It was a moonlit night – I wouldn't have known had I not gone to the rooftop.
When Ismat and I climbed up to the rooftop to talk in peace, it was still dark. A few kanakchapas from the end of the season seemed to play hide and seek from the branches of the bare bush. They smelled better than they looked. Ismat used to value such things in the past but now she didn't seem to care. She held the teacup to her chest and stared at nothing. Resignedly, I pushed the cane chair towards her and sat on the swing myself. In the dusky light we faced each other, silently. There was a time when we couldn't sleep without confiding in each other. That was probably two decades ago. And now – we couldn't speak of our innermost feelings but at least we could talk about other people. How long could we just sit there like thunderstruck people? I forced the words out of my mouth – ‘Your family used to speak in Urdu before. When did they start with Bangla?’
Only the sound of a throat clearing came from the other side.
And yet, I had heard about their practice of Urdu from Ismat herself. When we began to frequent their house in the eighties though, the only signs left of that connection were the arms full of glass bangles on the women of the household and the fact that they addressed their elder sisters as ‘Baji.’ Why didn't she want to talk about this now? Or did she not trust me anymore?
I said, ‘In those days, the elite Muslims of Kolkata used to speak Urdu. I'm sure they didn't change as soon as they landed in Dhaka.’
‘No, they changed after the Bangladesh Independence.’ Ismat laughed. ‘Are you looking for new material for your writing?’
I couldn't even write about things I knew, and this was…. My mild desire to talk was snuffed like a lamp that had run out of oil.
Ismat had been suffering from schizophrenia for the last twenty years. It first manifested while she was studying in Scandinavia. I had felt hurt the last time I went to pick her up at the airport, but had no clue she was ill. Ismat had thrown a brief smile at us and climbed into her older brother-in-law's Toyota, while we stood packed like sardines in the terminal. We stared as the driver proceeded to stuff two massive suitcases into the trunk and Ismat relaxed among her sisters. When I think about it now, I feel that the look she gave us through the car window was one of deep sadness. Shathi and I wandered aimlessly through the airport and finally ordered some coffee at the restaurant on the second floor. We both loved Ismat very much. So, we could find no explanation for her behaviour, nor did we know how to reproach her for it. We drank our coffee silently. The planes landed and took off on the runway as the sun set behind the ploughed land beyond the airport. Without turning my head, I said to Shathi, ‘People change when they go abroad.’ Shathi seemed to be waiting to hear something just like this. She pounced instantly, ‘But that doesn't mean Ismat should change too!’
‘Just watch. We will too.’
Two days later, Ismat walked into our modest lodgings. At the time, Shathi and I were beyond the reach of our parents, our family. We were nine-to-five working women, struggling to survive in Dhaka city without any support from a man. We may not have had any friends, but there was no dearth of enemies. We were startled to see Ismat through the iron grille of our balcony. How haggard she had become in the last two days! She sat on the only chair in our room and smiled to herself. That was enough to rein both Shathi and I in. Although we might have been wearing blinders, we knew how shabby our surroundings were. Anyone returning from abroad was bound to find it disgusting. The two of us sat meekly on the floor. When Ismat finally spoke, our eyes opened wide in shock. What?! Boro Dulabhai knocked on her door whenever he felt like it? He was an angel! He was the only one who was apologetic the other day at the airport because there was no space in his car for us. The two older sisters had pretended not to know us. And Ismat here was dismissing everything with a smile!
‘He probably thought I had just come from the land of free sex, so I wouldn't be too picky about whether he was my brother or brother-in-law.’
Ismat shocked us even more when she said her two older sisters had banded together against her. They were staking out on the balcony outside her room to drive her crazy and out of the house. Her elderly parents had joined them too.
Ismat did not actually go mad and leave the house but she was suspicious even now. Recently, a doctor had named these symptoms ‘Thought Sharing.’ No one actually said what they thought of her, but Ismat believed she heard their thoughts.
I squirmed uncomfortably and disturbed the swing's rhythm. Even though my lips were locked now, didn't Ismat realise she was not welcome here? I wanted, rather, to go to my room to write. A number of papers were clamouring for my articles. In fact, I would have preferred talking with my family about market prices, the rat race among my colleagues to attend workshops and seminars abroad, the terrible state of affairs in the country. There would be no need to hide my thoughts, at least not inside my own home.
I was just about to get off the swing when, from behind the enormous pillars of the new construction next door, peeped the huge reddish moon. Ismat stirred. In other words, she seemed to be getting ready to say what she had planned to when she left her house without telling anyone.
The moon grew larger. Its bright light passed over the plants in the flowerpots to our faces. The moon's bright light?! Ismat began to tell a story from the eighties. It was one of ours. The Bishwa Shahitya Kendra had just opened, its library filled with many literary volumes from different countries, and a grassy lawn in front. It had a concrete platform under the trees with folding chairs, an arrangement for tea and snacks, and a mix of conversation between young men and women – a scene unfamiliar in a middle-class area of Dhaka. We were ecstatic. The three of us were returning in a rickshaw along Manik Mia Avenue, the Aarong building straight ahead. There was no giant billboard on top of the building then, and we saw the sun setting behind the building. One of us yelled out, ‘What a beautiful moon!’
Ismat giggled when she finished the story. I laughed along with her. Moonlight in the daytime – who said that? The face of a soft-spoken romantic girl came to mind but I couldn't remember her words.
What I did remember was the strip of river beyond the green dome of the Shia Mosque we could see from the fourth-floor rooftop of Ismat’s home. Many confused moments of our lives were spent smoking cigarettes behind the locked door of that rooftop and watching the changing faces of the river. The city was trampling the rivers and canals in its mad rush to grow. At that spot now stood the huge matchbox-like apartments of Japan Garden City.
‘We're growing older but the changes are not happening according to plan.’
‘My life, like this country, is in shambles.‘
‘I'm actually sorry for the country. Poor thing. It has no future.’
‘Worse times are coming.’
‘Hundreds of years ago on this day, a monkey in the jungle presented Gautam Buddha with honey.’
We had been talking without hearing each other all evening. Not like before. What's gone is gone forever.
The night grew longer. The moon shone so brightly that not only were the hands on my watch visible, we could have found needles on the floor as well. Ismat sat, still as stone, the wrist with the watch on it lying on her lap.
‘Don’t you go to the rooftop anymore?‘
‘I can't even stay in my own room!’
‘No matter how sad we were, we used to go to the rooftop instead of sitting in our rooms. And we’d lament about everything between the heavens and the earth.’
‘I didn't imagine then that I'd have no roof over my head.’
My heart trembled at Ismat’s words.
I floated along on the moonlight and returned to my recent visit to the village of Chatta in Baarhatta. Through the trees, the light shone down in patterns on the front yard where the girls clapped their hands and danced as they sang, ’Tumra oi shunona go/Joler ghaate chikon kala/Amay dake go./O she je amay dake/Amay dake go.’ [Listen, my dears/There stands my love by the water's edge/Calling me. /O he calls me/and he calls me to him.]
‘Hey, don’t the men in your family mind that you’re singing such songs for all to hear?’
The women winked at each other at my words. ‘Oh, they don't mind at all! We're singing songs about Radha-Krishna. Where's the harm in that?’
‘The men of Baarhatta are fools!’
For the first time, Ismat laughed out loud like in the eighties.
‘Fools – or too clever – I don't know. I went for a day for my research. How could I figure out their darkest secrets just by listening to a few songs and asking a few questions like an intellectual?’
‘I think those women are the real smart ones. Hiding behind Radha.’ Ismat joked like before.
‘They know how to survive. And the roofs over their heads must be sturdy.’
‘Hmm. They have their cake and eat it too.’
‘We're the real fools.’ My voice sounded soft, even to my ears.
‘So you go for training to the village, just like that?’
‘What's the harm? City people are constantly trying to teach the villagers a thing or two: how to clean butts after shitting. If you don't have money to buy soap, use a pinch of ash to clean your hands.’
‘Who knows who's civilised and who's not.’ Ismat let out a deep sigh. Her own brother, born from the same womb, had come home from Spain after seven years. He had called his divorcee sister a whore. Prostitute. Did anyone, except a whore, leave their husband just because he snored in his sleep?
‘Did you hear this yourself?’
‘You know, that's a problem. Everyone asks questions like a doctor.’
‘Is your brother here for good? Then there’ll be trouble.’
Foreign calls were cheap these days. So the parents had whined and cried on the phone: how could they bear their only son living abroad away from them? Who would carry their coffins on his shoulder? They had four daughters, of course – daughters who ignored their own homes to shop for their parents, take them to the doctor's, pay the bills, but they couldn't shoulder the coffins. So the son came back. And as soon as he arrived, he took the reins from his old father, and almost came to blows with him!
Did Ismat see these things with her own eyes? This wasn't a case of the doctor's theory of thought-sharing, concerned only with the ears or mind. So I had no reason to disbelieve my old friend's eyes. I was sad. It hadn't been a month since his return, and already the brother had taken back all the gifts he brought for his sister – the hair dryer, the perfume, and everything else. Ismat would have nowhere to go should her parents die. The brother would kick her out of the house with just the clothes on her back. The sisters may hold each other and cry for a bit though. Our shadows looked ghostly in the moonlight and I wanted to run away again…
If one tiptoed along the muddy path under the shade of the bamboo grove, one would arrive at a yard that was as clean as the palm of a hand. Music played there; songs were sung: ‘Ghaat pichchul, pantha picchul, picchuliya maati go/Pichchla ghaate achhar khaiya/Bhainga ailam kolshi go.’ [The bank is slippery; the path is slippery; slippery is the earth/I fell on that slippery bank/ And returned with a broken waterpot.]
‘You actually want to run away.’
Ismat's response startled me. She cackled like a mad woman. ‘Am I a tiger or a bear?’
Seeing my grim face, Ismat stopped laughing and looked at her watch. It wasn't even eight yet, so the question of leaving didn't arise. Perhaps she was thinking about going to Shathi's. Seemed like she had given up on Cousin Saira's place.
’What kind of girl is Saira, anyway?’ I was curious. I'd heard a lot about her but never met her in person.
‘Good.’ Ismat's voice dropped. ‘But all sheltered relatives are forbidden to walk even to the shop at the end of the alley to recharge their phones. They must take the car.’
Ismat, after all, was the first cousin of a rich man's wife. Even the security guards at the house wouldn't stand it if they walked. And yet, this honourable relative of the rich man was sleeping in a medium-sized room in the servants’ quarters with the maids. These were the so-called elite of Gulshan.
Ismat, though, had no problem with the servants' quarters. She had managed to get the old maidservant, Lal Chan's Ma, on her side. They had an unwritten agreement – Lal Chan's Ma could turn on the lights before dawn to pray, Ismat could smoke whenever she felt like it, and the two young maids could watch movies and Hindi songs and dances on the 14" black and white tv whenever they wanted. If anyone had a problem with this contract, they could leave.
I found the contract quite agreeable too. If Ismat had been well, she would have been teaching at a university, but it seemed like she had adjusted quite well to living in the servants' quarters. But ultimately, it was Ismat who had been forced to leave the house. Why? Sternly, I said, ‘That Saira is the root cause of all this!’
Ismat was astounded. Saira had no inkling of the contract. The girl was naturally very helpful. She wasn't so heartless that she would abandon the maid who had brought her up just because she had aged. The old woman could eat and pray on her bed, and there were the two young maids, and Ismat of course, who would help her to the bathroom behind the kitchen to shit or pee, and bathe. Lal Chan's Ma lived in style. Her son in the village was to be sent money in the first week of the month. No matter how rich someone is, they might still have some problems, but if the money was late by a day or two, tempers flared. When it came to calculating the days of the month, Lal Chan's Ma never made a mistake, even though she sometimes said her morning prayers twice because she forgot she had already prayed. If there was any delay in helping her to the bathroom, she would strike not only Asma and Rozina, but Ismat as well, with her palm hand fan. This palm hand fan was not in the contract. So Ismat would cry out in fear, ‘I'm not Asma or Rozina! I'm Munni!’ Ismat's nickname jogged the old woman's memory: ‘Oh, you're Mozammel Shaheb's young daughter, Mun-ni. I thought you went abroad. When did you come back?’ The fan would drop from her hands and the old woman would fall on the bed, shivering, instead of going to the toilet.
‘Oh, how ungrateful I am! I struck Mozammel Shaheb's young daughter! These hands will rot with leprosy for that!’
It was the same again the next day.
‘So the main culprit is that shameless woman, Lal Chan’s Ma?’
No, not her. Not even Asma or Rozina. If they could, they would hold Ismat high on their shoulders and dance. Who but Munni Afa could have arranged for them to watch tv day and night? Was it then the fault of Saira's husband who, like Boro Dulabhai, had some revolting ideas which he didn't act on but was found guilty of through thought-sharing? And it wouldn't be surprising even if he did do anything. Anything was possible for a man who had suddenly become a member of the elite in Gulshan with black money in his hands.
Aloud, I said, ‘I think Saira’s husband is the real culprit here.’
Ismat was very irritated at my suspicions. She lectured me on how terrible it was to guess and gossip about others without actually hearing anything with my own ears. I was ashamed. The next moment I felt scared – was this disease contagious? I had managed to pull the wool over Ismat's eyes for the last two decades and thought I had made it – but apparently not. This wasn't just a case of going to the doctor’s. Looked like there would be great trouble before that.
‘How’s your home life?’
I slumped and stared at my dwarf-like shadow. Silent. If she now wanted to talk about why she left Saira's house, I didn't want to hear it, even though that was the juiciest bit of talk all evening. Ismat was desperate. She swung the swing hard. ‘Hey! Are you sleeping? Tell me – how's your home life?’
The thick dwarf-like shadow scattered and shattered in the moonlight. I raised my eyes – Ismat looked animated. When Ismat used to sing in the hostel corridor on rainy days, I felt like throwing aside my books and going out in the rain right then. I could sit for exams later, but there could be no other joy than letting the rain wash over you.
My eyes looked through the mirror of the eighties and whispered, ‘Home life? Tolerable.’ Ismat's face grew dark. ‘Tolerable is good. You know that Shathi is learning to sing?’
Was this praise, or slander? What was she implying – that we were only pretending to be fine but we really were not? The mirror shattered. I hadn't met Shathi in a very long time. Ismat was still hankering after the past, but she was no longer the same. Were we still the same? Shathi had called suddenly about seven or eight years ago. Ismat should not hear of her pregnancy. I was astounded. What kind of talk was this from a woman with a husband and child? From the other end, the reply was ‘Ismat is never happy with any of our good news. I think she feels hurt and cries through the night.’
Perhaps. She was a closed book – we deduced whatever we wanted to without reading between the pages.
‘Don’t you sing anymore?’
Ismat curled up in the chair like a cat. Irritation sounded in the clearing of her throat. I had recorded Kangalini Sufia's songs about six months ago, but would a Rabindrasangeet singer appreciate that? ‘Ekta mala gaitha de/Pran shokhire/More nai, more nai biya'r shuwami/Gotokal aishase…’ [Make me a garland/my dear friends/He's not dead, not dead – my wedded husband/He visited yesterday…]
A memory. The first death anniversary of a thirteen- or fourteen-year-old grandson who would play the gypsy to his grandmother's songs. After the prayers, Kangalini sat by the open southern window, tambourine in hand. The transformer on an electric pole stood close by. The grandson had got tangled in one of its live wires and died. Kangalini Sufia sang one song after another. Her laments rose through her voice.
These stories had already been printed in books, and yet they felt like a dream.
‘Why don't you sing like before? People forget all their sorrows when they sing.’ I offered Ismat my advice as we climbed down the stairs.
‘I don’t even read the papers.‘
‘The news is uncontrollable. The country is worse off than in a state of emergency.’
‘There's no rape in this country, or acid-throwing, or homicide. Nothing. Seems like the street kids have forgotten how to eve-tease. The peacekeeping army is in complete control.’
Everyone enjoyed Ismat's conversation over dinner. Thank God! Even if she was crazy, she spoke fantastically and her head was clear.
The Tarabi prayers had not ended yet at the mosque next door. Perhaps I decided, because it was a moonlit night, that I would take a walk and accompany Ismat up to the main road. We walked along the silent alley, watching our shadows in front of us, and I listened to her talk. It wasn't even ten yet, but I'd have to face the canting when I returned home. Look, I'm forty-five years old. I don't have to give you any account of where I was till ten. I stopped when I saw Ismat's wrist raised towards my shadow. What a mad woman! A little further on, she stopped me again in the middle of the road – apparently, we were travelling backwards in a time machine to when we couldn't go out without permission from parents or a house tutor. It took us about fifteen minutes to make two rounds in this stop-and-go manner.
It was Eid time. The shopping malls by the roadside were decked in lights. Beautifully dressed men and women mingled among the rickshaws and cars. What a different world it was! It wasn't necessary to go to the markets anymore – everything was at our doorstep. I was dressed in my home clothes – and Ismat was in her eighties garb. We hid in the playful shadows under the mango tree. I would get her a rickshaw, then go. A motorbike with two riders rushed out from the shadows, almost hitting us. I grabbed her hand – ‘Did you hear that? What they said?’
‘Nope! What did they say?’ Ismat looked at me, surprised.
‘They asked if we'd go with them!’
‘They probably thought we were street beggars.’
‘No, floating whores. Those rascals are out girl-hunting.’
When I described what had happened, everyone at home stared disbelievingly: ‘Did you hear this with your own ears?’
How bothersome! Everyone asked questions like a doctor.
*
Shaheen Akhtar is a notable Bangladeshi short story writer and novelist. Her novel Talaash (translated into English by Ella Dutta as The Search and published by Zubaan, Delhi, in 2011) won the Asian Literary Award in 2020 and the Prothom Alo Best Book Award in 2004. Another novel, Shokhi Rongomala (Beloved Rongomala), originally published in translation (translator, Shabnam Nadiya) by Bengal Lights in 2018, was published by Westland in 2022. Her short stories have appeared in Words without Border and other prestigious literary magazines; ‘Chander Pahar,’ translated into English by Kabita Chakma as ‘The Moon Mountain,’ and ‘Emon Onek Raat Chchilo,’ translated as ‘Déjà vu’ by Arifa Ghani Rahman, appeared in Out of Print. Akhtar’s works have been translated into English, German, and Korean. In 2015, Akhtar received the Bangla Academy Literary Award, the highest national award for literature in Bangladesh.
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Arifa Ghani Rahman is Associate Professor and Head of the Department of English and Humanities at the University of Liberal Arts Bangladesh, Dhaka. She is the Executive Editor of Crossings: A Journal of English Studies. She also teaches online at Rivier University, New Hampshire, USA. In addition, she freelances as an editor and translator, with translations of several short stories, a book of poetry, one novel, and one autobiography to her credit. She likes to boast that she has spent approximately each decade of her life on a different continent.