A Golden Age (34 page)

‘No, no, don’t worry, I’ll just be back.’

It was furiously hot outside. Within seconds Rehana’s cheeks began to burn. She considered turning back, but the thought of Mukul in his sweaty cap kept her moving ahead; she continued down the street until she came to a junction. Tram tracks bisected the road, and on either side there were shops with open doors and loud, clashing hoardings. Rehana didn’t remember this part of Calcutta, but the tonga-wallahs, skipping barefoot through the traffic with their elbows pointed up and out, and the shapes of the buildings, the wide avenues, the trams – she recog- nized all of these, despite the years of wilful forgetting.

Now everything was louder and more crowded. People choked the streets and tilted the tram carriages. They perched on the edge of the sidewalk and left barely a sliver of pavement through which Rehana could push her way. She ducked into the nearest shop, blinking against the change in light. It was a dark, narrow room with a row of shelves lining one wall, a counter running alongside. The shelves held a confused and mismatched assort- ment of things – chocolates, baby formula, shampoo, pomade, pickles. A man stood in front of the display with his palms on the countertop.

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Rehana pointed to a blue bar of washing soap. ‘That one please, how much?’

‘Six annas,’ the man said, chewing his gums.

‘Give me one. And a pao of moori. And a – do you have scis- sors?’

‘Scissors?’

‘Yes, I need a pair of scissors.’

The man pulled out a drawer and showed Rehana several samples. After inspecting the blade and putting her thumb through the handle of each one, she chose the smallest pair.

‘Total comes to three rupees, twelve annas.’

Rehana was about to pay the man when he said, ‘Have I seen you before?’

She took a closer look at him. He was old; her father’s age. Could she know him? Trust me to find the one person in Calcutta who remembers me. But no, she hadn’t seen him before. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘I’m sure I know you,’ he insisted. ‘But I don’t live here.’

‘Where are you from – are you Joy Bangla?’ ‘Sorry?’

‘Are you from Dhaka? Bangladesh? Joy Bangla?’

No, actually, she thought, I’m from Calcutta. But she said, ‘Yes, I’m Joy Bangla.’

‘Ten per cent discount,’ he said, smiling. ‘Ten per cent refugee discount.’ He passed her the shopping bag with a freckled hand. ‘I was a refugee also, in ’47. That’s why I recog- nize you.’ And then he looked at her with such fatherly tenderness. ‘You come back here when you need anything. Anything at all.’

Suddenly the man was a blur. He waved his hand at her. ‘Please, don’t cry! You want a choc bar? Milon, get my daughter here a choc bar. Don’t cry, Ma, don’t cry.’

Rehana tugged at the paper with wet fingers. Her teeth broke into the chocolate and through the ice-cream.

‘Go on, Ma. You go on.’

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She stepped back into the noon heat with the ice-cream turning to milk on her tongue. She walked a little further, passing a tobacco shop and a Chinese restaurant. On the corner of the next street she found a bench, shaded by the shadow of a three-storeyed State Bank of India. The two women who had already collapsed on the bench wriggled together to make room for Rehana. There was a tram stop across the road, and Rehana watched the passengers emptying and filling the compartments.

She saw that they were the same as the people from the train station, and from Shona’s garden, and from the camps, refugees now trawling through the streets.

There were some that seemed less desperate, almost ordinary. But, despite their attempts to blend in, she could tell they were also refugees. They kept their hands in their pockets and a grateful smile stitched to their lips. They had unwashed hair and dirty shoes. Clothes that looked decent, but, looking closely she could see the ragged hems, the worn pleats. And everywhere they went their memories argued for space, so that they forgot to cross the road when the lights were red, or over- milked their tea, or whispered into their newspapers as they scanned hungrily for news of home. Rehana found she could not bear to look at them; she was afraid she would see herself; she was afraid she wouldn’t see herself; she wanted to be dif- ferent and the same as them all at once, neither option offering relief from the rasping feeling of loss, and the swallowing, hungry love.

‘I’m going to cut your hair, Maya,’ Rehana said. It was night again, and they were getting ready for bed. Rehana had tidied and swept the shed. Maya’s clothes, smelling of afternoon sun, were folded and stacked on the desk. The window was open, and there was just the hint of a breeze.

‘There’s nothing wrong with my hair,’ Maya said. Her first instinct was always to say no to everything. ‘What’s wrong with my hair?’

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‘Nothing. I just want to trim the edges. Look at this,’ Rehana said, showing Maya the tatty end of her braid. ‘I’ll just make it straight.’

‘How do you know how to cut hair?’

‘I’ve always known. My sisters made me cut theirs.’ Right here, in Calcutta. And she used to cut her father’s, when they were poor and there was no more credit at the barber’s.

‘Really? How is it you never cut mine?’

‘You never let me get near your hair! I used to cut Sohail’s.’

Maya smiled wryly. ‘Yes, I think I remember now. I always thought it was because he was your favourite.’

‘Na, it was because you were so stubborn.’ ‘Go ahead, then, let’s see what you can do.’

Rehana was ready with the scissors and a small mug of water. She dipped the end of Maya’s raggedy braid into the water, then she undid it and began to comb.

‘Full of knots!’ she said. ‘It’s a mess.’

‘No commentary from the haircutter, please.’

Rehana pushed Maya’s head forward and started to work the scissors. ‘Stop moving,’ she said, ‘or it’ll be uneven.’

The curling half-moons fell to the ground. ‘Maya, I was think- ing about what the doctor said – perhaps it is a good idea.’

‘Really, Ma, you don’t have to.’ She twisted around to face Rehana.

‘Hold still.’ Rehana pushed Maya’s head back into position. ‘There’s really nothing much for me to do here.’

‘I’m sorry, I know I’ve been busy.’

‘You have your work. It’ll be good for me to have something to do. There must be some reason why I came here.’ Rehana pulled two ends of Maya’s hair together to see if she’d cut a straight line. ‘All right,’ she said, patting Maya’s shoulder, ‘all done.’

‘The war will be over soon,’ Maya said; ‘we won’t be here for ever.’

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It wasn’t until September that Rehana got her reason. She was trailing Dr Rao through the ward, taking notes on the new patients, writing down their medications and prescriptions. They came to the end of the row of cots, and on the last bed was a woman Rehana hadn’t seen before. A blanket covered most of her face, but her forehead and her long hair were visible, and one arm, on which she wore a red-and-gold glass bangle.

‘Who’s this?’ Rehana asked. There was something about her, lying there on the cot, that made Rehana want to see her face.

‘I’m not sure,’ Dr Rao said. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen her before.’

Rehana peeled back the katha and saw a pair of closed eyes, framed by long, ropy strands of hair. She looked closer. She knew this woman. ‘Supriya.’ It couldn’t be her. Could it? She looked again. Of course, of course it was her. It was the kind of thing that happened so easily these days. ‘This is my friend, Mrs Sengupta,’ Rehana said, ‘from Dhaka.’

Dr Rao lifted the bangled arm with his thumb and forefinger, his eyes on his wristwatch. ‘Why don’t you stay here, Chachi? I’ll see if I can find out who’s been treating her.’

‘Her husband must have brought her. See if you can find him.

Mr Sengupta.’

Rehana pulled off the katha. Mrs Sengupta’s sari was bunched around her knees. Her calves were grey and papery. Rehana dragged the sari down and covered her legs. She looked like a felled tree.

‘What happened to you?’ Rehana whispered. She lifted Mrs Sengupta’s head and pulled the soggy hair away from her neck. She saw her friend’s eyelids shift, as though she were dreaming, and then she opened them slowly, turning first to the ceiling and then slowly focusing on Rehana.

‘Supriya?’

Mrs Sengupta stared emptily at Rehana. She opened her mouth. Her lips were black.

‘What happened to you? Where’s Mithun?’ But she had already turned away, her face shut.

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The doctor returned a few minutes later. He carried a blood- pressure cuff and a bag of saline. ‘I’m afraid she’s here alone, Mrs Haque. No one has seen any family.’

‘That can’t be right. She has a husband, and a son. She wouldn’t have come without them.’

When Rehana went to the ward the next day, Mrs Sengupta was exactly as she had left her, smeared across the cot with the sari around her knees. But she was awake. Rehana stroked her forehead. There was no fiery teep, no sindoor.

Rehana began to make a habit of spending her afternoons at Mrs Sengupta’s bedside. She poured coconut oil into her hair and picked out the dirt. Then she washed it with a small square of soap she had bought from the old man on Theatre Road. She cut Mrs Sengupta’s nails and creamed her elbows. Her friend fol- lowed her with her eyes, but still she said nothing. Aside from a small bamboo pipe she kept under her pillow, she appeared to have no possessions.

It was not unlike sitting at Iqbal’s grave. There was never any answer, but she imagined somehow Mrs Sengupta could hear her.

‘After you left a lot of other people left also. The club shut down and the markets were mostly deserted. And a lot of boys ran off to join the army. Sohail wanted to go but I said no.’

Sometimes, as with Iqbal, she was tempted to lie, or exagger- ate.

‘But he went anyway. You would not believe the change in him. And Silvi. She looks nothing like the girl we knew. We should never have let her marry that boy. I met him again, you know, but under very different circumstances.’

She kept certain things from Mrs Sengupta. The details of Sabeer’s capture, for instance. She didn’t want to upset her. And she didn’t talk about the Major. She didn’t know how she could put it.
I fell in love with a stranger.
Having to explain would mean giving some reason. Which it did not have. It was an unreason- able thing. She hardly even knew him. Sometimes it occurred to her how very little she did know. For instance, if he had any

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brothers or sisters. Or what he planned to do once the war was over. She had never even asked him when, or if, she would see him again.

In the afternoons, when Mrs Sengupta slept, Rehana walked around the hospital with Dr Rao. She befriended a few other women, stopping beside their cots and holding their hands while they told her how they had come to be there. They started to rec- ognize her. They called her apa. Every day they told her new stories about the war. She waited for a letter from Sohail. She waited for a letter from the Major. Neither came.

Rehana got used to the rides in the truck with Mukul, and by October the rooftop was almost pleasant. She kept the doors of the shed open and sat on the threshold, watching the evening descend and the city slide easily into dusk. The fat woman was there every few days, flapping and pinning her yellow sari.

Every day it was the same. Mrs Sengupta had still not uttered a word. ‘Won’t you say anything, Supriya? Tell me what happened? Maybe I can help.’

One night on the roof Rehana was patching up the torn hem of her white petticoat. She hadn’t brought enough clothes for such a long stay, and the ones she had brought were starting to wear out. She was threading a needle when the thought suddenly occurred to her that, even though Mrs Sengupta didn’t want to speak, perhaps she would agree to write. She remembered the day Mrs Sengupta had asked her about
Sultana’s Dream
. She put down her petticoat and went downstairs to ask Maya for a note- book or a few scraps of paper. The next day at the camp Rehana presented these to Mrs Sengupta, along with a sharpened pencil.