for plain toast. ‘I’m making your breakfast,’ she announces, heading into the kitchen.
I turn to Mirza. ‘How much money do you make on the bazaar every day?’
He looks offended. ‘Choto Babu, I’m an honest—’
‘Mirza!’
He scratches the back of his head and looks around furtively.
‘I won’t tell Ma.’
He grins apologetically, backs towards the door. ‘Choto Babu, just enough for my bidis, paan and afternoon tea at the stall where servants from other houses meet. It’s my only entertainment.’
My sister joins me at the table. Freshly made parathas and a spicy omelette with chopped green chillies and diced red onions appear within minutes. Nasreen has dry toast and pineapple juice.
I’m on my second cup of tea when the phone rings. I can hear Ma’s voice, cautious at first, then syrupy and compliant. She calls out to me.
It’s Alya, inviting me to go to the village factory on Monday. It’s a convenient arrangement, we agree. While she checks the accounts, talks to the workers and takes stock of supplies, I can visit Uncle Musa.
The conversation lasts no more than a couple of minutes. Yet it’s enough to send Ma into a swoon of encouraging words.
I look pleadingly at Nasreen. She continues to file her nails.
Over the years, I’ve been tempted to tell Ma about Mrs Bennett. I must find out if Jane Austen has been translated into Bangla. I would like to advise my mother that I don’t possess the large fortune necessary to qualify me for that famous universal truth.
I can guess the way Ma’s mind is working. A whirlwind courtship is to be followed by a brief period of engagement and a grand wedding. It wouldn’t surprise me if she has already started preparing a guest list. I ignore her praise of Alya’s personal virtues and escape to the lounge to read the newspapers. But this only excites Ma’s attention.
‘There’s no need to be embarrassed,’ she coos,following me to the lounge. ‘Alya’s a fine person. Very caring and generous. She’s still capable of having children.’
‘Ma, I’m going with her to see her cottage-industry factory! It’ll also give me the chance to see Uncle Musa. That’s all I’m interested in.’
Distracted, Ma presses the palms of her hands against her cheeks. ‘May Allah forgive Musa Bhai for his sins.’
‘Allah allows him four marriages. As Uncle Musa says, he can marry once more before committing a sin.’
‘But that stupid girl is young enough to be his great-granddaughter!’ she protests. ‘What will people say?’
‘They’ll probably be envious of his virility.’
She presses her lips together and does not speak.
I’m quite looking forward to seeing old Walnuts.
I return to the city’s leading English newspaper. There have been bomb blasts in Baghdad and Kabul. I’m attracted to the bold print that summarises today’s feature article on pages seven and eight. ‘WHERE IS HE?’ Under the headline there’s a photograph of Bin Laden.
‘When are you going to Manikpur?’ Ma asks.
‘Monday.’
Bin Laden has a look-alike and never stays in the same place for more than a few days, the writer, Shabir Jamal, contends. Sometimes he moves twice or thrice on the same night. A chain of guards and messengers is constantly on watch for army patrols. Communication is only by word of mouth. Fit young men are trained to run stealthily and whisper information and instructions beyond the reach of satellite intelligence. According toJamal, cell phones are only used for conversations that are intended to mislead and confuse: often there is veiled talk about attacks on Western nations when no such plans exist. The purpose is to maintain a state of panic and financially bleed the rich countries.
I’m curious. How does Shabir Jamal know? Or is this speculative journalism?
‘Shall I get Mirza to prepare some food to take with you to Manikpur?’ Ma hovers near me.
‘They’ll probably be back before lunch,’ Nasreen interrupts, then
I turn to Mirza. ‘How much money do you make on the bazaar every day?’
He looks offended. ‘Choto Babu, I’m an honest—’
‘Mirza!’
He scratches the back of his head and looks around furtively.
‘I won’t tell Ma.’
He grins apologetically, backs towards the door. ‘Choto Babu, just enough for my bidis, paan and afternoon tea at the stall where servants from other houses meet. It’s my only entertainment.’
My sister joins me at the table. Freshly made parathas and a spicy omelette with chopped green chillies and diced red onions appear within minutes. Nasreen has dry toast and pineapple juice.
I’m on my second cup of tea when the phone rings. I can hear Ma’s voice, cautious at first, then syrupy and compliant. She calls out to me.
It’s Alya, inviting me to go to the village factory on Monday. It’s a convenient arrangement, we agree. While she checks the accounts, talks to the workers and takes stock of supplies, I can visit Uncle Musa.
The conversation lasts no more than a couple of minutes. Yet it’s enough to send Ma into a swoon of encouraging words.
I look pleadingly at Nasreen. She continues to file her nails.
Over the years, I’ve been tempted to tell Ma about Mrs Bennett. I must find out if Jane Austen has been translated into Bangla. I would like to advise my mother that I don’t possess the large fortune necessary to qualify me for that famous universal truth.
I can guess the way Ma’s mind is working. A whirlwind courtship is to be followed by a brief period of engagement and a grand wedding. It wouldn’t surprise me if she has already started preparing a guest list. I ignore her praise of Alya’s personal virtues and escape to the lounge to read the newspapers. But this only excites Ma’s attention.
‘There’s no need to be embarrassed,’ she coos,following me to the lounge. ‘Alya’s a fine person. Very caring and generous. She’s still capable of having children.’
‘Ma, I’m going with her to see her cottage-industry factory! It’ll also give me the chance to see Uncle Musa. That’s all I’m interested in.’
Distracted, Ma presses the palms of her hands against her cheeks. ‘May Allah forgive Musa Bhai for his sins.’
‘Allah allows him four marriages. As Uncle Musa says, he can marry once more before committing a sin.’
‘But that stupid girl is young enough to be his great-granddaughter!’ she protests. ‘What will people say?’
‘They’ll probably be envious of his virility.’
She presses her lips together and does not speak.
I’m quite looking forward to seeing old Walnuts.
I return to the city’s leading English newspaper. There have been bomb blasts in Baghdad and Kabul. I’m attracted to the bold print that summarises today’s feature article on pages seven and eight. ‘WHERE IS HE?’ Under the headline there’s a photograph of Bin Laden.
‘When are you going to Manikpur?’ Ma asks.
‘Monday.’
Bin Laden has a look-alike and never stays in the same place for more than a few days, the writer, Shabir Jamal, contends. Sometimes he moves twice or thrice on the same night. A chain of guards and messengers is constantly on watch for army patrols. Communication is only by word of mouth. Fit young men are trained to run stealthily and whisper information and instructions beyond the reach of satellite intelligence. According toJamal, cell phones are only used for conversations that are intended to mislead and confuse: often there is veiled talk about attacks on Western nations when no such plans exist. The purpose is to maintain a state of panic and financially bleed the rich countries.
I’m curious. How does Shabir Jamal know? Or is this speculative journalism?
‘Shall I get Mirza to prepare some food to take with you to Manikpur?’ Ma hovers near me.
‘They’ll probably be back before lunch,’ Nasreen interrupts, then
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