Independence, page 21
In a week’s time a letter makes its way to Sharif: We would like to help Aliya and her daughter return to Abdullah Chacha in Calcutta. Tell us what to do. In two weeks an answer comes back. Priya had worried that Sharif would be suspicious that a Hindu family wanted to help Aliya return to India, but he says nothing of it. Possibly he thinks Aliya is a convert. Possibly there are other women like her in East Bengal, turned Muslim for one reason or another.
Sharif speaks of Aliya Apa with respect and of baby Sameera with affection, but the news he sends is troubling. An army captain, a powerful and dangerous man, has expressed interest in marrying Aliya once her mourning period is over. This man keeps her under close surveillance in her home in Dacca; his guards accompany her to the few places she is allowed to go. She will be hard to get to and harder to spirit away. Even Sharif has been unable to see her in several weeks; they communicate secretly through a network of servants, but that, too, has recently failed. I am trying hard to get in touch with Apa. Perhaps we can come up with a plan. Be patient. I will write again as soon as I have news.
* * *
One week passes without a letter. Two. A purgatory of waiting. Beneath Somnath’s jokes and teasing, his loud rivalry at chess, Priya feels anxiety pulsing like a carbuncle. He worries because there is no news, he worries more about what Amit will do once the news arrives. Priya cannot bear his distress; she makes an excuse to leave the room. Daily, dutifully, she listens to the news, because many momentous events are beginning to take shape: the Constitution penned, voting rights granted, the princely states starting to integrate into one great country. It all seems unreal to her. Her personal troubles, paltry though she knows them to be, overshadow the greatest national gains. Deepa waits in East Bengal, Arthur in America. Each day another set of missed classes at the Woman’s Medical College. And here is Priya, hobbled and useless.
Baba, I am failing you.
In the kitchen, Jamini’s displeasure deters Priya from helping. She visits the village clinic that was once her father’s to see if she can be of use, but the new doctor is uneasy with her presence. Nothing to do except go on aimless walks that end inevitably on the blackened porch of her home, to wait there until evening forces her back to the mansion. Priya has promised herself that she will avoid Amit; wordlessly he has understood and submitted himself to this sentence. She asks Somnath for permission to eat her night meal by herself in her room, but this he cannot bear; he has the maid bring food for the two of them to the veranda. For the first time, the Chowdhury family splits up at dinnertime. This affliction, too, Priya has brought upon them.
Chapter 25
Deepa
Each week she looks into her daughter’s trustful smiling face and says to herself, I cannot give up. Still, the shroud of despair tightens. Sharif’s maidservant, the one who brought his letters to Pari’s aunt, has gone missing. No one knows her whereabouts. Has she been imprisoned? Has she been tortured? Has she perhaps given them away? Fear chokes Deepa’s throat. She finds it difficult to sing and this alarms her more, for singing is her livelihood, her respite, her safety. The studio of Radio Dacca is a place Mamoon cannot forbid her to go, nor can he accompany her there without raising eyebrows. Her job brings her money—not too much, but she draws upon the skills she had learned after Nabakumar’s death and manages to cover household expenses. More important: as long as people continue to love her songs, as long as they send in hundreds of requests and letters and gifts each week, she cannot be disappeared, not without inquiry. She sings and sings, she is learning new songs each day, songs to inspire the youth, especially the college students who under Mujibur Rahman are becoming a force. Amra shakti amra bol, amra chhatra dol. We are power, we are strength, we the students. But also she sings love songs: Tomarei ami chahiachhi priyo. You are the only one I have wanted, beloved. The love songs are the most popular. At first she is taken aback; then she thinks, But of course. In a country still bleeding from its many wounds, what is a better poultice than the promise of everlasting passion?
When Deepa has almost given up hope of hearing from Sharif, Pari brings a letter. The maidservant had not been arrested after all. She had run off with a man only to discover that he cared more for her purse than her person, at which point she boxed his ears roundly, expounded at length on his genealogical connection to pigs, and returned to Korail and her job. Deepa opens the letter and discovers inside it another one, stained, crumpled, torn in places as though it had been carried around in a waistband. It is from Amit, he tells her not to be afraid, promises he will bring her home. Beneath his handwriting there are others, her sisters sending love, and at the very bottom, Bina. Daughter I am waiting to see you and my grandchild. O wondrous life, typhoons followed by rainbows. Deepa weeps, she laughs, she kisses Sameera a hundred times, making her giggle; she whirls Pari around the room until they are both breathless. That evening at Radio Dacca, in thankfulness she sings, though it is not the season, O mon Romjaner oi rojar sheshe elo khushir Eid. O my heart, Ramadan has ended and joyful Eid is here. Listeners hearing the fervor in her voice wipe their eyes and say, Mashallah, that Aliya Begum, truly she is devoted, it is always Eid in her heart.
* * *
That evening when Mamoon arrives, Deepa sits across from him in the drawing room and motions for Pari to leave. She pours his tea herself, adding the two spoons of sugar he likes. Then, for the first time, she lifts her veil. He stares at her, a pulse beats in his temple, but she can see from his eyes that he is suspicious also. He will be a difficult man to trick. Fortunately, the lies she has to tell today are small ones.
“Mamoon Sahab, I would like to ask your advice. I want to do something for our troops, those brave men, many of them separated from their families, risking their lives daily so we can sleep unworried at night. Would it be appropriate for me to sing something inspiring for them, for free of course, and from behind a curtain?”
He considers, frowning. She holds her breath. Finally he says he sees no harm in this, it is a generous thought. True, the soldiers live a hard life and experience few pleasures. They will appreciate the event, especially if she chooses the right kinds of songs. He can arrange for a small concert at the Kurmitola Cantonment, north of the city. She lowers her eyes, allows her lashes to flutter, thanks him prettily. A bitter amusement rises in her. She has not forgotten feminine guile, though it has been a long time since she employed it. With Raza there had been no need; he loved her as she was, with all her faults.
Don’t think of Raza now.
At the door she injects a tremor of uncertainty into her voice. “Maybe once I create a list of songs I could ask you to take a look? If it is not too much trouble?”
“Nothing you ask for could ever be a trouble to me, Aliya,” he says with a bow.
Her insides clench at the familiarity of his address. She forces herself to relax. She stands at the door waving as he gets into his car, she watches him angle his head so he can keep looking at her as the car moves away. She curbs her fierce smile until the car has passed the gate and turned onto the street.
* * *
The concert is a success. The audience is made up of men from Pakistan as well as East Bengal. Both the Bengali and the Urdu speakers are taken by Aliya Begum’s sweet voice, her modest demeanor as she greets them from behind a curtain and thanks them for their service to their country. Already they know her heart-wrenching story, Mamoon has made sure of it: her husband a shaheed tragically cut down in the flower of youth, leaving her alone with an infant daughter; and yet she has not asked for even one paisa for this evening. The program is a winning mix of Nazrul Geeti and Rabindra Sangeet, patriotic and upbeat, with a few ghazals of love and loneliness Deepa has learned specifically for the men who had to leave their sweethearts behind in Pakistan. There are so many encore requests that the event continues longer than expected. When at the end she sings “Chand Roshan Chamakta Sitara Rahe,” the song that had aired on Radio Pakistan after Jinnah’s independence address, the applause shakes the hall.
Thus she begins to sing for the troops—first those posted around Dacca, then slowly farther: Narayanganj, Mymensingh, Comilla where she has to stay overnight so she takes Pari and Sameera with her because the baby is still nursing. To her dismay, Mamoon comes along, too. The arrangements are most proper: he stays in the officers’ quarters and she with a devout widow in town. Still, she feels like a bird who attempted flight only to discover her wings clipped. Patience, Deepa. She asks if she might visit one of the historic masjids in the area, she loves masjids and dargahs, especially old ones, she would love to get blessings for Sameera. Hasn’t Allah shown her how short life can be, how fragile? She will make a dua for Mamoon Sahab also. Mamoon assents—how can he do otherwise when she makes such a pious request, and so charmingly, too? He is only sorry that he cannot accompany her, he must attend a meeting. He sends her in a military jeep with two armed guards to make sure she is treated with due respect. In the jeep she lets out her pent-up breath and clasps Pari’s hand. A small victory.
* * *
Back in Dacca, Deepa and Sharif continue to craft their plan. She will choose to perform her concerts only in towns with famous dargahs and ancient masjids. She will visit each of these holy sites until Mamoon gets used to her idiosyncrasy. If he accompanies her to them, she will spend hours praying until he tires of it and allows her to go alone.
When Mamoon becomes accustomed to her routine, when he allows her to travel on her own, she will plan a visit to one of the towns near the Indian border, maybe Khulna, maybe Jessore. The Ichamati River runs along the border there. Once the concert is confirmed, Sharif will get word to Amit. Amit has already procured a small motorboat, he and Hamid have learned to maneuver it. They will use it to cross into East Bengal at the right time.
Sharif has secretly met with Deepa’s old driver, Arshad, who currently works for a major in Dacca. Arshad promises to be at the masjid with a vehicle so that Aliya Begum can get to the river quickly. “You just let me know when. My employer has a jeep, I will bring it. I don’t care if I lose my job. I have been wanting to retire to the village anyway.” Bashfully he asks if he might have a photograph of Sameera-jaan, she must be so big already.
So much love on one side, Deepa thinks, so much undeserved generosity. And on the other, wrenching hands, devouring eyes, the whine of bullets boring into chests like poisonous metal bees. How to teach Sameera to live in a world that holds such contradictions? That evening she sings lines from a new favorite, Rajanikanta Sen:
Ami dekhi nai kichhu bujhi nai kichhu,
dao he dekhaye bujhaye.
I have seen nothing, understood nothing,
Lord, help me see, make me understand.
Chapter 26
Jamini
Is there a torture greater than seeing your beloved’s avid eyes search a room as he enters, then rest in disappointment on your face? If so, Jamini does not know it. She longs to blame Priya, but how can she when Priya is doing all she can to stay away from Amit. She wants to blame Amit, but how can she when he has told her to continue sleeping in her marital bed—torturous though it is for her—so that she will not be shamed in front of her sister. She longs to blame Bina, Manorama, even Somnath who goes through the hours in a daze, who rubs his chest surreptitiously when he thinks no one is watching. But she is too intelligent to fool herself. There remains no one then to blame for her misery but herself; acknowledging this makes her doubly miserable.
* * *
Just as the light fades from the evening sky, deliverance arrives in the form of a letter. It has taken a week to arrive, via three different fishermen; in the interim, its crumpled news has grown even more urgent. They gather around the dining table—all of them huddled together after days of purposeful separation—while Somnath reads to them in his quavering voice. A day from now, Deepa is going to Satkhira, a town close to the border, to perform for the battalion in that area. There is a good chance that she will travel by herself. Governor-General Jinnah is expected to visit East Bengal soon; officials in Dacca are in the throes of frantic planning. Mamoon, who was recently promoted to major, is heavily involved. A week ago at dinner, which he now takes regularly with Deepa, much to her dismay, he confided that he has heard rumors. A Medal of Excellence might be awarded to him on this occasion because of the fine work he has done discovering and destroying rebel cells. Deepa murmured that she could not think of anyone more deserving.
Deepa writes: By fortunate coincidence, not far from the town of Satkhira there is an ancient mosque, the Tetulia Shahi Masjid. She plans to visit it the day of her performance with Pari and Sameera, for Maghrib prayers in the early evening. But they will slip out from the back door of the women’s area before the prayers begin. Sharif and Arshad will be waiting nearby with a vehicle. They will rush her to the banks of the Ichamati River and signal Amit, who needs to arrive there by then. They can be on their way back to India, God willing, before anyone realizes what is happening. Brother Amit, the letter ends, I am depending on you.
Before Somnath finishes reading, Amit is up. He pulls open a drawer and unfolds a map that he has kept in readiness for this moment, an older map that shows both Bengals, undivided. His nostrils flare, his eyes shine, his breath comes fast. The wait, Jamini sees, has been as much a torment for him as for her, though for different reasons. He jabs at the map, his voice vibrates with new energy. “Deepa will be here in Satkhira in one day’s time. Hamid and I—ah, I must send word to him right away—we will need to start early tomorrow if we are to make it in time.”
Hamid had not hesitated when Amit requested he take him to East Bengal. He had only said to Somnath, Babu, should something happen to me, take care of my wife and child.
Amit continues: “We will have to go against the current up the Sarasi to one of the small rivers that connects to the Ichamati, and then we must come southward again. In case there are border patrols, we will have to stop and hide.” He turns to Manorama. “Pishi, can you get some food ready for us, just puffed rice and jaggery, so it won’t spoil. And water, too—this close to the ocean, the rivers will be brackish. Pack enough for four people. It looks like Deepa’s maidservant will be coming with her.”
“Pack enough for five people, Pishi,” Priya says.
“No,” Amit says. “It’s too dangerous.”
Priya stands face-to-face with him. She is shorter than Amit, but in her determination, Jamini thinks, she looms as tall. “And that is why you need someone with medical training.”
Amit throws up his hands. “I don’t have time to argue. Come if you must.” Under his exasperation Jamini hears a perilous joy.
She does not stand up. With her impaired leg, she is no match for their heroic postures. But her voice, though quiet, is iron. “Sorry to increase your work, Pishi. Make that six.”
All eyes are on her, accusing. She knows their thoughts. You will only slow us down. But it is not the truth, it is only the prejudice she has been subjected to, again and again. “For God’s sake,” she says. “We’ll be waiting in a boat, not running a footrace. And if we are looking for a signal, surely another pair of eyes will help.”
Now Amit: “Why do you want to come?”
Because I don’t want the two of you to go off on your adventure, leaving me behind. But that sounds too much like the hurt cry of an uninvited child, so instead she says something that is, in its way, as true. “Because I am your wife. My place is by your side.” She bites her tongue to keep in the next words. Hers is not.
“Very well.” Amit’s shoulders slump. They have exhausted him, the sisters, even before the journey has begun. Jamini is sorry for that. Meekly she follows him with a waterproof canvas bag into which he throws necessities: medicines, money, extra clothing, a flashlight, binoculars, his gun. There is one other thing they might need, Jamini thinks, especially if the plan goes awry, but they do not have it in the house. No matter. I will send word to Hamid and he will bring it tomorrow.
* * *
Stepping into the boat at dawn, Jamini is terrified. She does not trust the river’s fluidity, its constant restlessness. Its rambunctious nudging against the prow makes her keenly conscious of a fact she has been careful not to bring up: she cannot swim. She scrambles to lower herself onto the hard wooden plank, takes care to remain as far from the edge as possible. But once Hamid starts the motor and the boat cuts spear-straight through the waves, she is entranced. She slides over to the side and trails her hand through the silky, silty water. Floating ducks, swooping swallows, the silver arcs of leaping fish. For a while a school of dolphins follows them, mesmerizing her with their intelligent gaze. Everything on the river has its rhythm, nothing can be hurried. Hamid and Amit converse in murmurs, take turns to guide the boat. Priya frowns at the horizon, thinking faraway thoughts. The boat is more spacious than Jamini had thought. She lies down on a plank and adjusts under her head the bundle that Hamid had given her that morning. She closes her eyes to feel the winter sun more fully on her face. She sleeps.
By the time she sits up, groggily rubbing her face, they have reached the far shore of the Ichamati. Behind them, on the other side, the Indian sky is scarlet with sunset. Clever Hamid has tied the boat under an overhang of mangroves and vines, it is barely visible from land. He has forayed abroad and cautiously questioned a local peasant. Amit’s map has guided them well; they are not too far from the Tetulia Mosque, he has glimpsed its narrow spires. All that remains now is to wait for the signal.
