A Golden Age (7 page)

Months passed. A stubble of moss covered the cement foun- dations. September, October. The monsoon washed through, turning the bricks to sand, the sandbags to bricks, forming a fetid, stagnant pond where the mosaic floor of the house should have been. Rehana stood at its edge and watched the tadpoles swimming like lines of ink, the thin garden snakes curling around the girders, snapping the mosquito-laced air.

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And then she found the money. Exactly how was a secret she had kept all these years, because she wanted to remember what she had done, how far she had gone, to get her children back, and also because the burden of it, she knew, should be only hers.

After that the house seemed to go up on its own: by the end of the year the walls had been raised; two months later the plaster was smooth; by March the fierce spring heat was drying the blue- grey whitewash, and Rehana was looking on as her carpenter Abdul scratched the letters on to a smoothed piece of mahogany she had saved from the building of the front door.
Shona
, she said, and he asked, ‘Your mother’s name?’ ‘No,’ she replied, ‘just the name of the house.’ For all that she had lost, and all that she wanted never to lose again.

Mr and Mrs Sengupta had replied to Rehana’s advertise- ment in the
Pakistan Observer
. brand-new 4-bed house in dhanmondi. drawing-dining, kitchen, large lawn. 6-mth advance required.

Mr Sengupta owned a tea plantation in Sylhet. He would be away for weeks at a time and would be grateful if Rehana could look in on his young wife. They had been married a few months; he was looking for just such a place, where the neighbours might provide his wife with some companionship.

Supriya Sengupta did not appear to need looking after. She was writing a novel, she said to Rehana. She wanted to be just like Royeya Sakhawat Hossain – had Rehana read
Sultana’s Dream
?

Rehana had not read
Sultana’s Dream
. But she nodded and told them she needed six months’ rent in advance. Mr Sengupta handed her the money in a toffee-coloured envelope. She passed him a set of keys. The next day she paid a visit to the judge, and then, clutching the court order in her hands, she packed her bags, boarded the next morning’s PIA flight and set off to rescue her children.

She remembered the reunion exactly. They were playing hula hoops on the lawn. Their faces were darker and their legs were longer and her heart had stopped at the sight of them, and even

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now, a decade later, she was sometimes frozen in that moment of disbelief, at the possibility that she might discover them, repos- sess them, bring them home and become their mother again.

And that was how it had happened. Rehana finished telling herself the story and waited for the tears to dry up on her cheeks.

By some miracle they were in the lead.

When Azmat Rana scored his first half-century, dashing past the stumps with his knees raised high and the dust swirling around his feet, the stadium pitched and roared. People stood up and howled, thumped their feet and beat crude drums they had brought along, all the while whistling and chanting ‘Joy Bangla! Joy Bangla! Joy Bangla!’ By the time he had scored his second, the announcer could not be heard over the shouting, the air elec- tric with the shock and pleasure of victory.

The oval-shaped stadium was packed with families who’d arrived with picnics and cones full of spicy puffed rice, come to clap, feel the sun burning the tops of their heads, peer into the glittering afternoon and watch their heroes at play.

Rehana had made chicken sandwiches. She opened the paper- wrapped package and passed it to Sohail, who was sitting in the next row with his friend Aref and Aref’s brother, Joy. ‘Very nice,’ Sohail said, taking a bite. He gave her the barest hint of a smile and passed the sandwiches to his friends.

Rehana, Maya and Mrs Sengupta were sitting together. ‘Have they set a wedding date?’ Mrs Sengupta asked.

‘No,’ Rehana muttered.

‘She’s so young,’ Mrs Sengupta said, rolling her sunglasses to the top of her head. ‘What’s the rush?’

Rehana wanted to agree, but instead she squeezed Mrs Sengupta’s elbow. ‘Let’s have some drinks,’ she said.

Sohail waved to the drinks boy. ‘Who wants lemonade and who wants orange?’ He counted the raised hands and reached into his pocket.

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‘No, please, I insist,’ Mrs Sengupta said, holding out her hand.

‘Oh,’ Sohail said, ‘all right.’ And he sat down.

Now the crowd was cheering and blocking Rehana’s view with its waving arms. She wanted to get a good look at Azmat while he was still at the crease, so she climbed up on to the bench and peered over the long rows of dark heads in front of her, her hand raised to her eyes. Giddiness was everywhere. Rehana felt a laugh start at her feet and climb up her legs. She began to giggle with her mouth open. She tilted her head back and squinted at the sun, brilliant, invisible in its mid-afternoon blaze. It might be, she thought, the happiest day of her life. Never mind all that hangama with Silvi; Sohail would soon forget it. Look at him now, linking hands with his friends and cheering at the cricket. Rehana fanned her face, heating up as the afternoon bloomed on.

Maya, turning to look beside her, was startled to find her mother climbing down from the bench. ‘Ammoo, what are you doing?’

‘I told you before, I love Azmat Rana. So handsome, he reminds me of your father. We are definitely winning today. Have some more lemonade, Maya,’ she said, passing her daughter the bottle. Always too sober, she thought to herself. What’s the big deal? Only a little cheering.

Nigel Gifford, arm wooden against his side, prepared to run at Azmat Rana.

Maya settled back into her seat and stared at the pitch with her arms crossed in front of her. In the next row Sohail was arguing with his friends. They were saying something about the military- industrial complex. Sohail was insisting it didn’t matter whether they were a part of Pakistan or not; the injustices towards the poor would continue unless they changed the way the economy was organized. Rehana could almost recite the speech from memory. Aref said the important thing was that the assembly should convene as soon as possible and make Mujib Prime

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Minister. Without that, the whole election would be revealed as a sham, and who knew what would happen.

Just as Nigel Gifford raised his right hand and prepared to release the worn red ball from his fingertips and send it, straight as a bullet, through the air to Azmat, who waited with bent knees and bat tilted against the sharp, cloudless afternoon sun, the crowd shifted, tensed. They felt it together, in the open intimacy of the packed stadium.

People began to get up and wave their fists in the air. A roar climbed through the stadium. They didn’t appear to be cheering for the players. The players stared up from the pitch, their shoul- ders raised in confusion. Rehana looked around her, and the crowd, a moment ago a mass of cheering fans, looked restless; their eyes were angry white specks; the cricket was forgotten, the puffed rice, the picnics, the drums. It was as though everyone knew before they knew; it almost didn’t matter what, just that their huge, runaway joy suddenly had to go.

Someone threw a brick on to the field. Someone else threw a cracked wooden stick. Bits of torn newspaper floated down from an aisle above them. ‘What’s happening?’ Rehana heard Sohail ask. He nudged the knot of men who had already begun to clog the aisle.

‘We don’t know,’ one of them answered, ‘something on the radio—’

Rehana began to pack up the sandwiches. ‘Let’s go, Ammoo,’ Sohail said; ‘forget the things.’ People were climbing over the stalls. The throng heaved towards the doors, choking the exits. Sohail, Aref and Joy pushed against the crowd and cleared a path.

The cricket stopped, and the players, peeling off their gloves and their caps, scattered to the edge of the field. No one saw the sun breaking through the clouds and shining on Azmat Rana, who gazed in the direction of the Ramna Racecourse, where they had all gathered a few weeks before to celebrate Sheikh Mujib’s victory. And they did not hear the announcer trying to calm them down and remind them to Please Remain Seated.

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As they moved towards the exits, they were jostled and pushed against one another. Rehana, holding Maya’s slippery elbow, lost sight of Mrs Sengupta. She tried to keep track of Sohail’s head, the thick brushstroke of his hair. The smell of sweat and stale breath enveloped her. She resisted the urge to panic and run back inside. Armpits and elbows collided; backs met faces and dan- gling children’s feet. Rehana held tightly to Maya’s arm and pushed her way through the tunnel and down the stairs. In the car park Sohail was waving and gathering them together. ‘Stay behind me!’ he was saying. ‘I know where the car is.’ His voice was flattened by the lost and searching people.

Sohail took the wheel of Mrs Sengupta’s 1959 Skoda Octavia. Joy and Aref crowded into the front seat. Rehana, Maya and Mrs Sengupta squeezed into the back. Rehana saw Maya reaching for the handle and said, ‘Keep the window up.’

They turned out of the stadium and on to Paltan Road. ‘I want to see what’s happening,’ Maya said.

‘You can see from here.’ It was stuffy inside the car, but at least they were safe. Rehana was used to seeing crowds on the streets

– they’d had so many processions in the months leading up to the election – yet today was somehow different; there was a hint of calamity in the air. She tried to catch Sohail’s eye in the mirror, but he was concentrating on the road, his hands curled around the steering wheel.

They entered the university compound. The car sped past Curzon Hall, Rokeya Hall, Iqbal Hall. In front of the Teacher–Student Centre, they saw a wave of people in white clothes and black armbands carrying banners, making fists and chanting in circular, overlapping beats. Maya cupped her hands against the window and shouted, ‘Joy Bangla! Joy Sheikh Mujib!’

The procession was heading towards them. Sohail looked over his shoulder and tried to back up, but they were stuck in front of a line of cars. The chants rose, the words slowly becoming audible. Maya tried to identify the people in the crowd. ‘Who is it?

Chattra League?’

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‘I can’t tell,’ Sohail said; ‘should we get out?’

Rehana shook her head. ‘We’re safer in the car. Let’s stay inside.’ Mrs Sengupta nodded in agreement. Maya kept shifting between her seat and the rear window, pressing her face against the glass. Rehana knew it was no use telling her to stop; she was just grateful the girl didn’t break open the door.

Within minutes they were swallowed. As they snaked past, people knocked against the hood of the car. They pounded the boot. Bared their teeth and pressed their faces against the glass. ‘Joy Bangla!’ they shouted. ‘Death to Pakistan! Death to dicta- torship!’ Their breaths made clouds on the glass.

Someone recognized Sohail. He rapped with his knuckles. ‘Dost!’

Maya slapped the window. ‘Jhinu!’

The boy made binoculars with his hands and peered inside. ‘What are you doing in the car?’ he shouted.

Sohail opened his window and the boy stuck his fingers through the gap. ‘I’m just taking my mother and my sister home,’ Sohail said. ‘What’s going on?’

‘You haven’t heard? Assembly postponed indefinitely.’ ‘What?’

‘Sala. Bastard Bhutto’s convinced Yahya there can’t be a Bengali running Pakistan.’

‘What?’ Maya said. ‘Election cancelled?’

Joy and Aref started firing questions at Jhinu, asking what he thought Mujib was going to do. They all kept saying we knew,
we knew
this was going to happen. It was only a few moments, a few sentences, but Rehana had the feeling they were deciding something important. She kept telling herself she was still in charge, that nothing would be done without her consent. She pitched forward on the seat.

‘Sohail, beta, the crowd is thinning, perhaps we should go?’ Sohail was rapping the steering wheel with his fingers, whis-