A Golden Age by Tahmima Anam Page A

her frame in limp, deflated folds, nudged her rice with a spoon. Rehana realized how much she had neglected her daughter. The food turned grainy and sour in her mouth. Sohail was the only one eating, smacking his fingers together and smiling into his plate.
They said nothing of what was about to happen.
After the sweets and the halwa, Sohail rubbed his hands together and prepared to go.
‘They’re going to meet me in Sadarghat.’ ‘Should I get you a rickshaw?’
‘Na.’
Just let me go, she heard him say. He turned to Maya, who had set her mouth into a thin line. He gripped her shoulders. She looked brittle between his hands. When he pulled her towards himself, she crumpled.
‘Get the bastards,’ she whispered. Then she turned and left them.
The light flickered.
‘I hate to let you go,’ Rehana said. She saw him looking at the creases on her forehead, the ones she had named 1959 and 1960 . And she saw the scar under his chin, the one he had named Silvi .
‘Go,’ she said finally. ‘God goes with you.’
And then he was gone, his room tidied, the sheets tucked neatly into the mattress, his books lined up straight on the shelf, a small gap where Ghazals of Mirza Ghalib and Collected Poems of Dylan Thomas had sat beside each other, their frayed, loved, monsoon-waved pages pressed into line. She smiled at the choice. He had already memorized the poems and worn out the spines, but he would surely recite the verses to his soldier
     
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friends, who, despite being fierce and gun-wielding, would listen in rapt attention.
     

After Sohail left, Rehana resolved to confront her daughter. But Maya was evanescent; somehow even when she was sitting right in front of her it was as if she wasn’t there. She behaved as though no one had told her that once the war began there would be nothing for her to do but wait. No one had told her that she would only be allowed to imagine it from a distance. No one had told her how lonely, how hot, how tiresome, the days would be. And no one had told her that her friend would be the first to go.
She began spending all her time at the university, leaving as soon as the morning curfew was lifted, ignoring the breakfast Rehana offered, bolting through the door with only a few rushed words, and every evening returning just before the siren, looking exhausted and tense. When Rehana asked her what she did all day she said she had work to do .
In truth, it was a relief when she left the house every morning. Even the trees seemed to relax. Rehana tried not to let her im- agination run loose around the empty house. She spent the days in stunned efficiency, counting and recounting the supplies, lis- tening to the radio and discovering the violence that had been wrought upon the country. The deaths. The arrests. The children with no parents. The mothers with empty laps. The ones who simply vanished, leaving behind a comb or a pair of shoes.
Mrs Akram and Mrs Rahman came to visit. ‘Mrs Chowdhury said you’ve been upset,’ Mrs Rahman began.
Sohail had instructed her not to say anything about his depart- ure. ‘It’s been very difficult. Everyone’s gone – the Senguptas – and you remember that girl, Sharmeen, Maya’s friend? We can’t find her anywhere.’
‘We should all go,’ Mrs Akram said. ‘It’s not safe for our chil- dren.’
     
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‘Why should we go?’ Mrs Rahman said. ‘We don’t have to run away like criminals. This is our city. Let them march around and pretend they’ve taken over – I’m not leaving. I passed by those soldiers on my way here – they’re just little boys, younger than my own children. They expect me to be afraid!’
There was something comical about Mrs Rahman’s bravado, but Rehana didn’t feel like smiling.
‘Will you go, Rehana?’ Mrs Akram asked. ‘Don’t you have sisters in Pakistan?’
‘Pakistan?’ Mrs Rahman said. ‘Why on earth should she go to Pakistan? You know what they would do to us over there?’
‘No,’ Rehana said slowly,