The posters hanging on the wall. Mao Tse-Tung. Che Guevara. Karl Marx. He wouldn’t tell her
81
when he was leaving, or how he was planning to get out of the city.
‘It’s better if you don’t know,’ he said.
She unearthed an irritated, argumentative version of herself. ‘Why? Why is it better if I don’t know?’
‘Because that way if anyone asks, you can say you don’t know.’
She was tired. She wanted to be stubborn. It reassured her to dictate the terms of his leaving. ‘No. I have to be here when you go. Tell Aref and Joy to pick you up. There’s no need for secrecy,’ she said; ‘just tell them to come here. I want to know the moment you step out of that door, the moment you cross that gate. I want to say Aytul Kursi and Surah Yahseen.’
‘All right,’ he sighed. He was folding his shirts.
All this time Maya was standing under the doorframe, her feet on the raised threshold.
‘I have something for you,’ she said. It was a package wrapped in delicate red paper. It looked soft.
‘What is it?’ Rehana asked. ‘Open it later,’ Maya said.
Rehana wanted a brother. Someone to give going-away pres- ents to. Someone to love without worry.
Rehana went to see Mrs Chowdhury. She thought she might tell her the news: about Sohail, and the boys leaving their stolen sup- plies in her corridors, and Sharmeen disappearing. She imagined Mrs Chowdhury holding her hands and telling her it would all be put right, like she used to.
Mrs Chowdhury was sitting on her veranda, facing the coconut trees in her garden. When Rehana leaned over to kiss her cheek, she found henna paste smeared into Mrs Chowdhury’s hair.
‘Any news of the Senguptas?’ Her breath was eggy.
‘Nothing. I thought they might write. Where is Silvi?’ She hadn’t seen Silvi since that night.
‘In her room. Praying, probably. All she does these days.’ Mrs
82
Chowdhury waved away the plate of sliced papaya the cook had brought her. ‘What’s this? Bring me the samosas!’
‘No fried things, khalamma. Silvi apa’s orders.’
‘I don’t care. I’ll eat samosas if I want to. Go!’ And she snapped her fingers, which were heavy with generations of gold rings.
Rehana smiled indulgently at Mrs Chowdhury and realized that, in some quarters of the city, life was going on as before. Women were arguing for samosas. People were taking briefcases to work and frowning over their typewriters.
Mrs Chowdhury misunderstood Rehana’s silence. ‘Don’t worry, darling. The Senguptas will soon return.’
‘Times are bad, Mrs Chowdhury.’
‘Nonsense. Things will soon return to normal. It will all be done in no time.’
The words, when they came, did not comfort Rehana. She wondered if Mrs Chowdhury had been out of the house since the massacre, if she’d seen the death-coated city. Her dog had died, that appeared to be the extent of it. Rehana felt waves of hot and cold pummel her; she gripped the seat and swayed.
‘Oh, my dear, you’re about to faint!’ Mrs Chowdhury clapped again. ‘Ei, get over here, you goodfornothings, bring some ice water. Hurry!’
Rehana closed her eyes and waited; the ice water was put to her lips; she drank, pressed her back against the sofa. I’ll just lie here for a few minutes, she told herself. Just a few minutes.
‘Tomorrow,’ Sohail whispered. ‘We’re leaving tomorrow.’
Even though she had left him alone to pack his bag, she could not help unzipping it to see what he’d taken. She counted a few shirts. A lungi. She felt the plastic of his toothbrush. It was like combing her hands through his hair. Satisfied, she left for the kitchen.
She had prepared a feast. It had kept her calm throughout the day. So much to do.
There was shrimp malai curry.
83
Polao.
Chitol fish, which she’d had to debone and shape into balls.
Chicken roast. Shami kabab. Dal, extra thick.
This is my duty, she said to herself. Sending my son to war with a full stomach.
They ate.
Maya, whose clothes suddenly hung over
81
when he was leaving, or how he was planning to get out of the city.
‘It’s better if you don’t know,’ he said.
She unearthed an irritated, argumentative version of herself. ‘Why? Why is it better if I don’t know?’
‘Because that way if anyone asks, you can say you don’t know.’
She was tired. She wanted to be stubborn. It reassured her to dictate the terms of his leaving. ‘No. I have to be here when you go. Tell Aref and Joy to pick you up. There’s no need for secrecy,’ she said; ‘just tell them to come here. I want to know the moment you step out of that door, the moment you cross that gate. I want to say Aytul Kursi and Surah Yahseen.’
‘All right,’ he sighed. He was folding his shirts.
All this time Maya was standing under the doorframe, her feet on the raised threshold.
‘I have something for you,’ she said. It was a package wrapped in delicate red paper. It looked soft.
‘What is it?’ Rehana asked. ‘Open it later,’ Maya said.
Rehana wanted a brother. Someone to give going-away pres- ents to. Someone to love without worry.
Rehana went to see Mrs Chowdhury. She thought she might tell her the news: about Sohail, and the boys leaving their stolen sup- plies in her corridors, and Sharmeen disappearing. She imagined Mrs Chowdhury holding her hands and telling her it would all be put right, like she used to.
Mrs Chowdhury was sitting on her veranda, facing the coconut trees in her garden. When Rehana leaned over to kiss her cheek, she found henna paste smeared into Mrs Chowdhury’s hair.
‘Any news of the Senguptas?’ Her breath was eggy.
‘Nothing. I thought they might write. Where is Silvi?’ She hadn’t seen Silvi since that night.
‘In her room. Praying, probably. All she does these days.’ Mrs
82
Chowdhury waved away the plate of sliced papaya the cook had brought her. ‘What’s this? Bring me the samosas!’
‘No fried things, khalamma. Silvi apa’s orders.’
‘I don’t care. I’ll eat samosas if I want to. Go!’ And she snapped her fingers, which were heavy with generations of gold rings.
Rehana smiled indulgently at Mrs Chowdhury and realized that, in some quarters of the city, life was going on as before. Women were arguing for samosas. People were taking briefcases to work and frowning over their typewriters.
Mrs Chowdhury misunderstood Rehana’s silence. ‘Don’t worry, darling. The Senguptas will soon return.’
‘Times are bad, Mrs Chowdhury.’
‘Nonsense. Things will soon return to normal. It will all be done in no time.’
The words, when they came, did not comfort Rehana. She wondered if Mrs Chowdhury had been out of the house since the massacre, if she’d seen the death-coated city. Her dog had died, that appeared to be the extent of it. Rehana felt waves of hot and cold pummel her; she gripped the seat and swayed.
‘Oh, my dear, you’re about to faint!’ Mrs Chowdhury clapped again. ‘Ei, get over here, you goodfornothings, bring some ice water. Hurry!’
Rehana closed her eyes and waited; the ice water was put to her lips; she drank, pressed her back against the sofa. I’ll just lie here for a few minutes, she told herself. Just a few minutes.
‘Tomorrow,’ Sohail whispered. ‘We’re leaving tomorrow.’
Even though she had left him alone to pack his bag, she could not help unzipping it to see what he’d taken. She counted a few shirts. A lungi. She felt the plastic of his toothbrush. It was like combing her hands through his hair. Satisfied, she left for the kitchen.
She had prepared a feast. It had kept her calm throughout the day. So much to do.
There was shrimp malai curry.
83
Polao.
Chitol fish, which she’d had to debone and shape into balls.
Chicken roast. Shami kabab. Dal, extra thick.
This is my duty, she said to herself. Sending my son to war with a full stomach.
They ate.
Maya, whose clothes suddenly hung over
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