy this?�

�Yes, you must go to Dhaka just to buy it. And if you do not get it in Dhaka, then
even if you have to go to London to get it you must go.�

When Suhrid got his cycle, Haseena again caught hold of Dada to buy a duplicate
one for Shubho. After searching the whole town, when Dada returned home with a
tricycle, Haseena threw it away saying �You picked it up off the streets or what?�

�There is no better cycle in the market. If you want, you can go and see for
yourself.�

Ma said, �It seems Kamaal bought Suhrid�s cycle from Singapore. Obviously such a
cycle won�t be found in the country.�

The problem was solved by Suhrid himself. Attracted by the new cycle for Shubho,
he rode it around, while Shubho rode the one from Singapore. Seeing this Haseena
should have been pleased. But she wasn�t. There was never a smile on her face. Ma
worked hard to bring a smile to her face. Ma gave her the apples, grapes and
oranges brought by Chhotda. If meat or fish was cooked, Haseena was given most of
it and that, too, the choicest pieces. If Ma got a little money in hand she bought
presents for Haseena and Shubho from the market. Haseena still did not smile. She
kept telling Dada day and night, �Ki, why don�t you do anything! Will it do if you
keep sleeping like the dead? For how long will you continue to live in this tin
shed like a fakir? Take a separate house. I have to remove my son far away from
this family of yours.�

Suhrid did not understand the politics of domesticity. He had a lot of affection
for Shubho. He was even willing to give whatever possessions he had to Shubho.
Shubho was adept at slapping, boxing and scratching Suhrid. Once he had pushed
Suhrid from the railing of his cot, and Suhrid was unconscious for a full twenty-
four hours because of a head injury. Ma had almost gone mad. Ma feared all kinds
of disasters. She told Chhotda, �I can�t take care of Suhrid in this environment.
Please take him to Dhaka.� Chhotda was not prepared for Ma�s proposal. With an
unhappy face he said, �Yes, I will have to take him. I will have to take him to
Dhaka and get him admission into school.� Suhrid was taken to Dhaka subsequently.
Ma went with him. After two weeks Ma returned, but kept weeping for him. Not just
tears. She literally wailed. After crying herself into a demented state she
herself left for Dhaka, and returned with Suhrid. Suhrid happily continued to stay
at Aubokash. I took him out almost every evening, sometimes for an aimless
rickshaw ride, at other times to visit my friends. I bought him the toys he
wanted. If today he wanted a wound-up car, then tomorrow he wanted a wound-up
aeroplane. I bought ready-made two-piece, three-piece outfits for myself. Two
dresses, one to be washed and the other to be worn. This regime under which Baba
had kept us was flouted and the number of my outfits now stood at more than ten.
Fancifully I bought some blue jeans material and also got a pant made by the
tailor. This time I told the tailor, �Put the buttons or zip in front, not on the
side. Put loops. If I want to wear a belt, I will.� If I bought dress-material, I
took the measuring tape from the tailor and measured my chest myself for the dress
to be made. I told Yasmin, �From now on, give your measurements yourself.� What I
didn�t tell her was why she had to do it and not the tailor. Possibly she
understood. As soon as I returned from the hospital, I sought her company. I
talked about everything with her, except for secrets connected with the body. It
was as though we were still children. We laughed and enjoyed ourselves, read poems
and sang songs. We roamed around. The day I wore the jeans, Baba saw me and said,
�What is this you are wearing? Take it off immediately. Take it off and wear
pyjamas.� I said, �Everyone wears jeans. Even the girls.�

�No, girls do not wear these. These are boys� clothes.�

I didn�t oppose Baba, and moved away from his sight. But I didn�t take off the
jeans. I continued to wear them. I wore them the next day as well. My clothes fit
Yasmin. She also happily used my clothes. I did not stop her. Baba snarled at
Yasmin too, when he saw her wearing jeans. �What are you up to? The elder one�s
wickedness is rubbing off on the younger. The day I catch you though, I will beat
you till your bones turn to dust.� �Let your bones be broken�, I told Yasmin,
�Don�t take them off.� I said so because I found no justification for considering
jeans to be an improper dress for girls. Wearing jeans did not mean I would become
a boy. The body within remained untouched after all, if that was what Baba�s
orders were all about. I bought an old harmonium for Yasmin, from Sur Taranga in
Chhotobazaar. I employed a music teacher for her as well. I made one condition;
she had to sing Rabindra Sangeet. I got her admitted to Mymensingh�s music school,
situated in an old house on Ishan Chakrabarty Road, which had a banyan sapling
growing out of its walls. She went, but before seven days were over she said she
did not like it there. Okay, if she didn�t like the school, then a master could
come and teach her at home. But I couldn�t decide whom to approach, Sunil Dhar or
Mithun De! Whom to ask? Finally, I decided on Badal Chandra, a master at the music
school. Finding out his address, I took Yasmin with me to request him to teach
her. Badal Chandra De�s younger brother, Sameer Chandra De, alias Cotton, used to
teach Chhotda to play the guitar at one time. He was the best guitarist in town.
Badal Chandra De had not married. In his room were all kinds of musical
instruments like the tanpura, harmonium, tabla, sitar and veena. In one corner of
the room was a wooden settee. How did one live life with so little! There was not
a single sign of comfort or luxury in the house. Around a courtyard were a number
of small tinsheds. This was the ancestral home. The brothers stayed in different
rooms, their children too had grown up. All of them had dedicated their lives to
music. Badal Chandra made us both sit on the settee, and seating himself on a
mura, he began to talk seriously about music. I understood some of what he said,
and some I didn�t. He did not want to teach anyone for whom music was just a
hobby. Only if the person wanted to dedicate his whole life to the study of music,
would he take that student. I don�t know why, but we liked Badal Chandra. He began
to come home twice a week to teach Yasmin. Badal Chandra was tall and fair. He
wore spotless white dhoti-panjabis. Holding the pleated end of his dhoti with one
hand, he would enter Aubokash. The whole evening, strains of Sa Re Ga Ma Pa Dha Ni
Sa could be heard from the drawing room. I would enter the room carrying a tray of
tea and biscuits. On seeing me, Ustad Badal would not only discuss music, he would
also talk about literature. He could recite by heart, Rabindranath�s poems. I did
not have the memory required for reciting poetry. My role was that of an enchanted
listener. Yasmin was not learning Sa Re Ga Ma for the first time from Badal
Chandra. When she was five or six years old, Baba used to take her to the Rajbari
school teacher Rokeya�s house to learn singing. That house too was a house of
music and dance. Her son Baki sang. Rokeya�s sister Ayesha stayed with her in the
same house. She too was a teacher. She sang herself and also taught her daughter
Dolon to sing. About taking Yasmin to that house Ma would say, �Your father does
not take Yasmin there with the intention of teaching her music alone. His real
intention is to flirt with Ayesha.� Taking Yasmin to that house, Baba would leave
her with the children and go to the other room to talk with the curly haired,
slant-eyed, fair skinned, almost pink-lipped, full-breasted young woman, Ayesha.
Baba had never been satisfied with even Razia Begum. He had always had some casual
love affairs on the side. He had been even seen roaming around with one of
Yasmin�s friend�s khalas, a very lean-looking lawyer. After Yasmin began Sa Re Ga
Ma classes with Badal Chandra De, she came to know from some newly made singer
friends at college, that there was a music school in town called Anandadhwani
where many girls were going. This music school held classes in Mahakali School on
holidays. Anandadhwani was the Rabindrasangeet exponent Wahid-ul-Haq�s school.
Wahid-ul-Haq�s students in Mymensingh, Tapan Baidya, Nilotpal Sadhya and Nurul
Anwar, taught the students singing at Anandadhwani. The students could be of any
age. There were five year olds, as well as fifty year olds. They all sat together
and sang in rhythm and tune. Rabindrasangeet in a way kept me alive. I had been
addicted to Rabindrasangeet for quite sometime now, having graduated, from Dada�s
Sandhya, Phiroza, Hemanta, Manna Dey etc. towards Kanika and Subinoy Ray. In
between I had become quite devoted to folk music. But setting it aside I was back
to Rabindrasangeet. This was one form of music, which if one dedicated oneself to,
could make life quite beautiful. There was no experience in life that this sangeet
did not touch upon. Not just happiness, even sadness gave a kind of pleasure. I
enrolled Yasmin at Anandadhwani. I continued to pay for Badal Chandra�s fees every
month, and that of Anandadhwani. Once Yasmin began going to Anandadhwani, she was
noticed by Nilotpal Sadhya. He was sure she would some day become a great artist.
Hence he began to teach her with extra care. One day, because Yasmin expressed a
desire for the tabla, I looked for a good set at Promod Bihari�s tabla shop at
Golpukur Par, and bought it for her. Badal Chandra De was eager to teach Yasmin
classical music. So at home she learnt classical, and outside, it was
Rabindrasangeet. Turning my eyes away from the mean, narrow minded and selfish
people surrounding us, I created a wonderful world with Yasmin. When Yasmin sang
the songs learnt at Anandadhwani at home, I would look at her, enchanted. On one
melancholic evening she sang. �I will not ask you for peace, even if I have
sorrowful thoughts �� The song made tears fall drop by drop from my eyes. Yasmin
once in a while brought Nilotpal Sadhya home with her. A handsome youth, Nilotpal
Sadhya would sport a Shantiniketan shoulder bag and Shantipur chappals and the
smile on his lips spread peace all around. I got the feeling that Nilotpal was
secretly in love with Yasmin. I felt afraid. One of her friend�s brothers came
over once in a while to play the tabla; I had seen him staring adoringly at
Yasmin. I was afraid. From Kolkata, came letters in the beautifully formed
handwriting of Kaushik Majumdar. Who was this Kaushik Majumdar? Yasmin said, it
was that Dhruba, the dark boy with kohl black eyes in a sweet face, who used to
come walking here in halfpants, every evening from the side of Mritunjoy School,
that Dhruba. Yasmin too wrote letters to Kaushik. Kaushik one day stopped
addressing her as Yasmin, and called her Moumi instead. From then onwards Yasmin
too began signing herself Moumi. I feared for her. I was extremely afraid.
Whenever Kaushik�s letters came I read them. I scrutinized them carefully to
detect any signs of love. Actually I was trying to protect her from all disasters,
so that she did not fall in love with anyone, so that no infatuation tarnished her
honesty and simplicity or dimmed her beauty even slightly. What had happened to me
was over. I wanted to save her from all that was ugly. Before leaving for college,
Anandadhwani or a friend�s house, Yasmin stood in front of the mirror dressing up.
She would apply kohl to her eyes and lipstick to her mouth. I would scold her,
�Why are you always dressed up?�

�Just like that.�

�No one dresses up just like that. There is always a reason.�

�Can�t one dress up without any reason?�

�There is always a reason behind it. You want to attract people with your beauty.
Right?�

�I dress up because I like doing so.�

�Then how come you don�t dress up while at home? Why do you colour your brown lips
red only when you need to go out?�

Yasmin did not reply. In a mocking tone I told her, �Do you think by painting your
face you look beautiful? Not at all. It�s best to stay with what you have
naturally. Don�t spoil your real appearance with a mask of paint. Why do you need
to take the help of cosmetics! What do you lack? You must be suffering from an
inferiority complex!�

Yasmin did not agree, she continued to make up her face. A chilling fear stung my
breast.

***

Rudra�s letter came to the hospital postmaster�s address. �Come to Dhaka as soon
as you get this letter.� I was on duty in the Medicine Department. Forget about a
day, one couldn�t take leave even for an hour. From the very next day I tried my
best to get leave. Even after three days I couldn�t get leave. At this end, Baba
too had received a letter. It was from Rudra�s father, Sheikh Wali-ullah. I had no
idea what he had written. Rudra had told me nothing about this. I heard about the
letter from Ma. Letting out a howl, Baba had called for Ma and shown her the
letter. �My wayward son, Shahidullah has finally married your daughter and pledged
to follow the right path. By accepting their marriage, you will oblige me greatly
in allowing them to live together in peace and happiness etc.� Baba had clutched
his inky black hair and sat motionless for a long time. Later in the evening
instead of seeing his patients, he had remained in bed. His eyes were on the roof
beams. Ma sat at the head-board, and stroked his hair with her fingers. In a thin
voice Baba said, �Pull my hair strongly.� Pulling them strongly brought away tufts
of hair into Ma�s hands, and yet the pain in Baba�s head remained. Sleeping pills
also did not bring him sleep.

�How did she get married? When did she? Why did she?�

�You think she told me anything about all this! She does what she likes.�
�How did she get so much courage?�

�It is not courage. Finding her simple and straightforward he must have duped her.
Is he eligible to stand before such a beautiful doctor girl? Nasreen has destroyed
her own self.�

Baba while still staring unblinkingly at the beams, kept saying, �His own father
has called him a wayward boy. Just think how bad a son has to be to be called
wayward by his own father. Kamaal has already said the boy smokes and drinks.�

Taking away Baba�s hands from his head, and rubbing them on her enflamed breast,
Ma�s eyes grew wet. Her tears traveled down her cheeks towards her chest, and yet
were unable to extinguish the fire within. �I brought up this girl carrying her at
my breast. You were busy running behind women. I have shed tears carrying her in
my arms. She would lie on my chest day and night. My daughter has grown up, she
has become a doctor. With what pomp and show we would have celebrated had she
married a carefully chosen eligible groom. The whole town should have known that
she was getting married. And look how she has got married? Whom has she married,
who knows anything about this boy?�

Ma�s tears did not cease. Baba too was unable to sleep. In the next room I packed
my clothes into a bag. I was going to Dhaka.

Without telling Baba or Ma where I was going, why I was going, to whom I was
going, when I was going to return, I left for Dhaka. I didn�t even think anymore
about what would happen to my duty in the Medicine Department. Ma had tried to
stop me. I ignored her and went out. I reached Dhaka in the afternoon. Taking a
rickshaw from the bus-stand, I reached the Taj Mahal Road house only to find a
lock on the door. Rudra was not at home. However, I knew he was in Dhaka, so I had
no option but to wait for him. The second door was closed from inside. After half-
an-hour of effort I was able to insert my hand between the two doors and lift the
horizontal bolt. As soon as I did that the door opened. Everything was inside,
only Rudra was missing. On the table were the notes he had written while waiting
for me. �Why haven�t you come as yet? I am waiting for you. Waiting. Your absence
is all around the room. I am not feeling well. When will you reach?� I walked
around the room and verandah the whole day, the walk of waiting. The evening
passed by, Rudra did not return. I had to sit in the room itself and wait. I could
hardly leave the place unlocked and go to search for him. Waiting for him the
evening turned to night. It turned seven, eight, nine, and ten o�clock, but Rudra
did not come back. A plate of food arrived from the landlord�s house. When it
passed twelve o�clock, I told the landlord�s wife, �I feel scared in this room.
Will you please send your maid Batasi to sleep in my room?� The woman was a nice
person. She sent Batasi with her bedding to my room. I was on the bed, Batasi made
her bed on the floor. The night passed by. Batasi woke up, I did not need to do
so. I was awake in any case. Sprinkling water on my face I got ready again to
start another day. A day of waiting. The unbearable waiting. I had never liked
waiting. I tried to concentrate on some poems but couldn�t. My eyes were on the
words, my mind on the door. I spent the whole evening standing in the balcony. I
checked every rickshaw passenger who came down Taj Mahal Road that evening, to see
if it was Rudra. If Rudra could have once known I had come, he would have run back
with joy! Why wasn�t he thinking I was back, why hadn�t he thought so even once!
Where Rudra could have spent the night was completely beyond my imagination to
guess. Dusk descended. I kept waiting, expecting Rudra to return soon. Rats ran
around inside the house, people walked outside, I kept mistaking each and every
noise for the sound of Rudra�s return. Any rickshaw�s bell I mistook for Rudra�s
rickshaw. The day passed. Again night fell. At 10.30 at night, Batasi had spread
her bedclothes in the room and gone to sleep. I remained awake. At 12.30, I jumped
up with joy on hearing a sound at the door. My heart beat like a drum with
excitement. The door opened and Rudra entered. Batasi quietly left the room with
her bedding. �Who went out? Who was it?� Rudra yelled. That was Batasi. Why
Batasi? What did she want? She didn�t want anything. She came to sleep. Why? I
called her. Why? Because I felt scared at night. Scared? Of what? What is there to
be scared of? Rudra closed the door with a bang and turned around. Now he would
hug me and kiss me. But he neither hugged me, nor kissed me. I advanced towards
Rudra, so that I was close to him, he could touch me, and holding me in his warm
embrace could calm my heart. My lips moved towards his, so that after ages they
could take his lips inside my mouth to get the pleasure out of melting his lips
with saliva and making them bloodless by sucking on them like one sucks on
tamarind. My smooth neck advanced, so that it could experience the pleasure of his
marauding teeth, lips and tongue, so that the pain of waiting could slowly leave
my body and mind like the shedding of an outer coat of plaster. Here I am, Rudra.
Your days of waiting are over, take me. But this man face-to-face with me, was he
really Rudra! A disgusting smell was emanating from his mouth. A strong smell of
spirits. As though he had bathed himself in gallons of nail-polish remover. He was
swaying and trying to say something. But his words got all entangled in his mouth.
I stood taken aback, the drum beat of excitement in my heart had suddenly ceased.
A terrible fear was bursting forth. Instead of moving forward, I began to take
steps backward. Two steps back at a time. Away from the smell, away from the
bloodshot eyes. Rudra held out his hands to hold me. As though he was playing
�catch me if you can�, and wanted to win by grabbing hold of me. I kept moving
away further. Rudra didn�t appear like anyone I knew. I had never before in my
life encountered a drunkard. Seeing one for the first time made me shake awfully
in fear. Seeing me backing off, he laughed loudly; the laugh itself was hideous. I
felt as though I had been trapped by a hyena in a dense jungle. I had never seen
Rudra laugh in this way. I kept retreating. The palpitations of my heart
increased. Rudra�s words were collapsing one over the other. With his befuddled
tongue he shouted, �Why did you take so long to come?� Because I was delayed, was
he looking at me with these strange, unfamiliar eyes, and shouting in this harsh,
ugly manner? He advanced towards me. I thought of ways to escape. I thought of
running to the landlord�s house and asking for shelter. Pushing myself close to
the wall, I tried to save myself from the �grip� of �catch me if you can�.
Cautiously I tried to move towards the door but Rudra caught me with his claw-like
fingers and clutching my hair, brought me close to him with a jerk. Drowning me in
that same awful smell he said, �Why were you late? Why didn�t you come the very
day you received my letter?� My voice shook as I said, �I didn�t get leave.� �Why
didn�t you?� The same scream. Hideous. Freeing myself from Rudra�s clutches and
retreating I found myself stuck against the wall. He searched for something on the
edge of the window, making a disarray of the utensils kept there. Looking under
the mattress, under the bench he finally found the knife. Rudra raised the knife
to the sky and made it dance in the same way people blinded by religious fervour
did in a Muharrum procession, shouting �Hai Hasan, hai Hossain.� Seeing the knife
my eyes began to close. I kept my tears in check. My breath in check. Was he going
to murder me now! Yes. He danced with his arms raised high in his lust for murder.
I would die this night in the Taj Mahal Road house. This was the end of my life.
No one would know; neither Baba, Ma, brother nor sister, no one would ever know
how I died in this house. No one would possibly even know I was dead. Who would
give them the news? Rudra might stuff me into a sack and drop me into the
Buriganga River! Why wasn�t someone coming to rescue me from the landlord�s house?
Rudra aiming the knife, moved purposefully towards me stuck against the wall. At
that moment I had no option of escape but to open the door close to me and jump
down to the road below from the balcony. Death was before me, death was behind me.
I stood helplessly by myself. I did not have the strength to speak or cry, in fact
not even to breathe. I did not have the capacity to wrest the knife from Rudra�s
hand. He now had the strength of an Asura, the demon god. In one hand he held the
knife, in the other my hand. Pulling my hand he brought me to the door of the
second room and pushed me down on the bed. The same question was asked again, �why
did I come late to Dhaka?� In a thick voice I gave the same reply, I didn�t get
leave. Again the same question, why not. I looked for a chance to make him sit,
calm him down and quietly tell him the reasons for not getting leave, so that the
desire to kill would leave his drunken brain. I did not know of any ways to rescue
myself from a drunkard, nor had I learnt the method of saving oneself from
inevitable death. I looked helplessly at the knife. Its sharp blade was glinting.
Was Rudra going to stab me in the neck or the chest? I closed my eyes, so that I
would not have to see my lover killing me. Suddenly dropping the knife, Rudra ran
towards the toilet. From lord knows where, the bird of life flew into my breast.
Taking the knife from the settee, I ran to the verandah, to throw it on the road.
But one thought stopped me, suppose he got so angry at my throwing away the knife
that he strangled me to death! I hid the knife in a rice container kept under the
bed. I would give it back to him if he promised he would not kill me. At that
moment, where could I run? If I banged on the landlord�s door, Rudra would most
probably catch me before they could open up. The punishment for this attempt to
escape would surely be death. It was better I stayed there, explained things,
calmed him down, and try to remove the poison of liquor from his brain. By hook or
by crook I had to keep the bird of life locked up within its cage. Man had just
one life, however much one may want it back, it never returns. Rudra returned to
the room and searched for the knife. Where was the knife? Where was his knife? His
shouts brought down the plaster from the walls. They could be heard by every
inmate of the landlord�s house. I started crying and said the knife was not there.
Why was he asking for it? Did he want to kill me? Why should he? What had I done?
I told him I had thrown away the knife. I couldn�t control my tears any more.
Rudra then tried to strangle his weeping wife with his hands. Using all my
strength to remove those two hands, I ran to the other room and bolted myself
inside. He kicked the door for a long time. He awoke the silent night�s sleep with
his loud screams of �open up�. He went around making a mess in the night. Finally
he fell silent. Looking through the peep-hole in the door, I saw Rudra lying on
the bed just the way he was, with his shirt, pant and shoes still on. There was no
noise.
My tears spoke in whispers with the silence. I prayed for dawn to come. Let this
unbearably dark night pass. I had never experienced such a long night ever before.
Early morning, I picked up my bag and before gently opening the door and leaving,
I wrote, �Sunshine, I waited for you for two days. You never came. Last night a
strange man came to the room, I did not recognize him. I am leaving. Wherever you
are, stay well. Your Dawn.� I left it next to Rudra�s daily notes about waiting.

So early in the morning, there was hardly any traffic on the road. One or two
rickshaws were moving along sluggishly. Taking one such sluggish rickshaw I
reached the bus-stand. The first bus of the morning was standing sleepy-eyed. As
soon as I stepped through the door of the bus, the conductor asked, �Don�t you
have a man with you?�

�No.�

�One ladies. One ladies,� the conductor shouted. To whom he shouted who knew? �One
ladies� was meant to warn everyone that I had to be seated in a safe place. The
safety of ladies was in the ladies� seat�. All the seats next to the driver were
called ladies� seats. If girls traveled by bus alone, they were to sit there. It
was assumed that if a lady didn�t sit next to another lady, her journey would not
be safe. If the ladies� seats were full, then any unaccompanied lady who might
materialize, was given a non-ladies� seat, and the seat next to her was kept
vacant by the conductor, so that a second lady could be made to sit there. That
day there were no ladies� seats vacant. Even after waiting, no second lady seemed
to be buying a ticket. What was to be done now? A middle-aged couple was sitting
side-by-side. The conductor told the husband, �Bhaijan, brother, please sit on
another seat; let me seat this lady with yours.� I said, �No, let it be, do not
disturb them.� The bus conductors knew other ways of solving the problem. If no
lady could be found to sit next to another one, then the solution was to make her
sit next to the oldest man in the bus or the youngest boy, still a child, whose
beard and moustaches were yet to appear. No way was she to be made to sit next to
a young man.

�No ladies� seat is vacant,� the junior conductor told his senior. The senior
searched for an old, aged man and asked him, �Chacha, are you alone?�

�Yes.�

�Go sit next to that Chacha,� were the instructions given to me.

Since I was a woman, the responsibility of choosing my seat was theirs. By making
me sit next to an �old chacha�, the conductor thought he had ensured my safety.
Whenever a single man boarded a bus, he chose his own place to sit. But if a
single woman boarded, she had to wait for the conductor to make arrangements for
her. After arranging for a safe seat for me, both junior and senior conductors
were able to relax. Leaning my head against the bus window, I thought it was not
safe to sit next to a strange man, hence the buses had begun this arrangement. The
safest men for women, everyone knew, were their own menfolk. The most secure place
was the house of one�s own menfolk. One�s husband�s home. If only the conductor
knew how unsafe that very home had been for me!

Back at Aubokash, I felt safe. All around Aubokash were high walls, on which were
mounted broken glass pieces. On top of that was an even higher barrier of barbed
wire. Secluded from the outside world, at one time I had felt this house to be
like a prison. Now I felt that only here were pockets of peace hiding. Even if Ma
threw me a sharp look, I knew lurking behind that look was love. No matter how
many disasters I caused, that love would always be showered over me. Ma sent rice
to my room with Nargis. With the rice was my favourite fried aubergine, and goat
meat. The food was served with great care. How did Ma know that this morning my
stomach hungered for rice! Was this what a Ma meant, someone who would understand
everything, who did not need to be told anything! Sitting on the bed, Yasmin was
singing one of the new songs she had picked up. Suhrid was painting a butterfly
with water colours, and saying, �Butterfly, butterfly, where did you get such
colourful wings!� Listening to Yasmin, Suman said, �Yasmin Apa, I didn�t know
before that you could sing so beautifully.� Suman was Hashem mama�s son, his only
son, the rest were all daughters. Yesterday, Hashem mama had left Suman in this
house. A few days back, a fourteen-fifteen year old boy had been murdered by his
peers on the Akua rail tracks. No pistol or gun had been required to kill the boy,
a knife was enough. Suman�s name was included in the list of the accused. After
returning from Muktijuddho, the war of liberation, Hashem mama had become the
President of the Awami League, Akua Union Branch. After independence, many
Muktijoddhas had stolen numerous privileges on the strength of their names. They
had made money by various means. Many had become ministers, or had got jobs as
envoys to foreign countries. Hashem mama had got nothing. He had not run after all
this. For the sake of survival he had, with great difficulty, bought a small shop
in Notun Bazar, to sell fish and rice. With this, he was living cramped up in one
tiny room with his wife Parul, five daughters and one son. The same room he had
been staying in since he got married. So many children had been born, they had
grown up, but he was in the same room even today. He had no love for money,
property, cars and possessions. Having never been educated, Hashem mama was
educating his children. The girls did well in their exams, only the boy caused
problems. The boy had too many friends in the locality, and was not interested in
studies. When you made friends, you made enemies as well. One such enemy had
inserted Suman�s name into the list of accused. Hashem mama did not consider his
son to be the light of the family. He did not believe that the boy needed to be
brought up on special foodstuffs. He had never thought of getting his daughters
married as soon as they turned fifteen or sixteen. He was not of the opinion that
his son should get more importance than his daughters. Inspite of living in this
society, Hashem mama was very different from most others. I was very fond of this
different Hashem mama. I wanted to ask him about his experiences as a Muktijoddha.
How he had gone to India, how he had undergone training there in guerrilla
warfare, how he had, as a group-commander for the Muktijuddho, crossed jungles and
swam across rivers in order to go from one place to another risking his life! How
he had shot at the Pak army, and how many he had killed were questions I had never
been able to ask him. Hashem mama was trying desperately to save Suman from
danger. Hashem mama had survived so far by the means of a surprising honesty. He
could not however save his son from this false case. This prison like house would
save his son temporarily, if not from the police, then at least from the local
enemies. Hence he had requested Baba to let Suman stay in this house for a few
days. Baba had agreed. However within two days of my return from Dhaka, I wanted
Suman out of Aubokash. This was inspite of the fun Yasmin, Suman and I were
having, involved as we were in singing songs, reciting poetry, laughing, joking,
chatting and playing games. The reason was that I had seen a helpless girl
trembling in the middle of the night. I had woken up on hearing the sound of
Nargis� running feet. I opened my eyes and heard sounds of her tearful breathing.
Standing at my door, holding her bedclothes, she was shaking. Her whole body
shook. Her eyes opened wide.

�What has happened to you?�

�I was sleeping. Suman Bhaiyya came and caught hold of me.�

Leaping up from my bed in a trice, I held Nargis in my arms to stop her body from
shaking. Bringing her into the room, I locked it from inside. Nargis spent that
night on the floor of my room, curled into a tight ball under her kantha. �I asked
him why he had come here. As soon as I did, he clasped my mouth shut. He told me
not to make any noise. No one will know. No one will realise. I wanted to scream
and call for you all. I freed myself with great difficulty and came here Apa,� she
said.

***

How old would Nargis be? Thirteen. As her father was poor, she had been sent to
work in a house. She worked from dawn till midnight and only then went to sleep.
This was the only time she could call her own. This short sleep-time. May be not
even that. She was possibly given this time to sleep only so that she could be
fresh and energetic enough to do the house work the next day. Nargis should have
been going to school at her age. Yet she still could not read her alphabets. When
Suhrid opened his book to read his alphabets, Nargis stared at him overwhelmed.
She must be wishing that she, too, could open a book and read like him. Nargis�
father came to Aubokash once in a while to meet his daughter. Ma would then
instantly make her change her dirty clothes to clean ones; she was made to rub oil
on her hands and feet to hide their roughness and comb her hair before going to
her father. Her father was to see her and assume his daughter was very happy here.
Well fed, well clothed and cared for. If it was afternoon, Ma even made her father
sit in the verandah and have a meal. While he ate, Ma would stand at the door
holding the curtain and say, �Your daughter is very happy here, you needn�t worry
about her at all.�

After finishing his meal, Nargis� father would pat his daughter�s head and say,
�Listen to everyone Ma, in this house they all care for you so much! You must obey
them all.�
Nargis would hold on to the door and watch her father leaving, tears flooding her
eyes.

If I ever asked her, �Kire Nargis, why are you crying?� Nargis would hurriedly
wipe her tears and laugh and say, �No Apa, I�m not crying. I was cleaning the
cobwebs, and some dirt fell into my eyes.�

All Nargis�s replies were similar. �No, Apa, I�m not crying, I was slicing the
onions, and the zing made my eyes water.�

***

In the morning I told Ma about the incident. Ma became silent as she heard. Ma was
very fond of Hashem mama. She said very often, �This is one brother of mine, who
is really good. He never says anything bad to anyone. He helps everyone in every
way he can. People have so many enemies. Hashem has none.�

***

Ma had been very happy that by allowing her good brother�s good son to stay here,
she had been able to rid him of some of his worries, even though only slightly.
Ma�s relatives were never invited by Baba to Aubokash. That Baba had agreed to
allow Suman to stay at Aubokash for a short while, that he had shown this
benevolence for Suman, was only because of Hashem mama�s own personality. I had
sunk Ma�s first boat of joy of being able to give Suman shelter, in her river of
unhappiness. Ma asked Suman whether he had gone to Nargis� bed at night. Suman
appeared to fall from the skies. He shouted, �The girl is telling lies.�

In a calm voice Ma said, �No, she is not telling lies.�

That very day, Ma called Hashem mama and ordered, not requested, that he take
Suman away form Aubokash.

***

Telling Ma that it was better to put the boy in jail, Hashem mama took Suman away
from Aubokash. The very next day, I went to Nargis� home in Kushtopur behind the
Hospital, and gave her mother five hundred takas. I told her that she was to get
Bilkees admitted to a school, and not send her to work as a maid in any house.
Small, pretty, round-faced Bilkees, wearing a nose-ring, was sitting in the dust
of the courtyard, playing a make believe cooking game. Nargis� mother had decided
to send this six year old child to a businessman�s house in Kushtopur, to work for
her meals.

Chapter XXIII

Doctoring

The duties for the one year of internship had been divided. One had to do a �fixed
duty� in any one subject. In the subject that one thought was the most important.
Most of the girls had taken �fixed duty� in the gynaecology and maternity
department. Even if you did one month in the medicine or surgery departments, you
had to do four months in gynaecology. Messing with sexual organs had not been my
favourite subject as a student, but choosing this subject as my main subject, I
took fixed duty in this department. In the four months, there was no chance of
even four minutes of tom-foolery. Any hoodwinking would mean hoodwinking oneself.
Every year qualified doctors from foreign medical colleges joined in to take
training in medicine. If you had to work in this country, you had to take training
here; that was the system. The very first day I was introduced to Divalok Singh
who had qualified from Moscow. Divalok was Comrade Mani Singh�s son. The Susanga
Durgapur�s Mani Singh. The Hajong uprising�s Mani Singh. The Mani Singh who had
dedicated his whole life to the poor and needy people. Normally, no one thought
the doctors who had qualified abroad were outstanding. This was because even if
they had brains, they did not have surgical skills. After all, in countries
abroad, unlike in our country, there weren�t that many unidentified corpses
available to dissect and learn the skills and gain expertise. There wasn�t even a
crowd of poor patients in those countries, who could be physically roughened up
for examination without a thought, and who would, moreover, remain silent and
unprotesting. These doctors did not get the opportunities in their hospitals that
we got from the fourth year itself, to assist the surgeons in the operation
theatres. A woman doctor qualified from London, was asked by Professor Zobayed
Hussain, �Ki, young lady, will you be able to assist in a Caesarian?� The girl
shook her head in denial. She had never done so before. Laughing, Zobayed Hussain
called for a local doctor. The foreigners had theoretical knowledge, visual
knowledge, but no practical experience. Divalok Singh may also have had
theoretical and visual knowledge, but I still patronised him. With my own hands I
taught him how to stitch up a patient�s torn sexual organs in the delivery room.
Mymensingh Medical College was a reputed one. The students of this college always
fared better in their exams than students of other medical colleges. Our previous
year�s Rajib Ahmed had come first. In our year, in the M-16 batch, in every
professional exam, Mansoor Khalil had come first. However, even though this was a
good college, and academic sessions in the Dhaka Medical College were always
getting disrupted by student unrest, while the Dhaka Medical College had got
accreditation from the British Inspectors, this college had not. Before the team
of observers was to visit, both the college and hospital had been washed and
cleaned to look spic and span. The students and doctors, too, had worn neat and
clean clothes and followed all rules and regulations on that day. And yet, the
very valuable accreditation had not been awarded. This was because the team of
inspectors had seen a stray dog sitting in the verandah of the hospital. Getting
the accreditation meant one had the permission to pass out of this college and go
on to one in London for higher studies. We were not too crestfallen at not having
got the accreditation. Especially not Mansoor Khalil. For a boy who did not want
to go anywhere beyond his college and home, London was not a sought after dream.
Mansoor Khalil looked like a solid mountain. He weighed approximately 200 kg. He
ate and studied. He never went out anywhere out of shame for his physique, nor did
he speak to any girl. Sometimes, I purposely spoke to Mansoor. Of course, it was
mostly to pull his leg, especially if Safinaz was with me. We loved watching
Mansoor�s fair face turn red like a ripe mango when he talked to us. I was the
most comfortable about my identity within the hospital compound. Here there was no
difference between me and a male doctor. If I had better knowledge and skills than
a boy here, I would be given more importance than him. Here we were used to
speaking freely about male and female sexual organs, used to inspecting them. It
did not cause us even an iota of shame or hesitation to utter words which would be
banned outside this compound. As soon as I became an intern, I started frequenting
the hospital doctors� canteen. In between duties, whenever I felt hungry, I had
tea with shingara. If there was time, then adda and table-tennis both carried on.
Here if my body touched a male doctor�s body, or our hands touched, then I was not
thought to be a �ruined� woman. My biceps had touched his triceps, would be all
that was mentioned. My identity here was that I was a doctor. Sometimes if the
patients in the ward mistakenly addressed me as Sister, I had to correct them, and
tell them that I was not a nurse. Whatever regrets I had at not having been able
to study architecture, blew away with the steam rising from the tea cups in the
doctor�s canteen. That I had not made a mistake in becoming a doctor, was a belief
that had strangely rooted itself in the soil of my mind, even though my study of
medicine had completely wiped out my literary interests and my poetry writing
fancies were also at a standstill. By writing poetry I gave joy only to myself,
but by treating others I was able to give joy to thousands of patients. All kinds
of patients came to the hospital. The wealthy hired cabins, the middle-class hired
them if they could afford it, the poor stayed in the wards. There was a shortage
of medicines in the hospital; the government did not provide all the medicines.
These had to be bought from outside by the patients. However, the poor patients
could not afford to do so. When I wrote prescriptions for the rich or middle-class
patients, if they required one medicine, I wrote five. If five were required, I
wrote ten. I did this so that, once the rich had used what they needed, I could
keep the rest for the poor patients. No patient was ever told that we doctors
secretly did this to save the poor. I even ran to Sandhani for poor patients. The
poor couldn�t afford to buy blood from the blood banks with money, so when they
needed blood, I got it from Sandhani. College students had started this
institution called Sandhani to help the poor. One day I went to the Sandhani
office and donated my eyes so that after my death, some blind person could benefit
from my eyes. I told them I wanted to donate my body, too. After my death, my body
should be sent to the college corpse dissection room. At Sandhani there were no
forms for body donation. Maybe because there was such an abundance of unidentified
corpses, the members had not felt the need to make provisions for donating bodies.
My apron pockets jingled with the sound of plenty of ampoules. Medicines bought
with the money of the wealthy collected in my pockets. All the samples left with
me by medical company representatives were also collecting there. On one side
medicines were collecting, on the other, they were being distributed to the poor
patients. Every doctor�s pocket had some medicines to help the poor patients.
Some, if they didn�t have the medicines, took out money from their pockets so that
medicines could be bought. In the midst of so much generosity and integrity my
medical training continued. Some of course did crazy things while immersed in
medicine. A classmate of mine called Rizwan, who appeared very intelligent,
brought Pathedin from the government chemist shop for a patient, and one day
injected himself with it just for a lark. The fun he got out of it, made him
repeat the exercise innumerable times. He finally entrapped himself in a web of
drug addiction. Other doctors had trapped themselves in their own personal webs. I
had duty in the surgery ward at that time. The Professor was undertaking brain
surgery. The cranium or skull was open. Leaving it open, the professor began to
wash his hands. Why? He had to offer namaz. He never missed a single one. If he
heard the azaan while an operation was underway, he kept the patient unconscious
for an extra fifteen minutes and completed his namaz. I could not understand how
one could be a doctor and still be so religious minded. If something as
complicated as the brain could be so clearly understood by the doctor�s mind, then
how come his brain did not realise that religion was an illogical business. How
could he believe that there was someone called Allah sitting in the Seventh
Heaven, that He had created this world, and that He would one day destroy with His
own hands the very world He had created. And that on the Day of Judgement, He
would bring all mankind to life again. They would look like twenty year olds, and
both demons and humans would be judged at the Doomsday Meet. After which for
eternity the people would live either in behesht or dozakh. Those who had not
followed Allah would go to dozakh, and those who had, would go to behesht, and
other such amazing fairy tales! Actually the fairy tales did not appear as unreal
to me as religion did. A prince could emerge out of a frog, a witch could have a
house on top of a chicken leg, but there could not possibly be another life after
this one. Some doctors would talk of attending big religious meets while
performing intricate surgical operations. The number of cap wearing doctors could
of course be counted on one�s fingers. But, why should even that be! Why should
even one doctor wear a cap on his head! The illiterate and uneducated who had no
scientific knowledge,could believe in religion. But I could find no reasons for
doctors to believe in such things. I had asked one of them, Babul, �Why do you
believe in Allah?�

�For what reason should I not?�

�From a simple logical point of view. You have worked your brain tirelessly in the
case of medical science, why don�t you do the same for religion. You try to
understand everything in this world logically. Have you ever tried to analyze the
writings of the Quran Hadith logically?�

Babul admitted that he never had. He did not want to. Because he believed that
faith was one thing and logic another. He did not want to mix the two. Babul, I
believed, knew that religion was a completely illogical business. He knew very
well that this huge wide world had not been created in six days. He knew that the
sun did not move round the earth. That this belief was false, that Allah held up
the mountains just like nails would and hence the earth did not lean either to the
left or right. That it was untrue that the first man on earth was Adam, and that
the second human Hauwa was created from Adam as his companion. That it was also
untrue that the forbidden fruit of heaven was eaten by them and that was the
reason why Allah had punished them by exiling them to earth. Babul knew that for
crores of years, crores of planets and constellations were moving around in outer
space. He knew from where the creature called man had come, and was aware of the
theory of evolution. Yet he observed his namaz and roza, and went on pilgrimage.
The reason for that was his greed. And because he was greedy he wanted both this
world and the next. In this world, as a doctor he had established himself at a
high level in society; there was great happiness in that. And if there was someone
called Allah, something called after-life then by offering the namaz five times a
day, and observing one month of rozas, and once in a year going on pilgrimmage, if
one could get heaven, then what was the harm!

There was no point arguing with boys like Babul. Babul in fact was not keen
either, to enter into any discussions. He wanted to live with his beliefs.

***

Nowadays, if one questioned Ma on any topic in the Quran-Hadith, she had no

logical answers. When Ma sat before the Quran Sharif and swayed back and forth
reading from it, I sat before her. While reading the Quran, Ma�s face turned pale,
thinking of the fires of dozakh. My sitting and listening to her reading the
Quran, brought back some colour to her face, she assumed it to be a sign of my
good sense. Ma laughed warmly saying, �Ki, will you read the Quran Sharif?�

I laughed and said, �I am reading it. How many times must one re-read the same
book?�

That I was not learning good sense at all, Ma kind of guessed.

�Achcha Ma, this cap that the boys wear, why do they do so?�

�They observe Sunnat. This dress was worn by Hazrat Muhammed Salallah
Alayhesalaam, by wearing the same they observe Sunnat. Keeping a beard too is
Sunnat.�

�Why do they want to copy the Nabiji?�

�Bah! Why shouldn�t they? He was the last prophet. The greatest prophet. Allah�s
beloved Rasool.�

�There is no end to the qualities of Nabiji, is there?�

�No one has the kind of qualities he had. He was the greatest amongst the humans.�

Sitting with a pillow on my lap, and leaning with my two elbows on top of it, I
laughed out.

�You say he is Allah�s beloved Rasool, the greatest Nabi, the greatest human
being. Then was it correct of him to marry the six year old Ayesha?�

�He married many girls to deliver them from poverty. He provided protection to
many a helpless girl.�

�What protection did he provide for the six year old Ayesha, let me hear? If he
had really wanted to protect Ayesha, then at that age he could have adopted her as
a daughter and brought her up instead of marrying her. If he had wanted to help
poor girls, he could have provided them with monetary assistance. If marriage was
so essential, he could have married them off to his unmarried friends. Was there
any need for him to marry them himself? Were there no other men in the country?�

�Girls liked Him � that�s why they married him ��

�Liked Him? Was he concerned about anyone�s likes? Did his own daughter-in-law
Joynab like him? Or did he go to his son�s place, saw his wife and turning mad,
married her? Just tell me, how can anyone marry their own daughter-in-law? Suppose
Baba were now to tell Dada, give talaq to Haseena, I want to marry her. How would
that be? Dada on Baba�s orders would give Haseena talaq. And Baba would then marry
her. Chhi Chhi Chhi.�

�Nabiji did not have any sons of his own. Zayed was adopted.�

�Let him be adopted. Just because he was adopted, does that mean he was not his
son? When people adopt children, they bring them up as their own. Suppose you were
to bring up a girl till she grows up, would you then later be able to say she is
not your daughter? Would you be able to marry the husband of that adopted
daughter? Would you be able to, would you? It was after he married his daughter-
in-law that the law changed. Adopted children were not real offspring. Therefore,
deprive them of their inheritance. For one�s own selfish purposes, can anyone be
so heartless?�

�Not selfish interest. Not selfish motives. Don�t speak unless you understand.�

�Because he had selfish interests he married the wealthy Khadija. He did business
with Khadija�s money. Then he didn�t take notice of any other girl. The minute
Khadija died, he began to marry at regular intervals. One after another. Why?
While Khadija was alive he didn�t have the courage to do so! What is this but
selfishness? In war he captured enemy property no doubt, but he even enjoyed the
enemy womenfolk. Didn�t he keep the pretty ones for himself, distributing the rest
amongst his friends? Even in the Quran it is written, let Nabi enjoy all these
women! Chhi! Can anyone with a conscience do such disgusting things? Does any
healthy man marry fourteen times?�

�Not fourteen, thirteen.�

�What�s the difference? If he had married thirteen instead of fourteen, that would
make him good in your eyes? Baba has married twice and you call him inhuman since
the day you got to know. Why don�t you curse your Nabiji?�

�Those times were different from the present times. Then the state of society was
different.�

�In what state is society today? Now a man can marry four times! If Baba brings
three more wives into the house, what will you do? Will you be able to live with
three co-wives?�

With a bitter look on her face, Ma closed the Quran and said, �Nabiji did not keep
anyone in the same house.�

�So what if he didn�t, he did visit the others, didn�t he? He even lusted after
the maids of his wives! He enjoyed even them. He did not spare anyone for his
enjoyment!�

�Whatever He did, He did on orders from Allah.�

�Then why does Allah give such awful commands? Apostle! Prophet! Someone to be
revered by all! Allah could have at least given such a person a better character.�

�Nasreen, you are talking nonsense about Nabiji. You will not even find a place in
dozakh. What will happen to you? What can possibly be in your fate?�

***

When I talked to Ma like this, she would sit alone in the verandah, afterwards or
would lie down quietly, looking out of the window. I guessed Ma was thinking of
the Divine Messenger, and wondering why wasn�t Allah�s Apostle an ideal character!
Why could he not have been someone above all controversy! After such
conversations, Ma would come near me after a long time, and reading the Surah over
my breast and face would blow air on them, to exorcise all evil. In a soft tone
she would say, �Ask Tauba, pardon, from Allah. Say you have made a mistake. You
have committed a fault. Allah will pardon you.�

�Allah can pardon only if He exists.�

�If Allah exists! If Allah exists! If He does? What will you do then? Then what
will happen to you, have you ever thought of that?�

When Ma would be very seriously reading the Farz, Sunnat, Nafal and all other
parts of namaz, I would say, �Why you read all this, I have no idea! What is the
use? You will find you are not reborn after death. All false. There is no dozakh.
Nor is there any behesht. Then?�

Ma would say, �Okay, if I see there is nothing, it�s fine. All my worship will
have been wasted. But suppose there is? If everything is there?�

Ma fearing this �if�, offered her namaz and observed the roza. If there was
something called the last Day of Judgement, then she hoped for good results. I
felt, not just Ma, many others too, followed Allah Rasool, because of this �if�.
My arguments with Ma did not progress beyond a point.

I was a little stern with the patients in the hospital, because to them, after
Allah, the next person they trusted was their doctor. They followed every letter
of a doctor�s advice and orders. But to what purpose! They would still keep roots
of a plant over which the Maulana had blown air, to remove all illness, under
their pillows, and believe that if they got well, it was not because of the
doctor�s treatment, but because of the roots. There was an anaemic patient, for
whom I arranged four bags of blood from Sandhani, and medicines, and revived his
failing heart. I told him to sit up on recovery. In doing so, his pillow moved.
Under it was a root.

�What is that?�

�A root on which �dua� prayer has been pronounced.�

�Why do you keep this with you?�

The patient laughed and said, �If you keep this, then illnesses go away.�

�What do you think? Did you get better because of the doctor�s medicines or
because of those roots?�

The patient again laughed and said, �You tried to cure me with medicines. But it
was Allah who made me better. Can anyone save another without Allah? The roots had
Allah�s writings read on them, and all evil has been exorcised with a prayer
breathed on them.�

After this, whenever a patient came, I first checked whether there were any tabiz
tied on their hands, legs or waist, and whether there were any roots on them. If
there were, I threw them away, before I started any treatment. I told them, �If
you keep any tabiz or kabaz on you, you will not get any treatment. If you think
those will make your illness go, then you can go home. Go home, put the roots
under your pillow, and lie down. Tie the tabiz and kabaz on your body. Get prayers
blown upon yourself from every Maulvi you can find. I will see how you get well
from your illness.�

Each ward had a different date for admission. On those days patients flowed in
continuously. The beds got filled up, even the floors sometimes. One was kept busy
writing each patient�s history, examining each of them from top to toe, diagnosing
the disease, prescribing preliminary medication for each of them, if the patients
were critical, and one was unable to handle them, one had to send for the senior
doctors. There were many other duties. There were less female patients than male
ones in the hospital. No one brought a woman to the hospital before she was on the
road to death. A girl who had poisoned herself, another, a tiny polyp in whose
body had developed cancer because it had not been treated for ages. Every girl�s
body was anaemic, and undernourished. From them I was keen to know much more than
what a doctor would need to know for treatment. After feeding the entire household
well, these women would live on leftovers. They secretly harboured all kinds of
diseases in their bodies. The reason, women couldn�t afford to fall ill if a
household had to subsist. Even if they revealed their illnesses, the men of the
house did not really pay much attention. The men of the house did not like the
idea of their women going to doctors and being touched by them for examination
purposes. Therefore, women had no option but to suffer their ailments silently.
They did not have the courage to come by themselves to the hospital. When ailing
married girls left their husband�s home to visit their parents, then they came to
hospital from there, brought by their relatives.

It was not me alone who had duty in the wards, other doctors were also there.
Outlining the history of a critically injured patient, one of my doctor friends
had written, �She was beaten.� I cut this out, and on a new paper wrote out the
whole incident after getting the details from the patient. �She was brutally hit
by her husband. The cruel man used an axe and cane on her body. He wanted to kill
her. He even said talaq to her. Her crime was that her father could not pay the
dowry money on time.� To the list of medicines I added an anti-depressant. My
doctor friend reading the history written by me declared, �Who beat her, with what
he beat her, why he beat her are not details we need to know! Our job is to treat
her.� That is true. I knew all doctors would tell me the same thing. However,
writing the details in the history, gave me a certain satisfaction and I told the
girl, �I have recorded that your husband is responsible for your condition.� By
writing about the pathetic condition of the girl on the hospital papers, I knew I
would not be able to change her life. But what was the harm in putting it down on
paper? It was not as if doctors had absolutely no social responsibilities. Post-
operative patients were given Pathedin to decrease their pain. One felt so good
with a shot of Pathedin that patients would pretend to moan to get another shot
even when their pains had disappeared. To prevent patients from getting addicted
to Pathedin, doctors called the nurses to administer D-W injections. The nurse
would fill the syringe with distilled water and push it into the buttocks of the
patient. The constant moaning and calling for either the nurse or the doctor
gradually would come to an end. In this way doctors saved the patients from
getting addicted to Pathedin. This was surely an act of social responsibility.

I was a doctor no doubt, and spent nights and days in the ward treating patients,
but I did not still have the authority to treat all ailments. In the Gynae ward, I
had duty not only during the day, but at night as well. In a week I had to spend
between three and four nights in the hospital. In the course of one night duty
itself, two different incidents resulted in my being served summons. At 12 o�clock
that night a patient arrived with a �retained placenta�. The baby had been born
two days ago and the placenta had not been ejected as yet. If a case of �retained
placenta� came, the rule was to call either the senior clinical assistant or the
registrar. Without calling anyone, I tried taking out the placenta myself. Slowly
I tried to open the closed uterus with my hands. I finally succeeded after about
an hour, and the placenta came out. That night at 2.30 am, another patient came.
The baby was not coming out, even though the water-bag had burst in the afternoon.
The head of the baby had been stuck at the mouth of the uterus for quite a few
hours. The baby�s condition was becoming critical in the womb. If I called the
senior doctors, then I feared that by the time they came from the doctors�
quarters, the baby may not be alive. I took the forceps into my own hands. All
these years I had seen the use of forceps, but had never used them myself. The
doctors who were on duty with me, watched my antics from a safe distance. While
the incident was happening, one of them had run to make a call to the C.A. By the
time the C.A. came, the baby had been given oxygen and was breathing normally. I
was then stitching up the opening of the uterus which had been widened for the
forceps procedure. At eight in the morning the professor arrived. Within two
minutes of his arrival, he was informed of the incident. After freshening myself
up with a cup of tea in the canteen, I had come to accompany the professor on his
ward round, after which I planned to go home and sleep. Although I had qualified
as a doctor, I remained a student as before in front of Zobayed Hussain. I had to
follow him around the wards every morning. As a student my heart had trembled
during these rounds, now even as a doctor, it did the same. There was no
difference between standing before a tiger and standing before Zobayed Hussain.
Professor Zobayed Hussain had begun his rounds. As soon as I tried to join the
rounds, he came towards me. Behind the glasses was the hungry look of the tiger.
Before I could gauge what had happened for him to want to eat me up, he said, �You
manually removed a retained placenta?�

�Yes, Sir.�

Behind Zobayed Hussain, twenty-five pairs of eyes were directed at me. The eyes
were as keen as those of spectators sitting on a shooting platform on a tree in
the Sunderbans, waiting to see a deer about to be eaten by a tiger. Again Zobayed
Hussain�s voice roared, �You did a forceps delivery?�

�Yes, Sir.�

�Why did you?�

�The baby�s condition was critical.�

�Why did you remove the retained placenta manually?

�The patient�s condition was serious, so ��

�Suppose there had been an accident?�

�The patient is well. I just went and saw her a little while ago. The baby too is
well.�

�That the patient is well is not an excuse.�

I had to lower my head before fifty-two eyes. That very morning, Zobayed Hussain
hung up a big notice in the labour room, �Intern doctors are not allowed to do
anything with forceps delivery and retained placenta.�

That same Zobayed Hussain, the very next day, found a patient waiting in the
labour room for an episiotomy, but there was no doctor, none at all! Where were
the doctors! The minute he found one, he grabbed him and asked, �Why is a patient
lying in the labour room?� When the doctor looking here and there, and swallowing
several times said, �Sir, Taslima was supposed to do the episiotomy,� he snarled
at him saying, �You want to blame Taslima, right! Listen, she is the only one who
dares to take action. A courageous girl. She is the one who will be a successful
doctor not a mouse like you.�

***

I was busy with my fixed duties when Ma said one day, �Bajaan�s health is not
good.�

�Why, what has happened?�

�He can�t move around. He is speaking nonsense.�

�Why, didn�t he bring a jumper only the other day?�

Nana always brought something, however small, whenever he came, whether in his
pocket or in a packet. Even if it was only a biscuit, he would put it in his
daughter�s hands saying, �Ma, you eat it.� He had given us a whole pile of second
hand jumpers, with which we would be able to weather quite a few winters. Why
should Nana now be ill! Only two weeks ago, when I had visited Nanibari, he was
absolutely fit. Eating. While serving him fish curry Nani had been saying, �The
shop is not doing so well now.� Whoever else may have a liking for Nana�s
�Benevolent Hatimtai� character, Nani certainly did not.

�There is no need for it to do well, whatever we have is good enough. Hey, give me
a little salt!� said Nana, sitting on a mat, and mixing his rice and curry. Nani
pushed the salt jar towards Nana and said, �How can you manage without any income!
What will the children eat?�

�Do the children ever go hungry?�

�The cooks at your shop have started big shops of their own and are taking home
thousands of taka. You have earned nothing in business.�

�If they are stealing, should I do the same?�

�I am not telling you to steal. Only to pay more attention to the business.�

Nani knew very well that Nana had very little interest in the business. Just the
other day she made a sudden entry into the shop and found three mad vagabonds from
the streets wolfing down food, their feet on top of the chairs. Nana was sitting
next to the mad men and serving them big pieces of meat. Nani said, �There are no
signs of any customers, and you are feeding these madmen in the shop?� Nana
scowled and said, �It is my shop, I will feed any one I please. What is it to you?
Go, go home.�

Hardly had he had a bite or two, when Nani went to the tap. Right behind her he
followed, carrying his full plate, and upturned it in the courtyard.

�What�s wrong, why did you throw away the rice?� yelled Nani from the taps.

�There are the dogs and the cats, they�ll eat it up!�

This was nothing new for Nani. She very often saw Nana throwing pieces of bread
out of the window.

�What�s wrong, why are you throwing out the bread?�

Nana would say, �There are ants and other such, they�ll eat it up.�

�The children don�t get bread, and you give it away to the ants!�

�Khairunnissa, they also wait in hope,� Nana would smile sweetly and say.

He even threw the sugar drops kept in his pocket into the pond when he passed by
it.

�Why?�

�The fish will eat them. They too expect something.�

Even at Aubokash this would happen. Ma after serving him the rice, and a big piece
of Rahu fish, would go to get daal in a bowl. On her return she would find no fish
on the plate, only dry white rice. The Rahu fish would be under the table, being
eaten by the cat.

�Ki Bajaan, why is the cat eating the fish?�

Nana would laugh and say, �Let�s see your daal. Let�s see how you have cooked it.�

�I am giving you the daal, but why have you thrown away the fish?�

�Arrey, why should I throw it? You think cats don�t have likes and dislikes! You
think they like eating only bones! They too expect to eat some fish!�

Returning from the taps, while wiping her mouth with a towel, Nani would say, �He
has nothing to do with human beings, he spends his time with dogs and cats. He has
ruined the shop by feeding the madmen from the streets. I have no chance of peace
in this life at least.�

By that time, Nana would be under the embroidered quilt. In bed. Sleeping. After
lunch he took a long nap. After which he got up and went again to the shop. The
minute he reached the entrance of Notun Bazar, all the madmen and beggars of the
area would begin to follow Nana. Distributing money, bread and sugar drops he
would walk up to the shop, by which time there would be nothing left in the
pocket. Then he would put his hand in the cashbox, and give a fistful to mad
Dabir. Dabir was a great favourite of Nana. Thanks to this mad Dabir, Nana had
once returned home bare-chested.

�What happened, where is your panjabi?�

�That Dabir did not have anything to wear. He was standing half-naked on the
road.�

�Does that mean you had to take off your own and give it to him?�

�If I didn�t, how would he survive in this cold?�

�And how can you stay bare chested in this cold?�

�Arrey, where�s the cold! I have walked and come. When you walk your whole body
stays warm, Khairunnisa.�

Nani did not argue further. She didn�t because she knew there was no point. She
had known Nana for four decades. In this narrow tin shed she had started her
married life so many years ago. Her children were born, they got married, her
grandchildren were born, great-grandchildren, but the tin shed remained unchanged.
Not one thing had changed. In front of their eyes, overnight, even the servants of
this house had become wealthy, and had actually built proper houses in their
slums. Nani of course did not have any great greed for a house. If they could just
somehow get enough food and clothing to survive, she thought that would be
sufficient. Nani�s worries were with Tutu mama and Sharaf mama. These two had left
their studies and had joined Peerbari. Even though they did not have the means to
support a family, they had both got married in a trice. Now they came on and off
to Nani for help. Finally, fed up with having both sons begging from her, Nani had
herself gone to Amirullah, father-in-law of her daughter and requested, �Please do
something. Tutu and Sharaf came to the path of Allah, after leaving their worldly
life and studies. Now they have no chances of getting a job. If they have no
money, what will they eat! You had better make some arrangement for them.�

Amirullah laughed, exposing his paan stained brown teeth and said, �The lord
master who arranges every thing is Allahtalah. I am only his humble servant. Have
faith in Allah. He will make everything alright.�

�I have faith in Allah, sir. But both my sons have got into trouble by getting
married. Will you please help them both to get jobs? If you want, you can easily
do so.�

Amirullah said, �The lord master of jobs and things is also the same one. The Lord
of sustenance is also Allah. He will provide the jobs.�

Nani offered her namaz, observed rozas, but was a thoroughly worldly, practical
person. She knew that by sitting on the Jainamaz, holding up one�s hands in
supplication to Allah and even tearfully imploring Him would not get anyone a job.
There was possibly a better chance of getting something if one cried in front of
Amirullah instead. The steel industry of Abu Bakr was now under Amirullah�s
charge. Only followers of the Peer were being given jobs there, the faithful could
even be absolutely illiterate. Things worked with necessary endeavour. After
laying all problems at Allah�s door for a solution for a long time, Amirullah
finally got the dogged Nani to leave by saying, �Okay, tell them also to join work
in the Akbaria Industry factory. But on one condition, they have to observe all
religious Sunnat, have to grow a beard, leave their worldly clothes and wear
pyjama/panjabi, and a cap on their heads.�

Nani returned from Peerbari and said, �They can not get even a clerical job in an
office with only an I.A. certificate. If by changing their dress, and growing a
beard they can work in a factory and earn money, then let them do that.�

Tutu and Sharaf mama happily changed their dress and started working in the
factory. Chhotku had left the Peerbari dress code ages ago. After leaving the
Madarasa, he had studied for sometime at the Nasirabad School. However, before
passing his SSC, he left school and began to sit at Nana�s food shop. When Nana
went here and there, Chhotku looked after the shop. After Tutu mama and Sharaf
mama�s weddings, a spate of weddings began at Nanibari. One day I heard that even
Felu mama was getting married. He liked a pretty girl in the neighbourhood. When
the wedding proposal was sent, the parents agreed, and from the in-law�s house
three yards away, he brought home his bride in a rickshaw. Soon after Felu mama�s
wedding, Chhotku said he wanted to marry as well. In the double-storeyed house
opposite the Zilla School, he had seen and met a beautiful young girl with whom he
had exchanged smiles and little notes in his desperate efforts to attract her.
When that failed to move her, he came very often to Aubokash, to get letters
written. He would tell whoever he could get hold of, either Yasmin or me, �Write a
letter for me in real flowery and impressive language, will you!� To fulfil his
fancy, we wrote love letters on his behalf. Stuffing the letters in his breast-
pocket, he would leave, and would try and pass them to the girl whenever he got
the chance. Receiving those letters, the girl not only melted, at the age of
fourteen she flung herself at Chhotku and clung to his neck. Faqrool mama�s
wedding did not happen as easily as had his brothers�. He was himself the leader
of the Youth Union. In his childhood he had been initiated into becoming a
communist by Boro mama. Faqrul mama had unlimited access to all the other leaders�
houses. In this process, he came to be romantically involved with one of the
leaders� wives. The wife was not only older than Faqrul mama, she was also the
mother of two children. Their relationship had gone rather far. The day the leader
caught them both red-handed, he threw his wife out of the house, and sent the
talaq papers to her parents� home. Faqrul mama decided he would marry the lady,
since he was responsible for her condition. But Boro mama did not agree. By hook
or by crook he got Faqrul mama to come to Mymensingh, and tied him up with various
advice and orders. Within two days, Faqrul mama had broken his bonds and got out.
He married that mother of two children and brought them home. No relatives
attended his wedding. Faqrul mama, a slim, six feet tall handsome young man was
marrying an old dark woman. Why would any relative go to this wedding!

When Chhotku�s wife came home, Nana fell sick. He could not figure out anything.
He forgot the road to Notun Bazar. He would get lost. He began to wet his bed. He
could not control his urine or stools. He would pass both in bed. He would pick up
his stools with his own hands and throw them out of the window. Nani would press
her sari aanchal to her nose and say, �Why does he throw that? Is he distributing
that also to the cats and dogs?� Baba went one day to see Nana, and prescribed
some medicines. They did not work. What was wrong with Nana? Baba said,
�Diabetes.� He had never had medicines for diabetes. He only knew that he was not
to eat sweets. He of course had never followed that ban. I had just become a
doctor. Pinching Nana�s skin and lifting it up, I detected dehydration. There was
no water in his body. With great pomp and show I arranged for him to be given
saline. He had stared blankly, and recoiling at the pain of the syringe had said,
�Ish, what pain I am being given!� Nana died on the night of the very day he was
given saline.

If anyone asked Baba the cause of Nana�s death, he said, �respiratory failure.�
Hearing this I feared that the dosage of saline had been excessive, and had filled
his lungs with water, so he had not been able to breathe.

�Was it wrong to have given him the saline?�

Baba nodded his head, �Yes, it was a mistake,� he said. Yet he showed no anger at
my mistake, no sorrow at Nana�s death, nor did he seem to have any regrets at
never having given Nana medication for diabetes. There was not even a tiny sigh of
�Ah� uttered by him. �Would Nana have survived if the saline hadn�t been
administered?� I had asked and with an impossibly disinterested air he had
replied, �No.� I still thought Nana had died because of my mistake. A fear made my
body motionless, and would not loosen its grip on my mind. I kept thinking of
myself as a murderer. So far no patient in the hospital had come to any harm
because of me, and was I now the reason for my own Nana�s death! My simple Nana,
my good Nana, my non-interfering Nana, a Nana whose heart was vast in dimensions.
There was no pardon for this offence, no pardon at all. I spent the whole day
sitting sadly silent, the whole night I faced the darkness, confused. I could not
forgive myself. I was so angry with myself that I did not feel like going to
Nanibari � and seeing Nani�s and all the Mama and Khala�s bitter, wailing, and
weeping faces. Rolling on the floor Ma had wailed, �Bajaan, my Bajaan where has he
gone?� Ma was possibly the one who cried the most at Nana�s passing away, and the
one who did not have a single tear in her eyes, was Fajli khala. Fajli khala knew,
�Allah�s possession had been taken back by Allah himself, there was no point in
crying over it. If you had to cry then cry before Allah, and beg Allah, ask Allah
for forgiveness.� For what was one to beg, for what offence to ask forgiveness � I
never really understood. Had Fajli khala sinned so much in her life that she had
to beg forgiveness everyday from Allah!

�Nana should not have been given saline� � I was not able to confess this to Ma
when I saw her swollen eyes. I told Yasmin secretly. I told myself repeatedly, I
screamed silently. I saw Ma�s afternoons, burning in the heat, lonely and gloomy.
No one came anymore with a peaceful, affectionate smile on his face, to cool those
afternoons for her.

For a long time after that, I did not go to Nanibari. Ma had implored me to go,
but I had used some work or the other as an excuse to avoid going. Sometimes in
the evening I longed to go to Nanibari, I hanged that desire by a rope from the
beams. But Ma said �Your Nani has asked you to come, she�s been repeatedly saying
that Nasreen took so much trouble for her Nana, she came running from the hospital
so often, gave him saline. Come, come let�s go and console Nani a little�, and
finally cajoled and took me to that house one afternoon. However, Nanibari was not
at all like I had imagined it would be � quiet, everyone crying, sitting around
sorrowfully. Nani was cooking Hilsa fish. The kids in the house were making a
shindig. Games were being played in the courtyard. The Mamas were in their rooms
with their new wives. From the rooms, sounds of laughter floated out. In this
house there had been a person, who was not there now, but no one was crying
because of his absence, no one was thinking of Nana�s not being there any more. I
gauged that with Nana�s death some kind of release had taken place. The mentally
unbalanced, unworldly man was no more. The stupid man who gave away all he had to
others was not there any more.

Nani served us rice, with a piece of Hilsa fish placed at the corners of our
plates. �Bajaan loved Hilsa fish,� said Ma, and wept copiously, her tears falling
in drops on the rice. Nani was eating. There was not a tear in her eyes. She did
not have the time to cry over thoughts of someone who was part of the past now.
The fish bones stuck in my throat. With a bone stuck in my throat I went and
upturned my plate of rice before the hungry dog in the courtyard, and washed my
hands.
***

I saw many more deaths in the hospital. I kept asking myself what was the meaning
of this life. Death restlessly danced all around me. Death continually played its
loud song in my ears. What was the meaning of this life, I questioned myself.
Repeatedly. So many attachments, so much love, so many dreams in this life, and
yet any moment this life could be over. So what was the use of living! Fifteen
billion years ago something happened and something got thrown into space. From
that something billions of stars and constellations were born. In that galaxy of
stars, coiled up like a snail in a collection, four hundred million years ago a
planet called earth was born. On this earth, at one time, life was created. From
one cell to many cells, slowly with many evolutions man was created. This living
creature called man, too, like the dinosaurs that had become extinct six hundred
eighty lakh years ago, would possibly one day also completely disappear. Maybe
even before that. Or would not disappear, but evolve into something else. But
earth would remain like the earth. The sun and stars, like suns and stars. One
day, this sun of ours might lose its heat and become like a black ball. One day
these planets and stars which were constantly becoming larger � might shrink in
outer space. Maybe not. May be they would keep spreading out forever. In the game
plan of this vast universe, was man only a minor event? In this huge solar system,
this tiny creature called man and his world possibly had no role to play. In this
endless stellar system, I could not see my insignificant existence anywhere for
even an instant. Fajli khala said that she had seen Nana�s spirit wafting away. It
seems his soul had flown away into the sky, to Allah. These souls would remain
collected with Allah, who would then convert all these spirits into human beings.
Then would be the Day of Judgement. Allah would take the seat of Judge and decide
everyone�s fate. On every man�s shoulders sat two angels, Munkar and Nakir, who
kept the score of good and bad deeds. On the basis of that score, Allah would send
some under the blessed fountains of behesht, and others to the half-fires of
dozakh. Life was such an easy sum of numbers for them. Two and two made four.
Fajli khala believed she would meet Nana again. Since Nana had chanted the name of
Allah, and sat up nights on his Jainamaz reciting, �There is no one to be
worshipped but Allah, la illaha illalah�, it was certain that he would go to
behesht. Since Fajli khala was also definitely going to behesht, so they were
bound to meet. Therefore, Fajli khala did not feel sad at any one�s death. She
knew the meaning of life. Ma, too, knew it. Life was Allah�s way of testing man.
Allah gave life to man and sent him on earth, watched him with an eagle eye to see
what he was doing or not doing after death. He would reward everyone according to
their deeds. Those who believed in this simple formula lived with some kind of
surety and satisfaction. I was the one who had all the restlessness and
awkwardness. My belief was the opposite. Death meant the end of everything, not
getting the fruits of anything, no re-birth, nothing, a big emptiness. Life had no
meaning, no value. This belief gave me a frightening despondency, made me look at
life unfavourably. If I asked Baba what was the meaning of life, he would say life
meant struggle. To struggle in life and finally stand on one�s own feet was the
fulfilment of life. He was able to divide life easily into childhood, adolescence,
youth and old age. If there was any laxity in the pursuit of education and in
one�s work then one would face the consequences in this life itself. In freedom
and comfort he found the success of life. Life became meaningful with success. But
if life were to end one day, whether you were successful or not, how would it
matter! The definition of success and failure too was different for different
people. A philosopher had said, life has no meaning, but we had to give life
meaning. I didn�t think we could do anything really to give life a valuable
meaning. Wasn�t this fooling oneself? One was creating meaning so that one could
think of life as meaningful and important. Those who could write, had to write
well, those who played, they had to play well to give life meaning. Actually were
we giving meaning or experiencing pleasure? A temporary happiness for oneself. My
mind told me man did not have the ability to give meaning to this meaningless
life. The maximum that man could do would be to enjoy this short life to its
fullest. Instead of worrying about where they came from and where they would go.
But was there any benefit in drinking of life to the full? If I didn�t, what would
happen? If I was alive today how did it matter, if I died, would that matter
either! A deep melancholy pervaded my being.

Chapter XXIV

Domestic Life

I had to undergo internship at the hospital for exactly a year, neither a day less
nor a day more. Once the year was over, I would return permanently to Dhaka and
domesticity, was what I had tentatively told Rudra. Rudra, too, would wind up his
work in Mongla and Mithekali, and return to Dhaka. Our family life would then
commence in right earnest. With no stoppages or pauses. Of course, before I
shifted permanently, I kept going to Dhaka on some excuse or the other. If we had
village routine, I went to Dhaka; I fell and broke my arm, I went to Dhaka. The
elbow joint of the right arm had cracked slightly, the bone had not even broken,
but the orthopaedic surgeon put a plaster and told me I had to keep it for a full
month. My duties in the women�s diseases and maternity department were still not
over. Seeing my elbow suspended in a sling at a ninety degree angle from my neck
Professor Zobayed Hussain said, �You�ve broken it? Hmm, you now have a very good
reason to play truant, right?� No, Zobayed Hussain had not spoken correctly. I had
no secret wish to bunk my duties.

Breaking one�s arm was not like feeling feverish or having a persistent cough; it
was quite a big event. After such an accident one could unhesitatingly bunk one�s
training, even the tiger Zobayed Hussain had acknowledged that, so who was I not
to? For two days Ma fed me with her own hands, gave me a bath and dressed me.
Pushing Ma aside one day I left for Dhaka. I would have had no desire to go to
Dhaka if Rudra had not come to Mymensingh and acknowledged that, that night he had
been drunk, and whatever he had done he had not done while in his senses. Nowadays
when I went to Dhaka I did not give any excuse at home, like I had to pick up my
certificates, or had to have an operation, or any other major reason for which it
was imperative to go to Dhaka. I happily said I was going to Dhaka and left. Where
I was going to stay, in whose house, also I did not inform anyone, I didn�t
because everyone at home knew where I was going and to whom. No one sat down to
discuss this fact with me. Whenever the question of my going to Dhaka arose, the
noisy house would suddenly become quiet. From that silence, I quietly melted away.
Taking a rickshaw from the house, I went to the bus stand. There was a bus to
Dhaka every hour.

Rudra fed me with his hands, as my right hand was useless. He took me to the
bathroom, undressed me, and gave me a bath. While giving me a bath, the touch of
my body aroused him. Drying my hair and body with a soft towel, he brought me back
to the room and laid me down on the bed. The top half of my body may have become
useless, but not the lower half. In the storm that Rudra roused that night, our
cot broke and I fell down from it along with the bed clothes. My unbroken hand
just about remained in one piece. The next storm was on the floor. So that this
strong floor didn�t collapse and fall on the ground floor, we bought a sturdy bed,
which would not crack up in �storms�. I was used to sleeping on big beds. I
couldn�t sleep well unless I could spread my limbs. Then there was the matter of
bolsters. I now slept after the �storms� using my pillow as a bolster. After
buying the bed, mattresses and pillows, we had no money left. As usual when the
money got over, Rudra left for Mongla. This time he was going to take me with him.
I did not stop him. I desired Rudra�s company. If required I would cross seven
seas and thirteen rivers to be with him, and this after all was my in-laws� home.

***

Since my arm was broken, I was thankfully spared having to wear a red kataan. I
wore a long loose garment, something easy to wear and take off. From Dhaka after a
long journey by rail, and launch, I was back at Mongla, at the silent house on the
banks of the muddy Rupsha River, back again in the room on the second floor. There
were many people in the house, but it appeared as though there was no one, and
never was! To find someone, I had to peep into every room. In one room Rudra�s Ma
lay on her bedstead with her heavy body. In the rest of the rooms were the others.
Whatever the others did, they did so, silently. There were siblings very close to
each other in age, and yet there were no fights, fisti-cuffs, pinching, slapping
or hair-pulling. They had their baths on time, ate their meals on time and slept
on schedule. They were like clock-work machines, everything happened on time,
nothing was delayed, nothing went astray; such was the system. There was no
question of following such a system. I felt claustrophobic just observing it. I
could never follow any routine. When I felt hungry I ate, I could never put myself
into a routine where I had to eat only after having a bath. If I had a bath today,
I didn�t have one tomorrow. If I had breakfast today, then I didn�t tomorrow. Some
days I slept in the afternoon, on others I didn�t. Just because it was nine or ten
o�clock at night did not mean I had to go to bed. Sometimes I slept at eight,
sometimes at ten, and there were nights I didn�t sleep at all. My presence in the
house did not result in even a tiny change in their life�s slow-moving rhythm. In
Aubokash, festivities started as soon as someone new arrived. Nothing like that
happened in this house. Even conversations were so cool; one would think these
people saw me day and night, and that I had been living in this house for ages. I
felt like violently pushing open the rusty doors of this house, and removing the
cobwebs. Let the people shout a little, let them sing with full-throated ease, let
them slip and fall by chance in the slush in the courtyard, let someone scold
another, let someone argue about something, let something happen, let someone do
something, let them laugh aloud, if they couldn�t laugh then let them do something
else, may be even cry. But at least let them do it. I tried to remove the
mustiness from their bodies and said, �Lets chat, lets play cards.� I tried
getting them to sit in a circle on the bed and have a session, it didn�t work. No
one had anything to say. They hid themselves behind a veil of impenetrable
indifference. Even though I had a broken arm, I didn�t feel like just sitting or
lying around. The keen desire to do something was in every atom of blood flowing
in my body from head to toe. There was not a single book in the house that I could
read. Time pricked every pore of my being like the thorns of the Babla tree. Time
became my worst enemy; it lashed me till I was bloodied all over. Every day, Rudra
went out either in the morning or afternoon, while I spent unbearable hours alone
waiting for him. In the middle of the night my drunken husband would return. The
days began to pass in this fashion. As did the nights. Every time I wanted to
leave my room, I was rendered immobile by an ugly �No!� Stubbornly insisting one
night that �I would go, whether he liked it or not�, I went out with him. He went
to a hotel, to one adda, a liquor den. Rudra said respectable people had only this
one hotel to go to in this port. I had wanted to leave my stuffy room and come out
and fill my lungs with fresh air, I did get air, but air filled with the smell of
liquor.

Life came back to my body when arrangements were made for us to leave the port.
Even though we were not going to Dhaka, but to a village deeper in the interior, I
left with great eagerness, wanting to end the idle period spent in this house.
Hopefully the village would not have the problems that labourers created in the
port. I would be able to hold Rudra�s hand and walk on the paths through the green
mustard fields, the fields he had repeatedly mentioned in his poetry. Mithekhali
was surely a village as pretty as a picture, so beautiful that it made Rudra
return to it very often. I would have my heart�s fill of the place where he sat
and wrote his poetry, of the tree under which he sat sadly thinking of me and of
the moonlit field which he ran out to by himself. From Mongla I had to take a
straw-covered boat, sit with my face hidden along with the other ladies, and cross
the canal to Mithekali. In this village in the interior, there were crop fields
all around. Some Golpata-covered rooms lay here and there; in the centre was a
big, two-storeyed house, surrounded by trees and bushes. In front of the house was
a pond, which had a stone-bound landing stage. As soon as it was dusk, numerous
hurricane lamps were lit all over the house, verandah and staircase. If there had
been chandeliers, this house could have definitely been called a Zamindar�s home.
I was surprised. Who had brought bricks and stones, to this deep, inaccessible
village to build such a house! This was Rudra�s Nana�s house. His Nana had a lot
of power in this area, and even more power had been wielded by his Boro mama. He
and many powerful people in the village had been Chairmen of the Peace Committees
in 1971. Rudra�s Mejo mama too had not been on the side of the freedom struggle.
Having been brought up in such a household, Rudra was very different. He had named
himself �Rudra�. If he hadn�t, then he would have had to spend his life with the
name Muhammed Shahidullah, given to him by his father. He wrote poetry dedicated
to freedom. On the return to power of the Razzakars, he had said in great anger,
�The national flag has again been grabbed by those old vultures.� Even though he
cursed them as �vultures� in his poetry, I found that Rudra had deep respect for
his Mamas. I felt proud of this �Lotus on a Dungheap,� and yet I didn�t. When he
stayed in the village, he stayed with his Boro mama. There were two big bedsteads,
big wooden almirahs and big chairs in the rooms. Everything was huge. Everything
reeked of Zamindari. Boro mama had passed away, but his wife was there, who was
both his Boro mami and his Boro phupu, his father�s sister. Rudra called her
�Kaku�. He had written a lot about this �Kaku�, in his letters. Kaku had no
children of her own. She had brought up and cared for Rudra like her own son.
Here, sitting at his Boro mama�s old table next to the window, Rudra wrote his
poetry, and on the soft mattress on his Boro mama�s bedstead he slept. He slept,
and the servants, orderlies and cooks waited to obey his orders. He spent month
after month in this house. When I stared wide-eyed at this Zamindari style of
furnishings, Rudra said, �Now the style is on its downward swing!� Possibly, he
would have been happier if it had been on the upward instead of being on the
downward swing! �There is very little left, there was much more, a lot more,
earlier!� he said. The �more� of earlier, the �countless� of before, gave Rudra a
lot of pride, I could detect. His pride in wealth and property was something he
couldn�t hide even if he wanted to. But could anyone have amassed so much wealth
without exploiting the poor? They couldn�t, my heart said, they couldn�t. Rudra
wrote in support of that eighty-percent, who could never reach his second-floor
room, who were turned away from the staircase itself, by the footmen and liveried
staff. Those who burnt in the sun and cultivated the fields, those farm labourers
who were leased the land, and the fruits of their hard work was collected in the
granaries of this house! Between them and Rudra there was a lot of difference. I
could not match the two. Rudra recited poetry aloud about equality, but did he
really want equality from his heart! Slowly, step-by-step the four walls of the
room began to hem me in. I told Rudra, �Let�s go out.�

�Where will you go?�

�To see the village.�

�There�s nothing to see in the village.�

�Why isn�t there anything to see?�

�There�s nothing, only fields.�

�I�ll see the fields then.�

�What will you do seeing fields? Is there any point in looking at fields of paddy?
�

�Let�s both of us walk on the village paths. Didn�t you write so many times in
your letters that you wished you could show me these green paddy fields which
stretched till the sky? Show me the amazing beauty of the village!�

�There�s no need to go out without reason. Sit at home and chat with Kaku. Bithi
and the others are there; spend your time with them.�

I had wanted to spend time with Rudra. I had imagined that afternoons would pass
talking to him, the evenings would pass, and I wouldn�t even notice. The black
curtain of the night would hide our faces but we would never know that we were not
able to see each other. We would talk about small things in life, spend hours
talking about life�s small incidents, or even about nothing at all, or about
whatever came to mind, about the bird that just came and sat atop the betelnut
tree, or about the boy who just ran and dived into the pond. Yet, even if I wanted
it, I noticed Rudra�s lack of interest. He preferred to lie by himself on the
bedstead. He did not want me to ruffle the hair on his chest with my fingers,
while telling him all that I wished for in life, and all that I didn�t. He did not
want us to recite poems from memory, to whatever extent we could recall, while
lying together, his head near my knees and my head near his. He wanted me to spend
the whole day with the women of the house, and come to his bed only to sleep. Even
with the best of efforts I was unable to match the Rudra in Dhaka with the Rudra
in Mithekhali.

If I went to chat with Kaku, she opened her almirah and took out saris for me, and
opened her jewellery case and made me wear heavy sets of ornaments. She only
wanted that I should do whatever a wife could do to make her husband happy. I
should continue doing everything with great dedication and there should be no
shortcomings in the performance of my duties. In the sea of Kaku�s advice, I
floated like a piece of straw. Kaku was, after all, from an older generation, who
knew "hundreds of duties wives had towards their husbands,� but from the modern
Bithi, it was impossible to get knowledge regarding even one duty that husbands
had towards their wives. I waited in vain for the beautiful Bithi�s beautiful
forehead to smoothen out, and returned without success. Bithi, busy with various
domestic problems, spent the whole day talking with one person or other. If I
stood before her, she would say, �Sit down, Boudi,� but she was not very keen that
I sat too close to the problem. There was no end to Bithi�s problems. Her
complaints were also endless. She had piles of complaints against Baba, Ma, Mejo
mama, Kaku, everyone. She had to look after the household at Mongla and this
household as well. Bithi was married to Mejo mama�s son, Moni. The people of
Mongla and Mithekhali were strongly tied together by a chain of relationships.
Bithi�s own Mejo mama was her father-in-law; the relationships were linked
together like a chain! Rudra�s Ma was not worried about the chain at all. She
never worried about any domestic matters either, yet even at Mithekhali, she spent
her days in bed with innumerable anxieties. Whenever I entered her room to ask if
I could help in any way in her care, she would quickly call someone and say, �Go
and see if Shahidullah�s wife needs something!�

�No, I don�t need anything. I have come just like that,� said this bride standing
before her, head covered with her sari-ghomta, as embarrassed as her disconcerted
mother-in-law.

I could clearly make out that if anyone came and just sat in her room, she felt
uneasy. I didn�t want to embarrass her further by saying that I had long wanted to
come and talk to her.

In the evening Rudra would go out alone. There was no end to his work. �Why are
you going? Don�t go, please, stay,� I would say. All my �meaningless requests�
were thrown into the pond like little pebbles, and he would go to Mongla port, and
come back late at night, his body reeking of spirits.

�Why is there this smell?�

�I just drank a little liquor.�

�Why did you drink?�

�I wanted to, that�s why.�

�How many more times do I have to tell you not to drink? Will you never listen to
anything I say?�

Kaku was in the room, on another bed. Rudra was not bothered, however late it was
at night, he had to have sex.

�Rudra, do you only understand the body? Don�t you understand the mind and heart?�

No, Rudra did not understand the mind. He believed that, �the body controlled the
flight of the mind. If the bodies met the mind was revealed.�

Rudra had to have sex. He had to have it every night, in whatever way, whatever
the circumstances, he had to have it. When the village was flooded by the full
moon, and my heart was illuminated with its light, I took Rudra to the terrace to
see the full moon. Lying on a mat under the sparkling moon, my heart danced in the
light. With one of his hands in mine I trembled, soaking in the cold moonlight.
Let�s bathe the whole night like this in the light of the moon, the whole night.
My heart was floating in the light. Rudra did not want to float in the light; he
wanted to sink into my body. On that terrace two fingers away from the danger of
�someone arriving�, he enjoyed my body. Slept deeply. The moon and I stayed awake
by ourselves, all night, all alone.

***

To sit in your room, and have food served there may be a great luxury, but I was
hesitant to become part of all the comforts and luxuries of this household. This
may not be my father-in-law�s house it still was my mother-in-law�s. Trying to
make myself useful in the kitchen of this house, I found I was a superfluous
person. There was no dearth of people to take orders in this house. This was
normal in a Zamindar�s household. I was not easily able to comprehend some of the
big things of this house. When Rudra discussed land, property, crops, wealth and
possessions etc. with Bithi, I didn�t understand most of it. Rudra had explained
things later to me. This Zamindari existed within a very complicated situation.
From whatever was earned from the land at Mithekhali, he took his mother�s share.
For many years now he had been doing so. After keeping some of it for his personal
expenses, he left the rest for the household expenses at the port. But now, Rudra
did not believe anymore in taking their share of paddy from the sale. From a long
time, he had been telling his mother to ask Mejo mama to arrange for the division
of the land. From his mother�s share, he wanted to sell a portion and start a
printing press in Dhaka. Rudra was not even willing to forgo his mother�s share in
the 50 Lalbagh house at Dhaka. Bithi secretly gave her approval to her Dada. But
Mejo mama was not agreeable to the division of land. After Boro mama, now Mejo
mama was in-charge, and unless he agreed, there could be no division. From these
complications about land and property my mind escaped to the paved landing stage
at the pond. Let�s go, let�s go and watch the swans swimming. I would say, or
�let�s go and bathe in the pond.� Listening to my wishes, everyone in the house
laughed, so did Rudra. As though I had no sense or understanding, as though I was
not aware of what life was all about as yet. I only amused people with my childish
precocity. Outsiders came to bathe in the pond, so the bride of the house could
not do so. If I had to bathe, it had to be with the other women in the house in
the inner pool. In the inner muddy pond, I sat soaking my feet.

I stared at the pond from my window on the second floor. I felt the pond was as
lonely as I was. As though it, too, had not bathed in ages. Weeds had gathered
over it. All the water for cooking, washing, ablutions, and bathing came from this
pond. The water was also used for drinking. During the rains, the system was to
collect the rain water in huge earthen barrels. These casks lay in the courtyard
always. Water from these barrels was drunk the whole year round. When that water
finished, then the pond water was used. One day while drinking the water I found
many tiny creatures swimming around in the glass. The others were happily drinking
this infested water. When I shouted for them to stop, Bithi said, �These creatures
are harmless, they can be eaten.� Bithi told me about their source of water, and
how they collected drinking water. I listened completely appalled. Seeing me
everyone laughed. They obviously thought I was some strange bird. I spent days
without water. The two cups of tea I had in a day, had to fulfill the absence of
water in my body. Rudra had brought many bottles of Fanta and Coca-cola for me
from Mongla Port. Standing by the window, I saw men having a bath at the pond,
applying soap to their bodies. I couldn�t understand how all the people could
drink water from this same pond without any hesitation? So much land, so much
money, how come no one could arrange for some clean drinking water for the people?
Rudra said, �There is no need to make any arrangements. We have drunk this water
from our childhood, we have never fallen sick.� Sitting in Kaku�s room, I spent my
time leisurely. I looked for books in this house as well. Except for a few books
on the Quran-Hadith, and a couple of almanacs there were none. In this room
itself, one day, Rudra had found out my date of birth from one of the old
almanacs. He searched where the Arabic year, on the twelfth of Rabi-ul-awal, that
is mid-August, would fall within which years in the English calendar. Looking
between fifty eight and sixty four, he informed me that it would be 1962. 25th of
August 1962. Rudra had no problem in sitting idle in Kaku�s room. For long, long
months he would sit in this room. He wrote his poems in this room, read my letters
posted to him, and in this very room sat and replied to them. Always sitting
around in this room made my life seem damp, humid and stale. Whenever I said to
Rudra, let�s go back to Dhaka, he had only one thing to say, let me make
arrangements for money first. I couldn�t make out from where the money was going
to come. The night before we left Mithekhali, Rudra had returned drunk from Mongla
Port. He wanted to do something drastic. Without paying heed to my restraining
voice, he actually did it. He broke the lock on his Mejo Mama�s almirah and took
out the property documents. The documents he had waited, year after year, to get.
He could now, without any restrictions, sell his mother�s share of the land to
anyone. But no one at home supported Rudra�s action. Kaku, who was so dear to him,
didn�t, his mother, whose land it was, too did not condone her son�s disrespectful
behaviour, not even Bithi, who normally applauded her Dada�s every action. Rudra�s
act was rendered completely futile. He had to ultimately ask forgiveness of his
Mama, and return the documents to him. Rudra literally pushed me to touch Mejo
mama�s feet in Salaam and Kadambusi, the day we were leaving. I obeyed Rudra�s
command with a bent head, this being one of the hundred duties a wife had towards
her husband.

***

Many things went wrong for Rudra. He had said a nine-to-five job would not suit
him, but once we reached Dhaka he went in search of such jobs. He never got one.
He went around the newspaper offices, but even there nothing concrete
materialised. He could at least have got an assistant editor�s job in one of the
papers. Who was going to give Rudra a job! He went to noted writer Sayyed Shamshul
Haque�s palatial home, and requested him to get him some work writing film-
scripts, but Sayyed Haque did not promise anything. Many knew that he was making a
lot of money writing film-scripts for Bangla cinema under an alias. From Sayyed
Haque�s younger brother�s publishing house, Sabyasachi, Rudra�s third poetry book
The Map of Mankind had been published. That was all. Rudra was not fated to get
anything more. When The Map of Mankind was launched at the book fair, he sat every
evening without fail at the book stall. His purpose was to see if his book sold,
and when someone bought it, if that person would like him to autograph the book.
Rudra sat there till the fair closed. Rudra was not content with just writing
poetry or by publishing poetry books. Given any opportunity he would join all
kinds of groups. An organization called United Cultural Party had been nurtured
and built up by Rudra and his friends. This party organised various functions
showing opposition to Ershad. However, due to Rudra�s prolonged absence from
Dhaka, the responsibilities of his important position in the party were handed
over to someone else. Rudra went around frantically trying to retrieve his lost
position, but could not get it back. He knew that unless he shifted permanently to
Dhaka, not only would he never be able to set up home, but the recognition that he
had got as a budding young poet in the nation�s literary arena, would also suffer
as jealous fellow poets attempted to destroy it.

I felt sorry for Rudra. I told him, you write poems, I will run the home. You
don�t have to worry about earning money. The very first thing I bought with my own
money was a book case. Taking the books from Rudra�s old bamboo shelves, I
arranged them neatly in the almirah. I stopped at the steel shop on the way to and
from Chhotda�s Nayapaltan house, and bought a clothes cupboard, and had it
delivered at the house on Taj Mahal Road. I arranged both our clothes in it. Rudra
knew very well that gradually we would have to buy things to set up the house.
From Aubokash I had filled a trunk with my clothes, books, and a thousand
miscellaneous things and brought them to Taj Mahal Road. I dedicated my heart and
soul towards decorating my home. Rudra�s money kept evaporating at the Methorpatti
liquor adda, at Sakura. Almost every night he went to Sakura, and sat with his
drinks. He shouted and talked to his friends while drinking, and tossed matchboxes
singing, �There is a mad wind in the corner of my mind �� Very often in the middle
of the night I returned home with a swaying Rudra in a rickshaw. Rudra was not
consuming liquor, liquor was consuming Rudra. Without liquor his evenings and
nights were spent in dejection. I tried, tearfully, to reason with him, I scolded
him, showed anger, lovingly tried to make him understand that drinking was not
good for one�s health. Rudra understood everything, and didn�t seem to understand
anything at all. If he couldn�t get liquor, he had to have something else, ganja
or charas. He kept black charas folded in paper, and after grinding it into powder
he inserted it into his cigarette wrapper and smoked it. Even if one requested him
day and night to stop taking these things there was no use. He continued to
indulge in his intoxicants, come what may. �I too will drink, and take ganja and
charas,� I said one day and he did not even stop me. Instead he slapped my back in
encouragement. He offered me a cigarette with charas. Two inhalations and I was a
coughing wreck. At Sakura he enthusiastically offered me a glass of liquor.
Because I was nauseated at the very smell, he became desperate to initiate me into
drinking. He mixed three drops of vodka in my glass of orange juice. My throat was
singed with the zing; he congratulated me as soon as I had drunk two sips. �This
is very good, now carry on this way, and you�ll get the hang of it,� he said.
However that did not happen. I was unable to follow in Rudra�s path. He continued
without me in his path, along with some friends who were drunkards and drug
addicts. In the liquor den, �friends� collected every evening, to drink at Rudra�s
expense. Rudra was very generous. The minute he had imbibed some liquor, he was
willing to treat, upto a dozen friends with free liquor. The money for our
household expenses disappeared rapidly thanks to Rudra�s public liquor service.
When money finished, it meant his leaving Dhaka. Can one carry on like this Rudra?
He knew one couldn�t, but there was no other way out. I could bear the household
expenses, but that didn�t mean I could pay for Rudra�s liquor bills as well. My
stipend as an intern would not stretch so far. Rudra knew it couldn�t, hence he
had no option but to cross over to Mongla whenever required.

For as long as he stayed in Mongla or Mithekhali, I tried to concentrate on my

medical internship. Even if I couldn�t, I at least maintained my attendance. The
minute Rudra returned to Dhaka, I would leave my internship to the dogs, and be
with him. Rudra was my destination; with him the sapling of my dreams of family
life grew rapidly, growing into a tree. Rudra�s younger sister, Mary, was now in
Dhaka, staying at Mejo mama�s house at Lalbagh. She had joined the IA Programme at
Lalmatia College. Hearing this, I told Rudra, �Bring Mary home. Her college will
be closer from here. It is better she stays at her brother�s place, rather than at
her Mama�s. Here she will feel much more at home.� Rudra initially did not agree.
How could Mary stay in this house! There were no comforts or luxuries. No maids
and servants. We did not permanently stay here ourselves. I told him that my
internship was almost complete, even if he was away, I would be able to stay most
of the month, maybe I would need to go for only five or six days. So one evening
we brought Mary home from Lalbagh. Once Mary began living with us, the house
really started feeling like home. From Geeta, I got a young girl called Shabuj
(the name meant green), to come and cook. Everyday I bought small things for the
house. We survived in that one room. But I had to leave everything and go to
Mymensingh, because my internship was yet to be completed. When I returned from
Mymensingh to Dhaka, I saw that my household had undergone quite a few changes. I
found that Rudra had brought another of his sisters called Safi, from Mongla to
Dhaka. All Rudra�s siblings looked alike; all of them looked like their mother.
Safi had left her studies and was waiting to get married. Since it would be easier
to find a groom in Dhaka rather than in Mongla, Rudra had brought her across. The
house now, was no more a vagabond couple�s household, it was a house whose anklets
danced, which echoed with the sound of voices. I was happy, happy, thinking that
at least to keep his respect in front of his two sisters, Rudra would not return
home drunk now. I was happy to see Rudra domesticated. But couldn�t he have at
least informed me once that he was bringing Safi to Dhaka! I gradually got to
know, that many decisions were being taken by him alone. Mary and Safi were
sleeping in the bedroom, on the big bed. In the almirah, their clothes and
belongings had been placed. My clothes had been pushed into a corner. My space was
shrinking daily. Rudra and I slept in the study in front, lying on the small
mattress of the broken bedstead. I underwent this self-imposed course of hardship
and penance. Or maybe I wanted to achieve something. It seems you could only
achieve something if you underwent hardship. However, in spite of observing
celibacy in the midst of the household, I was still unable to keep Rudra with me
all the time. It was time for him to go to Mongla. After kissing me and saying,
�Stay well Lakshmi Shona, stay well my life� etc, he left the money for the
household expenses in Safi�s hands and went to catch the night train. I had set up
this household with my own money, yet Rudra left the money for expenses in his
sister�s hands. A small doubt began to form, but ultimately didn�t, in my
anxieties for the household. Maybe I couldn�t believe that the reins of my own
household had already been taken out of my hands.

**

Rudra said we needed a bigger house. He had decided that he would now bring even
his younger brother Abdullah to Dhaka, and admit him to school. Every day I looked
at the �To-let� advertisements in the papers, and looked for a home. I didn�t like
most of them. Those I did had too high a rent. If the rent was low, then the rooms
were small, and there was less space. After searching for a long time, I liked a
house on Indira Road in Rajabazar. Paying a month�s advance, I awaited Rudra�s
return. When he came, we shifted all our belongings from the Muhammedpur, Taj
Mahal Road house to the new house at Indira Road. There were two bedrooms, one big
and one small. There was a big drawing room, and next to the big bedroom ran a
long verandah. Safi chose the big bedroom for herself. Rudra didn�t agree and made
both Mary and Safi understand that the big bedroom should be ours. He bought a big
bed and placed it in the big bedroom. Also his own writing table. A new almirah
was also bought for this room, and was placed close to the window. A small cot was
bought for Abdullah and placed in the drawing room. In the smaller bedroom the old
big bed and the steel almirah were placed for the use of Mary and Safi. Meanwhile
I had ordered a dining table, chairs, sofa etc from a furniture shop on the way to
my hospital in Mymensingh. Rudra and I hired a truck and picked all these up from
the shop. In fact, even from Aubokash I picked up an old chest-of-drawers and a
marble table, and the two of us returned to Dhaka with everything. I had nothing
in my head except thoughts of a beautifully decorated house, and a happy and
peaceful domestic life. Expertly I set up my household. I bought thousands of
things for the house, spending all my savings, settling down to steady
domesticity. My internship was over. I didn�t need to go to Mymensingh any more.
What about you Rudra! I have come away to you now. The indisciplined, irregular
life my absence brought in your existence would now no more occur. Look, I have
finally arrived. To be with you. Rudra promised that he too would now permanently
shift to Dhaka, and would not run here and there for money anymore. He would
somehow bring enough money from Mongla or Mithekhali, to be able to set up at
least a small printing press. He would sell some land either belonging to his
father or mother. He would start a printing business in Dhaka. Whatever was his
share of the parental property, he would take it right now.

A printing press. A printing press. Rudra imagined everything, where it would be

located, how it would be. The joy of having him close to me everyday made me
tremble with excitement. He would never again have to go far away to procure money
for the monthly expenses. No more would the pain of loneliness tear him to pieces.
My dream tree was covered with blooms.

***

But, when he returned from Mongla, the news was that he was unable to get the
money for a press from the sale. He was to get this from the sale of his mother�s
share of the property, to be separated from Mejo mama�s share. So the question of
permanently staying in Dhaka was not yet possible. However, he had started a
business on his own in Mongla, that of prawns. There was someone to look after the
business. He need not go himself too often. Two visits in the year to have a look
would be enough. Okay, fine, now let�s get down to serious domesticity. The dream
we had been nurturing for so long, of staying together, never leaving the other
and going far away. Before we started, we completed our wedding ceremony. Let�s
finally tell the world with pomp and ceremony that we were married. The wedding
was only a social obligation. For this function Rudra wrote the invitations
himself.

�We will light up the moonless earth�s shores,

With the beautiful flame of the heart, ignited by the joining of our lives.�

***

I was not going to wear a white sari and marry in the clothes of a widow. I wanted
a red Benarasi with gold jewellery. Rudra was angry to see this spendthrift girl�s
�senseless list�. But my argument was that if I have to dress as a bride, then I
would do so like any other Bengali bride. I bought Rudra whatever clothes he would
wear for the ceremony. My enthusiasm was more than Rudra�s. I asked a Chinese
restaurant in town to be prepared for the night of 29th January. I would call
everyone, relatives and friends. Let everyone see that I was well, I was happy.
After all �Staying well and happy� was judged by people according to the clothes
and jewellery you wore. After spending Id in Dhaka, when I returned to Mymensingh,
Ma had asked, �You say you are married, then what sari did your husband gift you
for Id?� I had not made any reply. No, Rudra had not bought me any sari for Id.
Since we did not believe in religion, we did not believe in Id. The question of
saris did not arise. Ma heaved a deep sigh. Not because I did not believe in Id,
but because I was not getting any sari or jewellery from my self-chosen husband.
Saris and jewellery were not the only source of happiness, maybe Ma believed that.
But only if a husband loved his wife would he gift her saris and jewellery. Ma
searched for signs of Rudra�s love, for me. No one saw how much money Rudra had,
or whether he could afford to give gifts or not. They only judged Rudra against
the standard expected of a husband of a qualified doctor. Such a husband would
have the capacity of giving expensive gifts. According to this standard it was
gauged whether I had got a suitable husband or not. Everyone�s doubts about
Rudra�s suitability irritated me no end. I thought I did not follow social norms
and rules, but living in society, it was difficult to bypass them completely. In
pouring rain on the wedding day, dressed in a red Benarasi sari and gold
ornaments, this bright crimson bride went to the Chinese Restaurant. This bride
did not look exactly like a bride was supposed to, as on her head the sari-ghomta
was missing. But she was still a bride. Rudra�s writer friends, my doctor friends,
relatives from both sides, all came. From my side, Boro mama with his children,
Chhotda with Geeta and Jhunu khala with her husband from Barisal came. The
function was mainly to eat, chat and gossip. And take photographs, standing in
front of the camera with captivating smiles on our faces for the whole world,
regardless of which person one was standing next to, enemy or friend.

***

I attended invitations with Rudra at Jhunu khala�s and Chhotda�s houses. When Ma
came to Dhaka, I showed her my home. My social obligations were complete. Now
what? Now Rudra would return to Mongla, to his prawn business. Leaving the money
for the rent and household expenses with his sister, Rudra went away as usual. I
was someone who had lavishly spent all her internship stipend on decorating her
home and publicising her marriage and happiness to all her friends and relatives.
Since I was now running an independent home, I had brought all my belongings from
Mymensingh, in fact even pulled out my own roots and replanted them in Dhaka.
Dreaming of a beautifully arranged, blissful married life with the man I loved, I
began to notice that in my own house I was a secondary individual. Didn�t Rudra
believe that I would be able to shoulder the responsibilities of this household?
It wasn�t even as if I would have to run again to Mymensingh for my internship.
That part was over. Then why this distrust! Why this lack of faith! A keen feeling
of insult gripped me. Rudra�s brothers and sisters were wonderful. I had nothing
against them. They were happy, energetic people. Not like the way they appeared in
Mongla Port, half asleep. Abdullah played cricket in the car portico outside, he
had made many friends in school. Mary too had done so. Their friends, girls and
boys, all came home. There was a lot of fun happening. For sometime I also joined
the fun and tried to think of myself as part of the family. But it didn�t always
happen just by trying. I made no decisions in this family. I had no role to play.
No responsibilities. Shabuj had left. From Mymensingh I had brought Nargis�
younger sister, Bilkees. Even Bilkees had left. They had got a maid from Mongla.
The girl kept the house tidy, cooked and fed them. What shopping was required,
with what ingredients what was to be cooked, was all decided by Rudra�s sisters.
Once food was served at the table, only then was I called. After eating I returned
to my room. I realised that I was no more than a guest in this house. Rudra had
now found a way to earn money himself. The inefficient, useless son had suddenly
become very important, because he was now shouldering some responsibilities of the
family. Bithi was running the household, Saiful was studying medicine. The care of
the six remaining siblings had been taken over by Rudra. Three of them were
already in Dhaka and the other three were going to come. Having got this big
responsibility, he was very excited. In Rudra�s dreams, there was no place for a
home where the two of us would be alone. In fact he didn�t even dream of staying
permanently in Dhaka any more. All those old, old dreams had been pushed aside and
replaced by other ones which had raised their heads. Now Rudra�s dream was to make
a lot of money in the prawn business, and look after his six siblings, and bring
them up well. Rudra would leave saying he would be back in two weeks, but there
would be no sign of him for two months. Living in their household, I felt ashamed
of being fed by them. I came away to Chhotda�s house. Geeta had a new baby. When
this baby was to be delivered by Dr. T.A. Choudhury, I was allowed to enter the
labour room of the clinic, having got his permission as a Doctor. I saw the baby
being born. Chhotda had given her the name Oindrilla Kamaal. I gave her the pet
name, Paroma. Geeta left her job to take care of Paroma. Both Chhotda and Geeta
were dancing with happiness with the arrival of the new baby. They were not eager
to keep Suhrid with them. Geeta would not be able to handle the problems of caring
for two babies, so even after bringing him to Dhaka they sent him back within a
few days. They sent him back to the place that suited him, and to the people he
was attached to. My leisure hours were spent at Chhotda�s house. Sometimes I went
and sat at Jhunu khala�s house. From Jhunu khala I heard that her husband from
Barisal had asked for a huge sum of money from Boro mama. Boro mama did not have
so much money to lend. It seems this man from Barisal very often told Jhunu khala,
�I have been cheated so badly, having married into this Fakir�s clan!� The minute
he saw me, he would say Jhunu khala was old, she had tricked him into marrying her
and that he could have got a much better bride. I didn�t like spending time at
Jhunu khala�s house either. I went back to Mymensingh. But I didn�t feel happy as
before in Mymensingh either. I felt like a guest at Aubokash. As soon as Rudra
returned to Dhaka, I went back to that house. Rudra became one of the family
immediately, while I remained a guest. I told him, repeatedly, angrily, lovingly,
trying to make him understand, �Leave this prawn business, stay in Dhaka and start
something here.� But he could not leave that business and come. He had invested so
much that he would have to continue with it. Rudra continued to concentrate on the
business and I continued to concentrate on Rudra.

***

Somehow Rudra managed to spend the whole of February in Dhaka. In this month a
book was printed, the book fair was held, and there were poetry readings on
different stages. Towards the end of January, Rudra began to collect together his
poems, which expressed a keen desire to take up arms against tyranny. He wanted to
print a book. Looking for a Publisher had been in vain. He was going to print the
book himself. He told me to collect my poems also. Searching through whatever
poetry I had written in the last few years I collected thirty-eight poems. All the
poems were mostly like Rudra�s poetry, against wrongs, torture, inequality, and
opposed to tyranny. I took the two manuscripts to Neelkhet, where the graceful,
bearded poet Ashim Saha�s printing press �Ityadi Printers� was located, for
printing. Every evening both of us went to Ityadi Printers, and checked the proofs
of the poems. With simple covers, the two books were printed and bound, and
finally ready. Rudra�s book was called Chhobol, or �Strike with Fangs�, and mine
was called, Shikorey Bipul Khuda, or �Great Hunger at the Roots�. This was my
first book of poems to be published. Joy flowed endlessly in my world. Once the
book fair started in the Bangla Academy compound, we both began to visit it every
day. After offering flowers at the Shahid Minar on 21st February, I entered the
gates of the Book Fair, saving myself from the crowds with great difficulty,
especially from those who were waiting to grab the breasts and buttocks of women.
Reading our poetry on various podiums, sitting on the grass in the fair grounds,
eating at the food stalls, sitting on the academy stairs, in the book stalls,
chatting for hours with poets and writers, our time passed wonderfully. The main
topics of adda were literature and politics. Rudra read his poems at various
platforms, including the Bangla Academy, during this period of agitation for the
Bangla language or Bhasha Andolan. And because I was with him, and was also a
writer of poetry, I too was asked to read mine, which I did. Our books had been
distributed to various stalls for sale. Everyday when we made enquiries, we found
Rudra�s book had sold a few copies, mine not at all. When the fair ended, I had to
bring back home the unsold copies of my book. Packets of books lay under the bed.
That poetry was not for me, appeared very clear. That I used to write poetry at
one time, that I had published a magazine called Shenjuti, all that was now
history. I did not write poetry any more, poems never got written. I couldn�t �
everywhere I was now known as Rudra�s wife. Rudra was invited to read his poems at
Coxbazar. Quite a few poets left for Coxbazar. I was Rudra�s companion. In the
afternoon, Mahadeb Saha, wearing a lungi-panjabi, and a gamchha on his shoulders,
went to bathe in the sea. Rudra was bare-chested. I was in a Kangaroo vest and
jeans. At dusk, the poetry reading session was held sitting on the sands of the
beach. Like a drudge, I too read my poetry, on being requested.

***

The Alawal Literary Prize was being given to Muhammed Nurul Huda. Some young poets
were invited. Rudra was one of them. He went to Faridpur with me. In a group, we
went to the village and saw the house of poet Jashimuddin, and also saw the famous
Dalim, pomegranate tree mentioned in his, �Here is your Dadi�s grave under the
Dalim tree, for thirty years I have kept it fresh with the tears from my two eyes!
� Rudra�s company, and life�s pace and rhythm kept me submerged in great joy. My
life could have been the same as any other ordinary Bengali bride. My life could
have been spent in keeping track of oil, daals and salt. By flouting social
superstitions and restrictions we had both come thus far. Then why was I still
dreaming of being a part of society! I swept away the regret that lurked in my
mind, at not having been able to set up home exclusively with Rudra. Rudra now
wanted his home to be completely different from others, removed from the world,
removed from people. But by selfishly creating a cage for ourselves we would not
be setting up house in reality. We would live in the free world outside, we would
fight for a beautiful, healthy world where there would be no inequality, in this
way we would spend our marital life with trust and love. We would be each other�s
fellow-traveller or fellow-fighter. We would live in a world where there would not
be even a hint of selfishness. Rudra�s siblings would leave the stale, mouldy,
opportunity-less atmosphere at Mongla Port, and come to Dhaka. Here their
intelligence would radiate and each would grow into a great person who would serve
their country and people. They would be brought up by us with our own ideals.

I had met Chandana in Dhaka. She was with her husband, staying at his sister�s
place. For all the time that I was in that house, Chandana had talked to me in a
low tone. She had even come to our house with her husband. We had all wanted to go
out for a meal to some restaurant, but her husband said he did not have time. Even
if she would have liked to spend time with me, Chandana had to leave because of
her husband. Seeing Chandana�s life gave me a lot of pain. Had she dreamt of such
a life for herself! Even if she hadn�t, she had now got used to this life. A
stricken life in which she had to speak in a suppressed voice. I got the feeling
that Chandana did not even get a chance to see the sky. Or if she wanted to, she
would first have to get permission from her husband or one of his relatives.

When the February festival was over, Rudra asked me, �What is your contribution to
this house?� My face turned purple with shame. Why wasn�t I spending money to run
the house, like Rudra was! The reason was very simple. I did not have any money to
spend. I was waiting for a Government job. As soon as I got it, because I believed
in the equality of the sexes, I would prove that I did not want to be economically
dependent, and would also contribute my share in the household expenses. But why
wasn�t I trying to earn some money till I got that Government job? Instead of that
I was making my body into a fat lump of flesh! Rudra said this, even though there
was not even an ounce of fat on my body. In fact, inspired by Geeta, the long hair
cascading down my back was now cut till the shoulders, further exposing my bony
structure. Thanks to Rudra�s enthusiasm, an arrangement was made for me to see
patients in a doctor�s chamber inside his friend Salim�s pharmacy in Siddheswari,
at the corner of Shantinagar, B.N. Medical Hall.

�Dr. Taslima Nasreen,

MBBS, B.H.S. Upper

Consultation � 9 am to 3 pm�

Salim hung up a signboard with these words written on it. In the evening, Prajesh
Kumar Ray also sat in these chambers. He, too, had passed out of Mymensingh
Medical College. Prajesh was a classmate of Dada in school. He was an Assistant
Professor in the Medicine Department at the P.G. Hospital, and in the evenings
practised at B.N. Medical Hall. Everyday I went to the pharmacy carrying my
stethoscope and the instrument for checking blood pressure . I sat silently. There
was not a sign of a single patient. I told Rudra, �Dhoor, no patients come, I just
sit uselessly!� Rudra said, �Oof, don�t behave like a kid! Sit there, gradually
patients will come.� The days passed. The one or two patients that appeared did
not earn me even half of my rickshaw fare. I kept looking for a job in clinics.
Searching the pages of the newspapers for private clinics, I finally procured a
job in a clinic of Iskaton. The duty was at night, the monthly pay was fifteen
hundred taka. From my internship, I had earned the same amount as monthly stipend.
I knew it was not possible to run the household on this money. The house rent
itself was twelve hundred taka. But the very fact that I was earning money myself
gave me a different kind of delight. With this money, I would have enough spending
money for myself, as well as for shopping expenses for the household. Once I
entered the clinic, I discovered that here too there were ways of earning extra
money. If I assisted in an operation, I could earn between five hundred and
thousand taka. If I regulated a patient�s menstruation, meaning performed an
abortion I would get five hundred taka. If a patient came at night, it was my duty
to see the patient. Whatever money the patient gave the clinic, I would get a
percentage of that. Bah! Very good! The job was getting along marvelously. The
owner was quite a sincere gentleman. By giving me a few abortion patients, he gave
me the opportunity to gain enough practice in this procedure. But one night around
10 o�clock when there was hardly any patient, the owner, called me to his office
room on the second floor. Only if it was very urgent would the owner normally call
one. What was the reason for calling? No, there was no reason, he just wanted to
chat. I told him I had to go downstairs as a patient might arrive at any time.
�Oh, forget it, if a patient comes, the nurse will call you, don�t worry.� I
wasn�t worried either about this. I knew the nurse would call me as soon as a
patient arrived. I was more worried about the intentions of the owner. Why had the
owner called me here, was there something important he had to say? If there was,
how come instead of telling me what it was, he was asking me to sit down! When I
did, why did he say he would drop by my house very soon, as he went that way very
often, to Indira Road, in one of whose lanes my house was! Why did he ask me why I
had married a poet, and that I had not done a very intelligent thing by doing so!
Next to me, my husband did not look suitable at all. Whether I was happy with him
and many more things! Why! I was sure these were not very urgent matters. While
talking to me, the glass he was sipping from contained liquor, I could make out. I
was unable to do what the owner wanted, to sit and talk about the joys and sorrows
of life. I disobeyed him and came downstairs. Once down, I wrote in large letters
on a white paper, that I was resigning from my job with full knowledge and of my
own free will.

Chapter XXV

Distances

The incident took place towards the end of 1986. Saying he would return after a
month and a half, Rudra left for Mongla to oversee his prawn business. Since I had
nothing to do in Dhaka, I left for Mymensingh. After a month and a half when I
returned from Mymensingh, I found Rudra still hadn�t come back. I wanted to know
when he was going to return, and Mary said he would take another two weeks. I sat
in the Rudra less room by myself, the room felt very empty. There were poetry
notebooks lying on the table, as though he had been writing, and had just got up
and gone to the other room, and would return any minute and start writing poems
again. Mentally I waited for Rudra to return from the other room, keeping my eyes
closed. I imagined his hand on my shoulder. I heard a very familiar voice, �When
did you come? I have been waiting for you for so long!� The hand on my shoulder
was slowly descending towards my chest. On my other shoulder was another warm hand
and that too was descending. My body was growing slack, he was rubbing his beard
on my cheeks and saying, �My Shona, my Manik, my bride, I can�t live with out you
re!� My hungry pair of lips wanted to be moistened with a long warm wet kiss from
his lips. A never before experienced thrill was making my body shake. My head
rolled on the notebooks on the table. For a long time I remained pulverized
between the reality and fantasy. On the last page of the notebook, I wrote, �I do
not like it, not like it, at all. Why haven�t you come? How do you stay away from
your wife for so long? I feel very lonely. I find even one moment away from you
unbearable. I have no one to call my own except you. I can�t go through life
without you. Either take me to your side, or come to mine.� I stared at the neatly
done bed with a body full of desire. An aching arm moved towards the bedsheet to
feel the touch Rudra had left behind and continued to stroke the sheets. To smell
the scent he left behind, I pressed my face to the pillow and breathed in his
aroma, saying, �When will you come, I don�t like being alone anymore. Please come
back, my life. Come back to my bosom, to my eyes; come back, my eternal happiness.
All my joy, come back.� The pillow was soaked with my silent tears. Alerting
myself to the possible curiosity of all the other members of the household, I
quickly wiped my tears with both hands. I called Mary, �I might as well return
after two weeks,� saying which I began advancing towards the door when she said,
�Are you leaving immediately, Boudi? Sit and have a cup of tea.� With a dry smile
on my lips I said, �No I am not thirsty for tea.�

Taking a rickshaw from the Raja Bazar corner, I went towards Mahakhali Bus Stand.
Dhaka minus Rudra to me was the same as an empty, endless desert. From Mahakhali I
suddenly turned the rickshaw towards Nayapaltan, saying �Dhootori.� I did not like
the thought of going to Mymensingh. At Aubokash I was an unwanted guest. Ma said
very often, �You married without your parents� consent. You had said you would
live in great bliss! Why do you then need to come home so often?� If I happened to
come before Baba�s eyes, he gave me a stern look, called Ma and said, �Why has
this girl come to my house? Shoo her away from the house. What right does she have
to come here? Do I earn money to feed another man�s wife? Do not give her any
food.� Sitting sorrowfully at Chhotda�s place at Nayapaltan, I thought of Rudra.
How tirelessly the poor chap was working day and night. He must be spending
sleepless nights. He must be dying to come back as soon as possible, thinking of
his wife. Since he was unable to do so, he must be suffering a lot. I felt like
wiping the sweat off his brow with my sari-aanchal. Geeta interrupted my pre-
occupation saying �Ki re, what are you thinking of? Where�s your husband? Why
didn�t you bring him along?�

�Am I not allowed to visit alone? Do I always have to bring my husband along?�

�Ki, have you had a fight or what?�

�Nah! Why should there be a fight!�

�That�s what seems to be the matter. Is your husband in Dhaka?�

�Nah.�

Geeta had a crooked smile on her lips. There was one on Tullu�s lips as well.
Geeta�s younger brother, Tullu stayed in this house. A black, fat, caterpillar
mustachioed boy. Chhotda had given him a job in Bangladesh Biman, and brought him
to stay in his house in Dhaka. With the crooked smile still on his lips, Tullu
called out, �Give me a glass of water, will you, Nargis.� Nargis brought a glass
of water and placed it in Tullu�s hands. There was eye contact between them for a
second. Then she looked away. Why did she turn her eyes away! Was there fear
shimmering in her eyes? Geeta had brought her from Aubokash, to look after Paroma.
Apart from all Paroma�s work, she was doing all other household work too, by
herself. Sitting with Paroma on my lap I was thinking of a child of my own.
Someday I would be the mother of a child, surely then Rudra would not leave his
own child and stay so far away for so long. The thought was shattered by Nargis�
untidy hair, unwashed, torn, soiled garments, and pale face.

The evening passed. I had eaten, slept and, after stretching myself, I was now
again sitting on the sofa with Paroma on my lap. Nargis was dipping a cloth into a
bucket of water and mopping the floor. She had yet to have a bath or eat her food.
She would eat only when Geeta asked her to.

�Kire Nargis, how are you?�

�Apa, when did you return from Mymensingh?� Nargis asked in a low voice.

�I came today itself.�

�When will you return?�

�I don�t know. Do you want to go to Mymensingh?�

�Yes.�

Nargis had stood up in her agitation. As soon as Geeta entered the room, she bent
over her mop.

�What�s happening?� Geeta�s enquiring eye was focused on Nargis.

�She hasn�t eaten as yet! She needs to eat some food!� I mumbled. Geeta screamed,
�Once she finishes all her work, she will eat.�

In a soft tone, I said, �Doesn�t she have any decent clothes? Who knows for how
many days she has not had a bath!�

The minute Geeta heard my words she kicked the bent body saying, �Why haven�t you
mopped the bathroom?� She had wiped the bathroom floor. Tullu had gone and wet it
again. Nargis didn�t say this, I did. Thanks to my interference, she caught
Nargis� hair in her fist and lifted her up, throwing her on the dining room floor,
where she kicked her viciously on her face and chest. Emerging from his room
indolently, Tullu said, �Go on, kick her some more, the hussy�s very wicked.� I
ran to rescue Nargis from under Geeta�s kicks.

Geeta snatched Paroma from my lap and screamed at Nargis, �You stay in my house,
eat my food, and tell others what you think of me? Does anyone have the authority
to judge me?�

I said, �She did not say anything about you to me. I only said so.�

Barely had I uttered the words, when Geeta pulled Nargis to the window and pushed
her against the grill. Gripping her hair, she repeatedly banged her head against
it. I looked away, my jaw hardened. I wished I could take Nargis with me and leave
this house, this very moment, but I couldn�t. I wanted to push Geeta away, but I
couldn�t. This house was not mine, it was Geeta�s. Nargis would have to follow her
commands and directions. Looking at the dreadful sight, I could not bear to spend
another moment in that house. I left with all my powerlessness and weakness.

Traveling on the bus to Mymensingh I saw three trucks upturned on the edge of the
road. Two buses had fallen into a ditch. Next to the two buses, people were
standing around ten or twelve dead bodies. I felt as though my bus too would fall
into the quarry. Maybe I too would die like this and lie on the side of the road.
No one would know my name, or where my home was. This unidentified woman would be
buried in some public graveyard. No relatives or friends knew I was travelling to
Mymensingh from Dhaka today by bus. Even if they came to know of the Dhaka-
Mymensingh bus accident, they would not know that I had died in that accident.
Thinking this, I took out a small piece of paper from my handbag, wrote my name
and address on it, put it in my bag, and became prey to another thought. What was
its use in the last rites for a dead body! Once dead, would I know whether I was
being given a ceremonial burial or not! Even if I did get one, what would I gain
from it! What would be the difference between my dead body being eaten by foxes
and vultures in the village, and it being covered with a silk cloth, soaked in the
scent of attar and smelling of frankincense, and buried in a nice grave, covered
with a marble tombstone � what would be the difference between the two! After
death I would not have the power to know whether I was loved or not. How did it
matter then whether I was cared for or not! Ma said, people forget them within
four days of burial, however great a person may have been or however close a
friend. The thought sat next to me in the bus, I opened my bag, took out the
paper, and tearing it to bits, threw it out of the window into the breeze. In the
darkness of the evening, the torn bits of paper began to get lost.

***

Aubokash remained the same as before. Ma was making Suhrid into her most beloved
person. After learning that her bleeding ailment had no treatment, she did not
even complain about it anymore. After passing her M.Ed., on Baba�s orders, Haseena
had applied to all the good schools in town for the post of a teacher. A third
divisioner in her SSC and Intermediate, even a B.Ed., and M.Ed. degree did not
secure Haseena a good job. But Baba continued to search for new schools. He did so
to earn her love. Yasmin was not interested in Botany. Her interest was in
humanity. Her time in college was spent with a variety of friends. More than the
attention Dada paid to his medicine business at Arogya Bitaan, he paid to writing
thirty-two page long letters once a week to Sheila. Love letters. Back home he
called Haseena, Mumu, and made her come close to him. In order to make her
permanently angry face smile, he regularly bought gold ornaments and expensive
saris for her. It was an impossible task to bring a smile to Haseena�s face.
My name is Haseena, but my Hasee, smile is not cheap, sat before Dada everyday
with sacks of complaints. After Dada came home one afternoon, she told him that
she had asked Ma to cook the chicken with potatoes, but she had cooked it with the
kitchen vegetable potol. If she could not eat what she pleased, she was not keen
to live in her husband�s household anymore. As soon as he heard this, Dada ran
through the house, and standing in the center of the courtyard, called for Lily�s
mother in everyone�s hearing and said, �If the chicken is not cooked with potatoes
for dinner, I will beat you till I throw you down dead.�

Hearing him, Ma came out of her room and screamed, �Why are you telling this to
Lily�s Ma? Tell me. I cooked the chicken with potol. If I have committed a crime
by doing so, punish me. Beat me to death. That is all that�s left for you to do.�
Without replying to Ma�s statement, Dada slapped Lily�s Ma on her face and shouted
at the top of his voice, �You will do exactly what Mumu tells you to do. If you
mess things up, you will die.� Lily�s mother sobbed and said, �You are angry with
each other and are taking it out on me. I will not work in this house anymore.�
Grabbing Lily�s Ma by her shoulders, Dada pushed her towards the wood-apple tree,
and said, �Go, leave this house immediately.� Stopping Lily�s mother, Ma said,
�Wait for Suhrid�s grandfather to come. You will tell him everything before you
leave.� For Dada�s benefit, Ma lowered her voice and said, �I am a mother, even if
I am illiterate, and haven�t passed my I.A., B.A., I am still your mother. You do
not give me the respect due to a mother in the least!� Dada had barely reached the
verandah of the room in the tin-shed, when from within Haseena said, �Can�t you
ask how she expects any respect! After romancing her own brother-in-law, now she
expects her son to respect her!� Dada supported Haseena�s accusation, �It was
necessary to tell the truth.� When Baba returned, Ma gave him all the details of
the incident. She even said, �Haseena thinks she married my son on her own
initiative.� Baba called for Dada, and for Haseena. In a low voice he spoke to
them both. Ma waited in the other room, hoping Baba would finally lay down the
rule that in this house his daughter-in-law would speak with respect to her
mother-in-law. If the daughter insulted her mother-in-law today, tomorrow it would
be the turn of the father-in-law. But after the discussions and consultations the
decision that finally emerged was that the house would now run under Haseena�s
authority. After ages, a glimmer of a smile played on Haseena�s ever frowning
face.

The day the responsibility of the household went into Haseena�s hands, Chhotda
came to Mymensingh. Seeing the change of hands at home, he told Ma, �This is
correct, Ma. Why should you take so much trouble anymore? Let Boudi manage
everything.� But why was Chhotda alone? �Have you left your wife at her parent�s
house?� No, Chhotda had not brought his wife at all. He had come alone. He had
come to see Suhrid. If that was his main reason for coming would he have spent two
minutes with Suhrid, and said, �Kire, want to go out� and taken me out of the
house? Where do you want to go? Come, Come. I will take you to a new place. The
desire to go to a new place flew like a kite in my mind. Chhotda was becoming more
handsome by the day. There was no fat on his body. He was tall and slim. He looked
as though he was growing younger. Chhotda looked so much like a young boy that
when he took me in the evening to an army officer�s house in the cantonment, the
officer�s young and pretty wife actually asked, �Ki Kamaal, is she your elder
sister?� Happily pacing up and down in their house, Chhotda said, �What are you
saying? She is eight years younger than me.� Chhotda spoke to Nina in the same
tone and style he used with Geeta. Lifting Nina�s chin with his hand, he said,
�Bah, you are looking lovely!� I couldn�t believe my eyes, or ears, nothing. I
couldn�t believe that the man in front of me had ever gained fame as a hen-pecked
husband. �Will you have tea or something?� asked Nina. Chhotda piped up, �No, no,
I won�t have anything. I came to see you, beautiful. My heart feels enormous
satisfaction at having seen you. Now I will leave.� The smile on Chhotda�s lips
was exactly the same one when he romanced Geeta. Nina rose up, saying �No, No.
What are you saying, you have brought your sister with you; you must eat
something.� As she went towards the kitchen, Chhotda pulled her back by her hands.
She almost clung on to his chest. �Where are you going? I won�t eat anything. Your
husband might come back, let me go, today, I�ll come another time.� Saying so,
Chhotda lightly caressed the beauty�s cheeks and came out. I asked Chhotda, �Who
is this woman?�

�She is the younger sister of the singer Piloo Mumtaz.�

�So how did you meet her?�

�I met her on the flights. She goes abroad very often.�

�Oh!�

�She is a very nice woman. She has given me some customers. I sell business stuff
to them.�

The crew of Biman called the foreign goods they brought back to sell, business
stuff! Saying these were things for their personal use, they got them through
customs, and then sold them to others at a profit. A chosen clientele bought this
�stuff�. �Why do you do this?� I had asked Chhotda. �Arrey, business is the main
thing. That�s where the money is. How much pay do I get, after all!� Chhotda
pursed up his lips.

�Listen, don�t ever tell Geeta about this woman.�

�Why, what will happen if I tell her?�

�There�s no way out. Geeta has never been able to stand my talking to any other
woman. If she gets to know, it will be disastrous.�

Chhotda left that very day for Dhaka. The other purpose of his visit to Mymensingh
was to leave some money at Geeta�s parent�s home in Peonpara. There, the old tin-
shed had been broken, and a proper brick structure was coming up.

Baba remained as domineering as ever before. After Borodada died, Baba went to the
village intending to equally divide all the land he had bought in Borodada�s name
amongst his siblings and himself. On reaching there, he was attacked by his well-
to-do brother Riazuddin and his equally well-to-do son Shirazuddin. He was also
threatened with death the next time he ventured to enter the village. In this way
they were able to get rid of this trouble maker from town, and were successful in
sending him back. Returning home, more than from physical illness, Baba suffered
mental agony for the next seven days. He wailed, �What have I done all this for,
all my life, hai, hai.� Ma sat next to him, stroking his head and saying, �You did
everything for their benefit, what is the point of regretting it now!� Baba
recovered physically, his mental agony also abated. His obsession with land
swiftly gripped him once more. Next to Nanibari was Koritala. In front of it was a
huge open field, where in our childhood we played gollachhut, dung-guli, chor-
chor, cricket and all kinds of other games. There was also the pond around which
we used to sit and dip our feet, where the slum girls also used to bathe and wash
their clothes. At the edge of the field was a row of houses like a fence. Baba
bought the whole area, filled up the pond, broke down the houses and after
clearing the field , built twenty-five houses and rented them out. He had raised a
wall around the whole Rajab Ali Colony. Thanks to this wall, the way out of
Nanibari was blocked. Nani complained about this. �What is this Noman�s father,
you have closed our path!� Baba made no excuses to Nani. He was not satisfied with
just buying the land at Akua. The house bordering the wall of Aubokash was owned
by Prafulla Bhattacharya. After he died, one day his wife, too, passed away
without warning. They had one daughter who lived in Bombay. The girl neither came
to perform the last rites of the mother, nor did she come to take possession of
the property and other wealth. Baba kept a track of whether and from whom he could
buy their land at a cheap price. Pipping him at the post, one day Parimal Saha
began to stay in Prafulla�s house. Since Prafulla�s heirs did not come to claim
the property, Parimal Saha, who was not a relative but only a neighbour occupied
the place and had the gumption to build new rooms exactly adjacent to Baba�s
boundary wall. How dare he do so! Baba immediately filed a case against Parimal.
Ma said, �It isn�t as if he is building anything on your land, or harming you in
any way! Why do you needlessly go after people?� She threw bitter glances at
Baba�s angry eyes. �When lowly people get rich, they forget to treat people as
human beings.� Ma wasn�t exactly correct in her statement. Baba had educated quite
a few people, like his nephews, and set them up in life. He had got many girls
married. He had found jobs for the girls and their husbands. Amanuddaula had got
married in Gaffargaon, when he went to work there. When he was transferred to
Netrakona from Gaffargaon, he married for the second time. Baba had no objection
to his brother�s marrying more than once. When Amanuddaula visited Mymensingh from
Netrakona, he went to Baba�s chambers to meet him. Baba asked him about his job,
how much he was earning and other things, but never questioned him regarding his
marriage. He was paying entirely for the education of Amanuddaula�s children.
Every month, Amanuddaula�s, elder wife came to Baba and took from him not only the
school fees for all her children, but also their tutor�s fees, money for buying
books and copies, the house-rent and even a fat sum for their food expenses. In
the care of his family, Baba never said no. When Ma sensed Baba�s anxiety in
getting Haseena to pass her B.Ed., M.Ed., and making a school teacher of her, she
said, �You are doing so much for your daughter-in-law, yet you don�t even give
Yasmin�s rickshaw fare regularly! People do things for their daughters, how come
you have ignored your daughter and are more concerned about your daughter-in-law?�

Baba scolded Ma and stopped her, �If a daughter-in-law educates herself and earns
a name for herself, who will benefit? If she becomes a school or college teacher
who will gain? Will people say that Haseena Mumtaz teaches in so-and-so college or
school? They will say Dr. Rajab Ali�s daughter-in-law is a teacher. My daughter-
in-law has joined my family, my daughter will join another.� Ma�s voice cried fie
on Baba, �Family, family, family. What have you ever got from your family? The
love and care your daughter feels for you, will you get the same from your
daughter-in-law? You are so worried about your name, if people were to know you
give nothing to your wife, what will happen to your name and fame?

Baba did not wait to hear Ma�s ranting and raving. He went to see his patients in
the chamber. He had many patients. Since he had his separate chambers, a few
permanent women-patients would be examined by him behind closed doors on a regular
basis. Ma had one day made Baba�s favourite dessert, carrot halwa, and taken it to
the Chambers, so that Baba could eat while examining patients. She had knocked on
the closed door for quite sometime. Knock after knock. The door was locked from
inside. Finally when Baba irritated by the persistent knocking, angrily opened the
door, the fly of his trousers was still unbuttoned. Spitting out in disgust, Ma
had come out. Baba was not affected in the least by Ma�s disgusted spitting. If he
didn�t send the groceries, then everyone at home would have to fast, if he threw
us out of the house, everyone would have to live on the streets. No one could deny
his power and authority. Ma said very often, �If I could have passed my SSC, I
could have taken up a job. I could have left this house ages ago, if I had been
working!� Ma was sure that any job she could have got, would have given her the
freedom to ignore Baba and not bother about him.

Normally fever did not cause Ma to collapse. She carried on with her domestic
chores even if she had temperature. But one day, fever crippled her to such an
extent that she lost the strength to get out of bed. I told Dada to send
Amoxycillin manufactured by a good company for her. Now for anyone�s small
ailments at home, I took up the treatment. Daily postponing giving the medicine,
Dada finally came three days later with ten capsules for Ma to have. Ma had been
having the medicine, routinely every eight hours. Even after seven days, Ma�s
fever did not go. She looked sorrowfully out of the window in her feverish state.
Placing my hand on her forehead, I found that it was burning. Taking the hand I
had placed on her forehead into her own, Ma said, �Sit close to me, Ma. Let me
tell you a secret.� Ma had never asked me in such a soft tone to sit beside her,
and hear a secret. Ma had only one secret, and that was Razia Begum�s real
relationship with Baba, and to make new discoveries about it and to let me know.
Within me, not an iota of curiosity to find out secrets was ever born. My
disinterested gaze roamed over Ma�s face, pillow sheets, windows and coloured
glass. Ma very slowly said, �Thanks to your father�s torture, I one day thought of
leaving this house. I really and truly thought of doing so. But where could I go,
to whom could I go! It was not always possible to say I am going, and actually
leave. Like I once in a while got angry and threatened to go to the jungle, but
was that truly possible! No, it wasn�t!� Ma stopped, staring out of the window
towards the other side, where the sky was packed with clouds, and small blue
sorrows, she said, �In my childhood I used to have a tutor. He would come home and
teach me Arabic. The tutor liked me a lot. Some years ago, I tried to find out
where he was, and in what state. I heard he had got married, but his wife had
died. That September I wrote a letter to him, one day. I asked him directly if he
was agreeable to marrying me. He came to meet me very eagerly. I met him in the
park. He knew that I was married to a doctor. A doctor who was highly reputed.
Owned a big house. The first thing he asked me was, how much land do you own?
Land? I was shocked. Why was he asking about landed property? I told him the
truth. I told him I owned no land, nor did I possess any money. Hearing this, he
showed no more interest.�

�That means if you owned property, he would have married you!�

�Yes.�

I sneered and said, �You actually wanted to marry that munshi fellow?�

�I couldn�t bear to suffer your father�s crookery any more. In anger I had called
that man. I wanted to show your father, that I too could leave. But I couldn�t.�

�Had you thought of what would happen to us if you left?�

�It is because I worry about you that I think of going away and can never actually
do it. You all have grown up, but still I have never been able to go away. You all
will set up your own homes, have children. Your Ma goes off with some other
fellow; this would give you all a bad name. A father can live with seven women,
but will not get a bad name.�

I stared at Ma�s gloomy face. Heaving a deep sigh, Ma said, �It is a sin to commit
suicide, so till today I have not done so. If it had not been a sin, I would have
done so ages ago!�

Looking away from Ma�s gloomy face, my eyes fell on the local soiled amoxycillin
strip that I was playing with, to the name of the medicine, to its date of
manufacture and expiry. The expiry date was three years seven months old. Did Dada
purposely give Ma this expired medicine? I couldn�t believe that he could have
done this on purpose. I didn�t tell Ma that these medicines had lost their
medicinal properties ages ago, that her fever would not go with these. I didn�t
tell Ma, but I went and told Dada. �This medicine was expired!� I thought he would
say he had not noticed the expiry date, and that he would send fresh medicine
immediately. But seeing the callous expression on his face, and hearing his
equally callous statement that �nothing happens if the date of expiry has gone
past, the medicine remains okay,� made me stand dumbly before him. A strong breeze
came and struck me. The painful blue sorrows in the sky fell in showers, wetting
me. I thought, let me dry myself and take away the useless medicines from Ma�s
pillow and throw them away secretly. Just as secretly I planned to replace the old
medicine with new ones I would purchase. Ma would recover from her illness, and
would never know that her eldest son had wanted to cheat her. I had never had the
time to think of Ma�s life. In spite of being a good student, she had been forced
into marriage when she was barely ten or eleven years old. Her husband was
perpetually having affairs with other women right after the wedding itself.
Pinning her hopes on her four children, Ma had continued under the drudgery of
running a household. Both her sons had got married and forsaken her. She had
brought up her grandson single-handedly, in exchange for which she got two saris
in the whole year. If a maid were hired to look after a baby, even she was given a
sari. Ma was not treated any differently. Ma had actually got used to living in
want. Ma did not require any sari or jewellery. She did not need any oil or soap.
She was not even looking for eggs, milk or bananas. All Ma needed a little was
love and care. Like the legendary Chatak bird waiting for water, Ma waited in vain
for that love. Rapidly growing in Ma�s tears was a lotus. A day would surely
come, when Baba would stop getting involved with other girls and women. On that
day Baba would hopefully become more stable. Maybe once he�d crossed the sixties
and seventies, when he reached the eighties and nineties, he would ultimately turn
towards Ma. �But Ma�, I told myself, �once life is over, what is the use of
finally having your beloved return for your ownself? Would such a return be for
love! That would be a return only after everything was lost, everything was over,
and it would be a return only because a dried up bark was left with which nothing
else was possible.�

I told Ma the story of Geeta�s indescribable cruelty towards Nargis. She did not
express any opinion on hearing about it. Ma�s silence made me gradually move away
from her, and go to another room. Ma said after me, �Did Kamaal come alone that
day? Or did he leave Geeta at her parent�s place and come to see Suhrid?�

�I don�t know,� was my answer.

�He should not have left Nargis alone at home and come.�

The statement made me pause. �Why shouldn�t he have?� I asked. Ma said, �Tullu is
not a good boy. I was there, wasn�t I with Suhrid for a few days at Kamaal�s
place? Tullu went at night and grabbed Nargis. I told Geeta many times to let
Nargis come back with me. But she wouldn�t.�

Hearing what Ma had to say, I left the house and took a rickshaw to Kushtopur, to
Nargis� house. There I told her mother to go to Dhaka and bring her back, not to
delay. She was ready to bring back her daughter, but did not have the bus fare.
Neither Nargis� father nor mother had ever gone to Dhaka. I promised, I would come
and give them the money the next day. As soon as they got the money they were to
board a bus or train and go, and not delay at all. I would write the address for
them. Once they disembarked at Dhaka, any rickshaw-wallah would take them straight
to Nayapaltan and drop them in front of the house. On the way back, I kept
visualising what were the ways in which one could arrange for the money. The web
of my thoughts was torn asunder by a missile from a group at the corner of
Chorpara. The faces in the group were familiar, seven or eight of my old
classmates, who had been unable to clear their final year, were standing there.
All of them wore anxious expressions on their faces. I stopped my rickshaw and
asked, �What�s happening, it looks as though the Ragging day is being celebrated!�
Ratish Debnath told me, �Rizwan has died.�

�Our Rizwan?�

�Yes, our Rizwan.�

�What do you mean he is dead?�

�He used to take pathedin. He was taking a muscle relaxant to get a greater high.
He had rented a room in the Chorpara Hotel. The owner of the Hotel broke his door
down in the morning and found him in this state. The syringe and an empty vial
were lying there. He never realized that without artificial respiration, muscular
paralysis would set in and the lungs would not function. Arrey, if your diaphragm
does not move, the lungs cannot function!�

Death could come so easily. Here one was alive, without any thoughts of death,
then suddenly death said, come along. Without wasting any time I went home. Some
died in happiness, some in sadness. Those who died in happiness were fortunate.
They had not suffered any of the agonies of life. Rizwan would possibly never have
suffered any agonies. He had become a doctor, and was moreover a man. There was
nobody who could have cheated him. There was no one even to oppress him. Rizwan�s
father was very wealthy. The father would definitely have spent money
unhesitatingly for his son�s happiness. Back home, I again thought of how I could
obtain money. Ma had no money. The question of asking Baba for it did not arise.
If he could he would have thrown me out of the house by now. Dada had changed; he
would at the most, spit into my extended hand. Promising Yasmin that I would buy
her a new Harmonium with my first pay, I took her Harmonium to the Sur Taranga
shop at Chhoto Bazar, from where I had bought it. �I bought it for five hundred
taka, how much will you give, if I sell it?� I asked at the shop. The old man in
Sur Taranga, with his short dhoti and round-framed glasses, said he could give
hundred and fifty. After bargaining with him, I was able to obtain three hundred
taka. With the money in hand, I did not wait for tomorrow. That very day I went to
Kushtopur and gave the money to Nargis� mother. Repeatedly I insisted they leave
for Dhaka next morning itself, �Do not delay,� I said. I wrote the address on a
piece of paper. When I returned home Ma asked, �Where did you leave the harmonium?
�

I did not make any reply.

****

I ran to Dhaka after receiving Rudra�s letter. Reaching the Indira Road house in
the morning, I found that he was not at home. The room carried his aroma, but he
himself was not there. It seems he had gone out just a while ago. I waited for him
the whole day. Rudra did not return. Night came. He did not return. I sat up the
whole night waiting for him, in case he returned late at night or towards early
morning. Maybe he had sat down to adda somewhere, maybe he was discussing
politics, or was taken up with some heated literary debate. I understood that
after being away from the Dhaka adda, it was difficult to tear oneself away from
it. The light of dawn touched my body. It touched my eyes, hair and chin. The rays
radiated from my chest to the rest of body. But Rudra�s touch was missing. Alone
in bed, I pressed his pillow to my chest and remained in bed. The morning passed.
Rudra came in the afternoon. He was a little surprised to see me as he entered the
room.

�When did you come?�

�Not today, I arrived yesterday.�

�Yesterday?�

�Yes, yesterday. Why didn�t you come home last night? Where were you?�

�I was in some place.�

�Where is that some place?�

�I was there.�

�Where?�

Without replying, Rudra took his towel and lungi and went into the bathroom. I
never saw him spending so much time over taking a bath. Smelling all over of
scented soap, he emerged from his bath, saying, �Have you eaten?�

�Yes, I have.�

�Then you wait. I�ll have my food and come.�

Rudra went towards the dining table. Lying on the bed I wondered, why couldn�t he
tell me where he had been! Why did he hide the place where he had been, behind the
words �I was there!� My thoughts did not take me anywhere. I had not ever seen
Rudra spending so much time over his meals either. Every grain of my body was
eagerly awaiting his touch. I wanted to sit next to him at the dining table, to
see how he ate. He must not have eaten last night. Otherwise why would he have
gone straight away to eat in this way, without so much as touching me even
slightly! Pride and fear kept me in their grip. After he finished his meal and
returned to the bedroom, I asked him to sit next to me. Taking his hand in mine, I
said, �I think you are trying to avoid me.�

�No. Why should I?�

�How come you won�t tell me where you were last night?�

�I said I was somewhere!�

�Where? At some friend�s place?�

�No.�

�At some adda?�

�No.�

�Then?�

Rudra remained silent, his silence became steadily unbearable and the pain cut me
to the quick, almost paralysing me. I began to find it difficult to breathe. Rudra
please say something, if you confess, my pain will go away. But such pain did not
go! It only increased. Rudra said he was at Narayanganj. Why in Narayanganj, did
any friend stay there? No. Then why did you go? With whom did you go? Alone. To
whom? To no one. Where were you at night? Tanbazar. Rudra�s expressionless eyes
were focused on mine. I could hear my heart beating loudly. Tanbazar in
Narayanganj was the country�s largest red light area. Was Rudra trying to tell me
that he had gone to spend the night at some brothel in Tanbazar! No, Rudra,
whatever else you say, please don�t tell me that. Tell me that you spent the whole
night at some tea shop, liquor shop or even on the footpath, under a tree,
something of that kind! My eyes were full of entreaty. But Rudra said he had spent
the night at Tanbazar, at a prostitute�s place. My eyes were stricken. Rudra,
prostitutes are also human beings, like your mother, your sisters. Say, because
you were hungry the prostitute fed you; you were so sleepy, after drinking, that
you went to sleep soon after eating. Tell me you slept like the dead the whole
night, and have just woken up and come. Say you haven�t touched any other body.
You had promised not to touch anyone else, tell me you have kept your promise.
Say, that these lips are the only ones you kiss, no others. Tell me you do not
desire any other body but mine. Rudra was unable to read the language of my eyes,
he told me about his intercourse with the prostitute. Throwing a world of darkness
in my direction, he continued speaking. I sat stunned. I could find no air to
breathe. I looked at the decorated room, I looked at Rudra, I looked at my home. I
had slowly patched together my broken trust and faith, and started life anew. Oh
my life! This was no home, it was a whole graveyard. Like the dead lie in the
graveyard, I lay in my home. I was on fire, burning to ashes. However, suddenly I
gained strength from within myself. That strength pulled me out of the blazing
fire. It saved whatever little was left of my existence. Rudra, who had washed off
from his body all the juices and scents brought from the prostitute�s body, lay
down straight in the bed. After lunch he always took a nap; that was his habit.
After he woke up from sleep, he would go out in the evening. He would fill his
stomach with liquor at night. If I was near at hand he would have sexual
intercourse with my body, if not, then with any other woman�s body. There would
never be an iota of change in Rudra�s daily life�s routine. Not even a tiny one.
He was not going to change his nature for my sake. I cried fie on myself. I should
have forsaken him on the night our wedding was consummated, on the bridal bed of
flowers. Where had been the requirement of bearing the burden of my love around
for so many years! Once someone betrayed your trust, he would always do so.
Betraying was his nature. Betraying was his propensity.

With no regret in my voice I asked, �What does one have to do to get talaq?�

In a cracked voice, Rudra said, �You have to go to a lawyer, give the reasons for
the break up, give all details required. Various problems.� I noticed, that unlike
the last time, I was not weeping. I had not a tear in my eyes. From utter
stupefaction, there emerged a stony voice, �Tell me where the lawyer�s house is, I
will go there today itself. Why me alone, you also come along. You of course know
very well, that there is no meaning left in our relationship. Therefore, I am not
forsaking you out of anger. Let�s both of us go and do the job. Let�s break our
relationship. And please believe me, I don�t even feel that I am divorcing you
because you have slept with other women, and thus our relationship should end. Our
relationship should end, because you do not love me.�

�I do love you,� Rudra said with conviction.

�The love in which there is no trust!�

�I do trust you.�

�You trust me. But have you thought of my trust? If you were in my place, what
would you have done? Can one love someone without trusting that person?�

�This happens to some extent with artistic people. They do not follow all the
norms of society. You at least should have understood that. You married me knowing
I was an artist. Then, why so many questions now?�

�The question is not about social norms and mores. In personal relationships, the
most necessary ingredient, trust, is what we are talking about.�
I started laughing. Laughing, I said, �If you are an artist you can get away with
cold-blooded murder, isn�t that so! As an artist, you have the freedom to do
whatever you please. Does that mean if one was an artist one did not have it! I
too write poetry, does that mean I can also do whatever you are doing? Or is it
that I do not have the freedom, because I do not write good poetry. Whereas you
do, because you write well! Or is it that you have freedom because you are a man.
I am a woman, is that why I shouldn�t have that freedom?�

Rudra was silent. He stared out of the window for a long time, except for a high
wall there was nothing in front of it. Only a white-washed wall. I stared at
Rudra�s eyes. After looking at the wall in the same way for a long time, he said,
�Can�t you forgive me for the last time?�

�You said the previous one was your last time? Your truly last time will never
ever happen.�

�It will.�

�You said so before as well. You know what? This is your habit. It is not so easy
to change one�s habits.�

�Okay, give me one more chance. I will change myself.�

�Why should you? Do you truly want to change? If you did, you would have done so.
In any case, what is the need for you to change? You don�t think there is anything
wrong with your habits, do you?�

Rudra left the bed. Speaking in a harsh voice, he said. �I have told you so many
times to stay with me all the time. How many days have you spent with me since our
marriage, tell me! It took three years for you to get over your hesitation. Can a
man live alone like this?�

�I managed to stay alone.�

�What is possible for women is not possible for men.�

�Why not?�

�Whatever the reason, I am unable to do so. When I returned to Dhaka and didn�t
find you at home, I was very angry. That�s why I went out and got drunk. That
incident was a result of this drinking.�

�That means whenever you are angry, you drink! Don�t you drink otherwise at all?
Don�t you drink even when you are not angry? Don�t you drink when you are happy?�

�Forget about liquor. What will you say about the fact that you have not stayed
with me from the very beginning of our relationship?�

�You know very well I had to stay in Mymensingh for my medical studies. Now I
don�t have any problem in staying at Dhaka permanently. You are the one running
away.�

�You should have stayed with me from the beginning.�

�Are you trying to say that I should have left my medical studies and stayed with
you? For your convenience. That�s it, right? So that you don�t go astray. Achcha,
when I get a job, it is not necessary that it will be in either Mongla or
Mithekhali. I will have to leave my job. You will be going to check on your prawn
enclosure, or to sell your paddy. Won�t I then have to go with you to Mongla and
Mithekhali so that when your body gets aroused, to satisfy it, you can have a
woman�s body close at hand?�

Rudra remained silent. I said, �When I live without you, I don�t go to other men
to satisfy my bodily desires. The thought of another man does not even peep into
my head. I just can�t do it, how do you! Do you know the reason? The reason is
because I love you, and hence cannot go to any other man. You don�t love me, so
that�s why you can. This is the very simple, straightforward answer.�

I knew Rudra would not accept this simple answer. He would say he loved me. He had
slept with other women but not out of love. Rudra�s reply would be equally simple.
Rudra did not give this simple reply, but in a grave voice said, �I believe in a
free marriage. I told you this earlier. A marriage which involves no lies. A
marriage in which the domestic life of the couple is different from all other
married couples. This marriage will not make it difficult for me to breathe. I
will not feel entrapped. If married life feels like a cage, then the open-sky is
preferable.�

Sitting on the chair at his writing table, Rudra lifted his feet on to the bed and
said,� � Yes. That is what I told you. I told you not to want to put me into any
strait-jacket.�

�Does that mean you want the freedom to sleep with any woman you desire?�

�When you are with me, I don�t want that.�

�When I am not there, you do?�

�I don�t. It happens.�

�What do you mean by �it happens�?�

�It happens means, it happens.�

�Suppose it happens to me as well?�

�What do you mean?� Rudra�s eyebrows creased in shock. His feet came off the bed.
Sitting face to face with him on the bed, looking at the narrowing eyes, under his
puckered brows, I said, �I mean, when you are not with me, suppose it happens that
I too sleep with another man!�

�What did you say?�

�I said, suppose I too happen to sleep with some man, when you are not with me!�

�Don�t talk rubbish�, Rudra snarled in reprimand, loads of disgust in his reproof.

�This is not rubbish. What you have the right to do, why shouldn�t I have the
same?� My tone was very soft.

�We are not talking of rights, yesterday I was drunk�, Rudra�s voice too was soft.

�That is no excuse. Drinking is your addiction. You get drunk every night.�

�No, I don�t. I do not drink every night.�

�Then what is it you want to say? That on the nights you drink, get drunk, on
those nights you have to have a woman under any circumstances, if I�m there, then
me, otherwise anyone else!�

Rudra picked up a book, and kept his eyes on the pages of the book. As though at
this very moment, it was more necessary to read the book than talk to me.
Snatching the book from his hands, I said, �Speak to me. Look into my eyes and
speak. Tell me how you will feel if I too spend the night with another man and
return home? Suppose I don�t return home tonight. I return tomorrow afternoon,
after spending the night with another man?�

Rudra looked at me with narrowed eyes, snatching the book back, he said, �You want
to take revenge?�

�I don�t want to take revenge, I only want to know isn�t this what you would call
�free marriage�? Or do you want free married life only for yourself, not for me!�

�I said I made a mistake yesterday, it won�t happen again.�

�Why won�t this mistake happen again? Because I do not like it?�

�Yes.�

�But you do. You have no problems in having relations with more than one woman!�

�Why are you giving so much importance to physical relationships? No spiritual or

mental relationship has taken place.�

�Okay, I will not have any emotional relation with anyone. Only physical.
Acceptable?�

Rudra thought for a long time. He then shook his head. No, he would not accept
that.

I laughed and said, �Actually I have no desire to have a relationship with any
other man. This goes against my taste. Even if you had wanted me to, I would never
be able to do it. But you used to say, you believed in the equality of the sexes.
I was just checking that. I have seen how much you believe in it. You talk of
equality, because it is fashionable to do so. As an artist you have to say these
things. Or if one has to appear very progressive, then one can�t but say these
things. You think you believe in equality, because you go about town with your
wife, you chat with your friends in her presence; you haven�t confined your wife
to the house, and have not kept her to do household work. That is why you possibly
experience some kind of thrill, thinking you are a great supporter of progress. Of
course, it is very easy to support progress, and equally easy to talk of equality.
But when it has to be discussed and applied to one�s own life, it becomes very
difficult. Right?�

I talked of applying for talaq by mutual consent, but Rudra would not agree. He
made it very clear that he would not go to a lawyer for talaq. He repeatedly
asserted that he had kept the promise he had made after his sickness was detected
for the first time, to never to go to other women. Only that day by chance the
unfortunate incident occurred at Tanbazar. I should for this time, and this would
be the last time, forgive him. I should never ever again think of anything as
dreadful as talaq. None of Rudra�s statements gave me any relief. I did not
somehow feel that Rudra had only that day gone to the brothel. My heart told me
that Rudra, who had been going to brothels from his youth, had never stopped
going. After infecting me, he had only written the poem �The Darkness of Remorse�,
he had not really felt remorseful. Composing words and believing them was not the
same thing. Restlessness began to eat me up. I did not know any lawyer whom I
could ask to draw up the talaq papers. I went ultimately to the lawyer who had
prepared our marriage document. I took Rudra with me though, but that was only two
days later. I had told him, �If you don�t come along, I will go on my own. This is
in spite of the fact that I do not believe in relationships on paper, and had come
to you because I love you, not because of the marriage document. The talaq
document is also a piece of paper, but this paper will free my body from any
rights you have over it. At least legally.� The lawyer was amazed to see that we
had come to sign a talaqnama. Laughing loudly he said, �Go home, go and sort out
your differences. Is there any couple as wonderful as you?� Sitting on a wheel-
chair, the physically challenged lawyer called his wife. The extremely beautiful
woman, seeing Rudra, arranged tea, biscuits and shemai on a tray, and came and
happily sat down to a literary discussion. The lady not only enjoyed the flavours
of literature, she was herself a writer. She had written a book. Sitting close to
each other, Rudra and I both experienced her excitement and joy at having written
her first book. Who would have guessed that Rudra and I were there to give talaq
to each other? After having tea and biscuits, and concluding the literary
discussion, I told the lawyer before leaving, �We have not quarrelled. There is
nothing to make up. But it is better to end the relationship.�

�Take some more time. Think over it. Don�t do anything out of a whim.�

�I have nothing more to think about. I came only after I had thought it over.�

The lawyer gravely told me to come back to him after a month. What were the
reasons I was seeking talaq for, I had to tell him everything. Only if he thought
the reasons were valid to get talaq, would he grant it, otherwise not. He also
spoke of carrying a hefty sum of money with me, when I came next.

***

Although Rudra very often said, �Let�s make love�, his mind did not completely
lose control over his body. Even though my body was there for the asking, he did
not this time have sexual intercourse with me. He kissed me though and squeezed my
breasts till a river of arousal flowed in my body, and drowning in overwhelming
desire, I clung to him like to a straw. I made him my saviour, so that he would
safely carry me to the shores and save me. But he cruelly snatched my straw, and
turned away from me. His limbs were not cool, yet he turned away. My limbs cried
out for touch of his, but he still turned away. Why? He lay inert next to my
aroused body. Was he asleep? No, he wasn�t. Was this a show of pride in view of
our impending separation? No, it wasn�t even that. Then what was it? The next
night, Rudra went to sleep in another room. I tossed from side to side, flung my
hands and legs around, my body was aroused on the pure, unblemished bed; it was
soaked with lust and sweat. Rudra�s touch and scent aroused me so tremendously
that I was unable to repress it and disguise my response.

�Why are you staying away from me? Don�t you want me? What is wrong with you?�

At midnight, he finally told me what had happened. He was sick again.

He showed me the red boil at the base of his penis. He definitely did not want to
infect me this time. He was sure that he had carried the virus from Tanbazar that
day.

Covering the penis, I said in an impossibly quiet tone, �No, you did not get this
from Tanbazar. This disease does not manifest itself so rapidly. Did you not go to
any other bazar before Tanbazar?�
�What are you trying to say?�

�You surely understand what I am trying to say.�

There was no reason for Rudra not to understand. Sitting bemused for a long time
he finally said that one or two times unfortunate incidents had occurred without
warning.

�Where? In Banishanta?�

He slowly nodded his head. They occurred in Banishanta. That he went to Banishanta
regularly, I was absolutely convinced. When I was with him in Dhaka, he did not
feel the need to go to a brothel. But whenever he left Dhaka and went to Mongla
port, it became impossible for him to control the temptations of Banishanta. For
Rudra I was only �a body�, nothing more than a mound of flesh. I felt disgusted
with myself.

�You of course told me that nothing happened after 1983, only that last day at
Tanbazar!�

Rudra heaved a deep sigh. �So I did.�

�You have been lying to me from the day I was introduced to you. If that sore had
not manifested itself, then even this time you would have hidden behind a mask and
claimed that you were completely mine, and were pure. You would not have disclosed
the Tanbazar incident either.�

Rudra�s face was a pathetic sight. Did I loathe any prostitute? I asked myself the
question repeatedly. The answer was, no. Did I loathe Rudra? No. I did not.
Instead I felt sorry for Rudra. The next day I took him to Shahbagh for a shot of
penicillin. The same employee of the same pharmacy took Rudra inside, laid him on
the table, and gave him the injection in his buttocks. Rudra did not suffer very
long from the pain of the injection. Like before, the two of us chatted with our
friends in the university grounds, in Shahbagh and Sakura and returned home at
night. The next day when I was packing my clothes into a suitcase, Rudra appeared
to fall from the skies.

�What�s up, where are you going?�

�Mymensingh.�

�Why Mymensingh?�

�I�m going.�

�When will you return?�

�I don�t know.�

�You don�t know when you will return?�

�No.�

�Tell me clearly when you are returning.�

�I may not come back at all.�

�What do you mean?�

I told him to understand for himself, what that meant. I told him I was going,
going away.

�Going away, meaning?�

�Going away means going away. After a month I will go and sign the papers at the
lawyer�s.�

�Then why did you do all this? Why did you get me injected?�

�That was for you. For your well-being.�

�If you are concerned about my well-being, then stay with me.�

�Just because one is concerned, does one have to stay?�

�Why not?�

�I can want your well-being even when I am away from you. Can�t I?�

�What�s the use? If you stay far away, then why should you be concerned about what
is good for me?�

I laughed and said, �So what? Our relationship has been such a long one, has my
love for you suddenly dried up, or what? It is still very much there.�

�Then why are you going at all! Come, let�s start everything anew!�

�No.�

�Why not?�

�I want to deny this belief of yours that I am only a female body and nothing
else.�

�Who said that was my belief?�

�Ask yourself. You will find the answer.�

Forsaking all attachment for my home I went back to Mymensingh permanently. On the
way there I spent one night at Chhotda�s house. After hearing all the tales of
Chhotda�s foreign travels and eating dinner, just when I had gone to sleep,
everyone woke up in the middle of the night at the sound of banging on the door.
Moving aside the window curtains, I saw Rudra standing outside. Absolutely drunk.

�What�s happened, what do you want?�

Rudra screamed, �Come out.�

�Why?�

�You are my lawfully wedded wife, you have to listen to whatever I say, come out,
or I will call the police. No son of a swine will be able to stop me.�

�Go away. Don�t scream.�

�I will scream. Till you come out, I will continue to scream.�

�I will not come out. Go away.�

�Why won�t you come out? You just have to come out. I�m telling you I will break
down all the doors and windows. Let�s go home. Come out, I say.�

The whole locality had woken up because of Rudra�s screams. He was systematically
kicking the door to break it down. Chhotda pulled me away from the window.
Pressing my face bent in shame to his chest, he hugged me with both his arms.
Making me lie down on the bed, he lay down next to me and stroked my hair.
Chhotda�s tender loving care finally opened the flood gates for all the tears I
was holding in. Wiping my tears he said in a choked voice, �Be strong, be strong.�
The next day, Geeta personally drove the car and dropped me to the Kamlapur
station. This sparkling red coloured Toyota Corolla, was given by Chhotda as a
present to Geeta, on her birthday.

That I had left Rudra and come, even if I told no one at Aubokash, they all
understood. Taking my clothes out of the suitcase, Ma arranged them on the clothes
stand and in the almirah. She spread a new sheet on the bed. She tidied the table,
clearing away all the scattered papers. She brought a fresh rose and put it in the
vase. After two days my employment papers arrived. I had been appointed as Medical
Officer; Specialist in Medicine, in the Health Centre at Nakla Sub-division. The
day after the papers arrived, Baba took me by train to Jamalpur. From Jamalpur by
bus to Sherpur, where I sat in the Civil Surgeon�s office signing my joining
papers. Within seven days I would have to start work at the Nakla Health Centre.
Baba himself escorted me and my suitcase across the Brahmaputra River to
Shambhuganj, from Shambhuganj by bus to Phulpur, and from Phulpur by rickshaw to
the Nakla Health Centre. In the midst of paddy, jute and pea fields in the village
stood the hospital. At one corner of the hospital were a few white, double-
storeyed houses, government staff quarters for the Doctors. The Head of the Health
Centre was Dr. Abdul Mannon. He stayed in government quarters with his wife and
children. Abdul Mannon was a tall bearded, panjabi-clad doctor, who offered namaz
five times a day. It was arranged for me to temporarily put up at his house. Baba
must have thought him most trustworthy. But after seeing patients at the hospital
the whole day, when I returned to my shelter at night, I saw Abdul Mannon�s eyes
shining at me like a wolf. I didn�t have to protect myself from his paws for very
long, because Baba managed to get me transferred from Nakla and brought me back to
Mymensingh. In the headquarters of the Health office in town, there was no real
work. I wanted work. I wanted to keep busy. Next to the chambers, sitting idly
against the red wall was Dr. Namul Haq, whom I requested to send me to such a
place where there was a lot of work, where there was only work from morning to
afternoon to evening to night. Where I would not get even a minute to breathe.

When I was treating a cholera patient in the Suryakanta Hospital in town who had
been washed up in the flood waters, Rudra sitting in Mongla was writing,

Shower rain just once more, O sky far away �

The fresh young mustard fields are burning in the extreme heat of the sun.

The farmer unskilled in agricultural practice, has no irrigation facilities,

His heart is only full of a genuine love for his crops.

Send clouds just once, or forgiveness in the form of rain,

Do not destroy even this one handful of grain in life.

Let me bear fruit even in the anarchy of this polluted afternoon,

Let the field be heavily laden with golden mustard.

Take back the hot droughts of estrangement,

These fiery distances between

Send the clouds and shower rains on the afflicted body of life.

For this simmering, shattered heart, O sky, touch with your mystical hands

The breast of the clouds, so that caresses shower down as rain.

The plough tears apart the heart to sow the seed of paddy-love

Desolate wilderness is awaiting this day,

You gave it clouds, rain and hope,

And the scorching fallow decayed earth dreamt of a harvest �

The darkness of remorse, became the sunshine of a refreshing dawn.

The soil that had burnt for a long time in dreamless morbidity,

That had turned into earth, collecting the deluge of defeat �

You had given it clouds, rain, water and the whole sky.

You had given it hope, even its first exposition,

You had given it only the dream of flying, but not the wings.

You had picked up your whole life and placed it in my hands,

But what you didn�t give me was the extremely insignificant location of your
secret solitary retreat.

Whatever I had, I had given it all to Rudra. Even the extremely insignificant
location of my solitary retreat. This was possibly his only consolation, that
there was at least one thing I had failed to give him, hence the complete chaos
that had finally resulted. There was something I hadn�t given him, hence, today
our relationship was in this mess. Yet I had no secrets. I had kept nothing for
myself. I not only signed the legal papers, I even paid the money demanded. After
that I hadn�t bothered to find out the consequences. I only knew this much, that I
could not spend my life with Rudra, and yet I loved Rudra, hence life without him
was also unbearable. The way I had rashly signed the marriage documents, I did the
same with the talaq documents. Sitting in my dreamless, grey existence I had
repeatedly told myself, do not ever go back to the person who has insulted you,
girl; do not suffer any more. He has not valued your love even a little. He never
will. He believes in free marriage, a marriage in which no promises are kept. He
is someone who has drunk the water of every port, in whichever way he can; he will
float in the rivers of pleasure, he will not look back at the solitary figure
awaiting his return on the shores.

I had forsaken Rudra, but I had to sift through his memories twice a day. I wanted
to forget Rudra. Yet when I sat in the verandah of the house on a lonely
afternoon, looking out at the blazing sunshine, the person I thought of, the one I
could not but think of, was Rudra. An unbearable pain wrung my heart, and brimmed
over into my eyes. I tried my best to make sure that the nightmare called Rudra,
and the black past which I had left behind, never managed to touch me ever again.
I kept failing to do so. I realize very secretly and confidentially, that my love
for Rudra has not dried up even today. But do I really want it to die!

�Come back certainty, come back all consuming love.

In the rapid flow of troubled waters I am floating like a ferry into the unknown,

With no ties, no bonds of love, affection or solace,

There is no shelter, no pardon, no vast forgiveness.

After ploughing darkness the whole day I return home,

Through the night I sow seeds of pain in my heart �

I know you are my safe-haven, the warm waters to return to,

You are like a mother�s aanchal �come back pure gold.

I am being destroyed by the seasons, nature and adverse times,

Man�s cruelty, and my own unforgiving conscience.

I am being destroyed at once both by love and the lack of it �

My tears with love I feel have far exceeded my tears without it.

I am beheaded by the formless knife of anarchy,

I am burnt by the restless hooves of the horses of distrust.

I fearfully keep rolled up the tender wings of faith,

The Ashwin moon rises and gets to know the distrusted name.
All around the blind waters raise their hoods � come back arrows,

Come back straws, the body made of glowing wood.

Come back deliverance, lift me up fully,

My failures, sins, love, hate and affections.

The extremely rapid flow of nighttime, comes and strongly pulls me away,

Come back certainty, come back the dawn of my sunshine.�

But to whom would I return? He would only cause me greater sorrow. Even though I
knew it would hurt me, I still read his poem �Graveyard�, and tears gathered in my
eyes. I broke down in love and pain.

�I put forward my hand of desire, it returns after touching emptiness.

You are not there, a blacked out lamp burns alone in the fore-front

Like a pair of stone cold human eyes,

While the thirsty body is filled with painful wailing.

The soft light of the moon dies in the Agrahan night,

What lives is love and the shining, star-spangled memories.

Your emptiness is surrounded by long sighs, and the scent of pain,

Hundreds of graveyards are pervaded by your absence and remain awake.�

I had settled into my life in Mymensingh. I decorated my room at Aubokash again.

The daughter of the house was back. Actually the daughter of the house had been at
home always; only once in a while she �disappeared�. Those bouts of
�disappearance� had now come to an end. But had they completely ended! On one
melancholic evening, �Come to Dhaka, I am waiting for you� was the telegram I
received. Immediately I was tossing in a wild wind. That I was related to Rudra no
more, that I had snapped all connections, was something I completely forgot, and
taking two days leave, I ran to Dhaka. I knocked on the door, Rudra opened it. As
though he knew I would come. Silently, wordlessly, we stood before each other. A
warm hand touched me lightly. This one touch caused a lightning to spread through
my whole body. He held me in a deep embrace for a long time. He wept. On my
shoulders and chest fell the tear drops. Pain collected at the base of my throat
choking it. �Don�t cry,� these small words remained buried under the collected
sorrow. I wiped away his tears. I looked at his room. It was exactly as before, in
the same manner. I looked with my two eyes at my household. Rudra kissed my
shoulders, neck, chin, breast, lips, eyelids and all over my body as before.
Untouched for so long, my body surrendered as soon as it felt Rudra�s touch. As
though our life was the same as before. As though like before we were dreaming of
a married life in which we were exchanging our hearts and bodies. I was unable to
think that Rudra was no one to me any more. Satiated with our sexual union, Rudra
lifted my chin and laughingly said, �Ki, don�t you think of yourself as a very
pure person! Now, what? I am not your husband, how come you slept with me!�

Putting my two hands on both his cheeks, I laughed. Caressing his whole face with
my fingers, I said, �I love you; that�s why.�

�If you love me, then why did you go away in the first place? And since you did
leave then why have you come back now?�

�That is because you called me.�

�So what if I did, you have not kept any connection with me.�

�I am still battling with myself.�

�Why battling?�

�So that I can love myself. By loving another so much, what happened was, I
completely forgot one should also love oneself.�

Rudra lay resting his head on my breast like a small baby. I stroked his hair with
my fingers. He said, �Let�s go to the lawyer again, and tell him not to prepare
the talaq documents.�

I smiled sadly.

That night I was attacked by high fever. Even the next day the temperature kept
rising. In the afternoon, Rudra got up from next to my fever-ridden body, on
hearing someone�s footsteps. Someone was knocking at the door. Who it was, who
knew! Rudra was speaking to the guest in the next room. I moaned for a little
water, but Rudra was not there. He returned after an hour or two, for a little
while.

�Who has come?�

�Nellie.�

That Nellie! Rudra�s Nellie khala.

Bits of Rudra and Nellie�s conversation, laughter, loud laughter, whispers and
giggles floated into the bedroom. I was racked by it all and the fever. I kept
thinking that even today Rudra was in love with Nellie. There were some feelings
which remained even after a relationship was over. My fever did not make me shiver
as much as did the pangs of loneliness. After another two hours, when Rudra
returned to the bedroom after sending Nellie off, in my feverish, but strong
voice, I asked, �How did Nellie know the address of this house?�

�She has come before.�

�She comes often, does she?�

�Not often. Only sometimes.�

�Oh.�
Was I a little jealous? Yes. When I spoke, it sounded like delirious raving,
�Whenever I am away, you do not remain mine any more, you became anyone�s
playmate. I do not call any man my own.�

What sounded like my delirious ranting continued, �I know what the nuptial night
means. I know what it is to stay awake on a dangerous night in a port. I know, my
bones and flesh know, so does every fisherman on the sampans, every cargo
labourer; the morning launch also knows, and do you know any less? How destructive
love can be, that someone who does not know how to swim, sinks herself in the
waters of the Rupsha and actually floats back again. From the other end of the
sky, swaying in a litter carried by four bearers, after burning in the flames of
doubts, she returns to place her face and cry out again in the weak arms of the
same drunkard who lies fallen in the drains. This innocent girl returns from
another city to drink sip by sip the blood and pus picked up from Banishanta. You
are drunk, deep in sleep, but you know no less. How many times I have lifted you
on to the raft and been wretched and worn out every time, while on the tired
waters of the Jamuna.�

***

The day the fever abated, we both went out. Just like before. In the university
grounds, a meeting was going on of some new poets. We too were to participate in
this meet. We sat on the grass, just as we used to. The meeting was to organize a
poetry festival to oppose Ershad�s Asian Poetry Festival. Some young poets, Rudra
and I signed on a paper to having attended the first meeting of the National
Poetry Society as members. Rudra was always very enthusiastic about all these
things. He had been writing poetry against the autocratic government for a long
time. Now he had a deadly weapon in his hand, to oppose one festival with another.
A few poets who supported the government and Islam, who could be counted on one�s
fingers were in Ershad�s party. The rest were with the National Poetry Festival.
With this handful of poets only, Ershad had given his poetry festival the name
Asian Poetry Festival. The Asian was arranged in a closed hall, the National on
the streets. The Asian sank into a well and the National swam in the sea.

***

When Rudra�s enthusiasm about the National Festival was at its height, and he
wanted to run here and there, he was unable to. Forget about running, even if he
walked, his legs pained. Earlier they pained if he walked ten yards, now they
pained after only four yards. The distance was reducing every day. Rudra still did
not lose his eagerness, even if he had to halt; he continued to walk. The big toe
on his right foot was changing colour, turning blackish, the blackish colour was
turning dull. It was as though this was not a toe, but the root of a tree. The
illness was definitely Burger�s Disease. If gangrene set into the toe, there would
be no option but amputation. I was blue with fear. �Stop smoking. Your blood
circulation is getting blocked. This is a kind of peripheral vascular disease. You
are getting intermittent clodication. It is happening in your calf muscles, in
your foot. After this even when your foot is at rest, it will pain,� I told Rudra.
Rudra didn�t believe all this could be caused by smoking. So many people smoked,
they didn�t get it! �Everyone doesn�t get it, some do�, I said. �My advice was
treated like pages of bad poetry, torn into bits and thrown away. Hoping he would
listen to a reputed doctor, I took him to the B.N. Medical Hall at the corner of
Shantinagar, to Dr. Prajesh Kumar Ray. Dr. Prajesh Kumar Ray said the same things
I had repeatedly told him, �You have to give up smoking. Otherwise there will be
no option but to amputate your foot.� The doctor prescribed some medicines. For as
long as I was in Dhaka, I made Rudra take his medicines regularly, made him soak
his feet in hot water, so that even if only a little, his veins and arteries
dilated somewhat. I snatched cigarettes from Rudra�s lips and threw them away. He
got very angry. Pushing me aside he went to drink liquor every evening. If he had
money to spare, he went to Sakura, otherwise to Methorpatti. If he spotted any
pretty girl, on the streets, even while he was on the rickshaw, he would wink at
her and whistle, and yell, �Special Stuff� and laugh loudly. There had been a
talaq between the two of us, so I was no deterrent for Rudra in these kinds of
antics. When was I anyway! Before leaving for Mymensingh, I repeatedly asked him
to take his medicines regularly, to follow the doctor�s advice, and impressed on
him, that there was nothing more valuable than life. I did not feel I was Rudra�s
beloved or wife, I felt more like a friend, a well-wisher, a doctor.

***

Rudra continues to remain addicted to liquor, cigarettes, ganja, charas and women.
And Rudra continues to be my addiction, something I try my best to get rid of. On
the one hand, Rudra completely drunk keeps saying,

You are my living crutch, I want you.

Wherever I go, wherever I turn,

Whether in my memory or future,

I want you now.�

No, my life is not for becoming someone�s living crutch. I cannot sacrifice my own
life to become another�s crutch. I feel sorry for Rudra, but more than that, I
feel sorry for myself.

The End