Desh (5 page)

‘Paper Planes'

On the plane, sleep eluded her. A plank in the ceiling had come loose just after they left London and Aila wondered why no one else found this alarming and she imagined the news reports on CNN of a terrible plane crash over the Arabian Sea, wherein she had miraculously learned to swim, until the plane began its decent into Dubai, and they changed for the final leg to Syhlet.

A new seat in a different plane calmed her somewhat and she started to think they might all survive the next five hours. She closed her eyes and thought of Eid night. She'd ditched Maz on the pretext of meeting girlfriends and summoned Ojo. They'd met at Canary Wharf and walked between the towering office blocks, where the wind whooshed like a giant's breath.

He took her to an Italian and opened doors for her and hung on her every word and paid, like a date, and afterwards they staggered along the Thames, looking for an opportunity. It came on the train. Straddled on the first seat of the end carriage, she found the long skirt came into its own. When the train stopped, Aila stopped and peered through the grimy window to see where other late night stragglers got on the train. Later, he said he couldn't believe an Asian princess would do that, while M.I.A sang ‘every stop I get to I'm clocking that game.'

The plane banked. She touched the cabin window. Drops of water slid between the layers and London faded. Below the clouds, Syhlet sprawled in a hazy patchwork of circular lakes and sodden green. A chorus of clicking belts sounded up and down the aisles. Seatbelt, check. Hijab, check. Long skirt. Another time.

They shuffled through the airport's internal labyrinths, red-eyed and groggy, to be met by her father's uncle Fadil and marched swiftly out. Hands followed everywhere, banging on the glass in the main hall and clutching at their clothes as they came out on to the street, where the driver waited to take them on to the village.

Then came the acrid heat her throat had forgotten. With the windows down, scenes flashed close to her face: Spindly legs on rickety bikes; stony tracks running through hills of sodden green; coloured headscarves bobbing in the tea plantations; lakes and the smell of green water. When she saw men in white vests walking up the road she knew they were nearly home.

As the car came round the track, the house startled her. Three years ago it had just been a bleached building site. Now solid walls rose white against a hot blue sky and a towering porch cast its long cool shadow over the front door. When the car stopped, aunties and uncles, cousins and children spilled out of the front door and stampeding feet stirred the dust as eager hands reached in for the suitcases.

Inside, the marble floors felt cool. Fadil took charge of her cases and showed her to her room, the biggest in the house and still the only one with its own bathroom, as he reminded her. “But that's right and fair,” he said with a grin. “After all, Munni's the gem of the family.” Munni she would be from now on.

The younger cousins followed and she knew the drill. As soon as her case hit the bed, the contents spilled out, like a fish being gutted, and clammy hands grabbed at the bounty – pants and scarves, perfume samples and plastic hair brushes. Then Munni was left in peace. She took the red make-up bag hiding in the suitcase lid and pushed it to the back of a drawer. Goodbye for now, Mia. She walked to the window and peered out through the metal grill. From the first floor, she could see the lake, dark and shimmering, the bulls grazing nearby and the dirt track that led down to the village.

Three years ago, Aila had stood on that track and watched her brother being driven away yet again without her and, after endless weeks cooped up in the house, she'd reached screaming point and finding her father by the fire she'd let rip. It was unfair to be left alone with nothing to do just because she was a girl, she screamed. Maz got to join the men and go into town or visit cousins whereas she couldn't even go for a walk on her own. Why did they have to come to this hellhole?

She failed to register the other men until it was too late. Sadhan shouted and they pinned her down. Fadil took a long stick from the fire, brought the burning ember towards her feet, and pressed the glowing end into the pink underside of her feet to drive the jinn out. Their shouts overpowered her screams, until she was spent and then, satisfied the jinn had fled, they let her crawl back inside and hide in her mother's lap.

Now as saffron streaks faded from the sky, a screaming sun subsided behind the horizon and the trees glowed luminous green. Dusk is the most dangerous time. Jinn leave the trees and look for people to inhabit and they come through any opening, so a Bengali never stands near a window at sunset or sunrise. Aila moved away and joined the others downstairs.

After Maghreb prayers they ate round the TV and again the hands were everywhere – dipping balls of rice, stroking her hair, or touching her skirt, while the elders argued with the news on ATN Bangla or chewed over local gossip. There'd been another mugging in the next village and the woman of the house had been left for dead.

“They stabbed her. Left blood everywhere.”

“Evil pigs should be strung up. Leave it to the police and nothing happens. I know what should be done. Find the culprits, slash their necks and leave the bodies hanging for everyone to see.”

The violence turned her stomach. Not the deeds so much; more the words. The graphic hate reminded her of the way her father spoke. “What's the matter with her? She's not eating. You forgotten what Hilse fish is, Munni?” Bhabani, her father's sister asked. Aila forced a smile and pushed the food round her plate. The lights flickered out, leaving them in darkness for about five minutes before the generator kicked in noisily and the first night drew to a close.

Sunrise brought the sounds of prayer which registered fleetingly, until the next time she opened her eyes to a room bathed in sunlight. Her back boiled in the bed. She got up and found her mother in the cool of the first floor veranda.

“Have you eaten?” was her first question.

“Oh don't. My stomach's still in London. That meal last night was too much. “

Her mother held her hand and tutted. She shouldn't start all that nonsense here – to refuse their food would be insulting and this was Aila's family too, and she chattered on about the family: about her own mother in the next village and when she might be able to visit her; about the aunties in their house and how much the children had grown since last time. So tall, this generation. There were eight children between Sadhan's brother and sisters. “You should get to know your cousins, talk to them.”

“About what? They drive me mad.”

“They could be your friends if you'd let them.”

“Yeah yeah, I'll start tomorrow, promise.”

Of course she didn't, not tomorrow or the next day, and the more she tried to avoid them, the peskier they became. There was nowhere she could go to escape the constant drone from room to room, and during the day her bedroom became a thoroughfare. Some mornings she'd wake to find people sitting on her bed, or amusing themselves by going through her toiletries. She tried to find space to write in her diary.

‘I have no sense of time. The days are the same. The cousins follow me everywhere. Thirty-four bedrooms in the house and everyone congregates in here. The aunties are driving me mad – always trying to get me to eat and the uncles keep arguing over money. Always money when my father's here. And pens! There are none in the house. Strange the things you take for granted. I had to beg Dad to get me something to write with – and Ribena when he went into Syhlet. I ain't touching the water.'

Her favourite place became the veranda in the morning with her mother, where she could sit in quiet communion and relative peace, apart from the times Nessa tried to get her to engage with the family – and her father. ”Look, your father's in his element,” she said as Sadhan pottered in the orchard below. “You should talk to him now.”

For a change, he did seem content and almost at peace and she thought perhaps her mother had a point. Maybe he'd be different here. She squeezed Nessa's hand and went outside to join him. “It's looking good, Dad,” she said and followed his gaze past the lake, where stalks of rice stood waist high.

“Soon be time for the harvest.” The blonde husks moved languidly in the cross breeze, like women waving. “Should be a good yield. We'll get two harvests this year and we'll do well. Come with me,” he said, and Aila followed walked past the lake to the old house, where the family used to live. Ducks, goats, cows, chickens and Aseel cocks sheltered in the rooms.

She looked around. “My God, all this has changed so much.”

He smiled. “It's Bhabani's doing. She's always had a gift with animals. It's down to her that we have such well-managed livestock and these cocks are the best fighters.”

“You must be so proud.”

His attention turned back to her. “I'd be more proud if you'd try a little harder. Don't pull that face. I'm getting tired of hearing Munni's too high and mighty for us, all she does is stay in her room and our food's not good enough. This is your family, you know.”

“Dad, I have tried, but I hear them whispering behind my back all the time and if one more person tries to give me advice on how to lose weight I'll explode.”

“I don't know what your problem is. It's the food you've grown up with.”

“Exactly, and look at me.” The chance to engage with her father ended in the usual impasse so she left him to commune with the animals, as he clearly preferred their company, and marched back to the main house, her head uncovered. Any men wandering around would just have to cope.

‘First time I cried today. Sobbed in the bathroom. Got so angry about everyone nagging at me and I was hoping Maz would make things better, but he's being weird. He hasn't said a word to me. He just gets up and goes out with the men to do whatever it is men in Syhlet do all day, something I don't think I'll ever get to the bottom of
.
Oh well, got to stay positive. At least I get to go to out tomorrow! Whoop de doo. We're all going to meet the bride's family. Okay it's not a big night out, but it's the best I'm going to get. Going to sleep now. Chat to you tomorrow if I can without every human being looking over my shoulder.'

Harvest

Mazid's wife-to-be had been met and approved by the uncles and elders, so his family and hers were to officially meet at a restaurant in Syhlet and, for a change, Aila wouldn't be left sitting in the car.

But it didn't start well. When Mazid met his wife for the first time tears rolled down his face. Sadhan became angry and Nessa buried her face in her hands. Then they started chatting and back at home that night her brother announced that he was happy to get married. It was just the situation that scared the hell out of him, he said.

‘Yet again my father showed a total lack of human understanding. While his son sobbed and his wife fell to pieces he stood like a pillar of stone and did nothing, then on the basis of a really awkward chat over a meal, decided it's a good idea for his son to spend the rest of his life with a stranger who looks like she hasn't slept since she sprouted tits. So tomorrow we're all going into Sylhet to buy the wedding sarees for this teen bride. Oh, and we're paying for all the food at the walima too because her family's too poor which begs the question why get married? But what do I know? I'm just the cash cow.

The next day they all piled into the car after lunch and, as they wound past the tea plantations, Aila thought about how long it had been since she'd first arrived. Three weeks had become five and the end of the year was approaching. She took a swig from the Ribena in her bag and Bhabani gave her a death stare, while Sobia sat like a sliver between them.

On the outskirts of the city, cars, bikes and rickshaws began to clog the road, so they slowed to a crawl around the commercial heart of Syhlet and had to park near the embassies when the roads became too congested and walk the last few streets towards the Al Hamra shopping centre.

In what felt like another life, Aila had skipped past the embassies of Whitehall in bare feet. Now she felt hemmed in on all sides. Two men walked next to her, side by side. They could have been the same age as Ojo and they had the same wiry bodies, but their hands were curled and clenched in a way that reminded her of her uncles and she cringed. The men merged into the crowd and disappeared, bright cotton shirts flapping behind them.

Green buses and yellow-topped trucks passed close on the road beside her. The music of horns mingled with the wail of song and then the Al Hamra rose in front of them. At twenty storeys, it dwarfed the buildings nearby. “The pride of Sylhet,” Bhabani huffed with importance, as though personally responsible, and she led the way up to the next level where the best shops were, while Sobia trailed like a dishrag behind them.

Reams of fabric were folded along the walls. Aila stared open-mouthed at the colours packed tight from floor to ceiling. There was every conceivable shade of red alongside groups of purple, lilac and deep grape and a gazillion shades of orange from sunrise through apricot to blood orange. She immersed herself in colours never seen in London and felt a taste of something approaching cultural pride.until the deliberations began. Bhabani demanded ream after ream be brought down and examined each to see the weave of one and the beadwork on another and under no circumstances would she show the slightest hint of pleasure. “Are you mad?” she hissed at Aila.” They'll put the price up.”

So after much high-level whispering, the materials were chosen, with no great input from Sobia, and then they turned to the business, which Sadhan took charge of, of buying the gold. It had to be proper gold from Dubai, not the softer coppery stuff they wore in the villages, he declared with contempt, and leant over the glass display to make his choice. That done, he reached into his shirt pocket and produced a wallet gaping with money. She'd never seen her father with so much cash, even after a Saturday night at Shapla. Aila looked at the faces gathered around and knew every single one had clocked it too. She kept her eyes down as they left the shop and remained silent all the way back.

On the veranda next morning, she sat with her mother. In the fields the first rice harvest was under way. The rounded backs of dozens of women moved slowly across the wet ground. Well-worn scythes swung from side to side. Around the edge of the paddy field, handfuls of husks became small mounds, while lines of hunched women moved further into the rice field, like ants in slow motion.

“What's the point of this wedding? I don't get it. Maz doesn't want it and we can't afford it. I'm in debt up to my eyeballs and Dad's forking out handfuls of cash for the best gold from Dubai, for a bride who'll probably collapse under the weight of it.”

Nessa moved her chair. “He's doing what's best for his family.”

“What he thinks is best. Don't we get a say?”

“Know your place, Shuna.”

White herons circled round the paddy field, their long beaks hovering, as the women worked. Aila stayed beside her as the afternoon slid away and together they watched the mounds of rice being tied in bundles and hauled by cart to the dry flat ground near the house, where they were left to dry.

The next day, the cows were led out and pulled in circles round and round to trample the husks while tribes of children danced behind the great beasts. With the harvest in hand and the wedding now less than a week away,
Sadhan swung into lord of the manor mode.

The stage had to be built and the grounds made ready for the expected hordes of people from surrounding villages and, just as the work began, a feud broke out between the uncles and he had to intervene.

Unsurprisingly, it was all about money. Fadil felt aggrieved that his brother-in-law hadn't repaid a debt from three years ago, while the uncle concerned disputed that there ever was a debt. Sadhan read the riot act; Fadil begged for forgiveness and asked him for the money instead.

In the meantime, the aunties decided only the best cows should be sacrificed, and this would cost hundreds, and then one evening Grandmother had a minor fit. She'd been eating way too much betel nut, though she'd been warned to lay off it, and had an attack of screaming abdabs that terrified the younger ones and threw the household into chaos.

In the final few days the house was full of people. Aunties and uncles came to call, and many of the older ladies from the village. The mehndi happened in a whirlwind, and more food was produced in a single night than Aila had seen in a week at the restaurant. In a moment of conciliation she offered to help out. Bhabani put her on kitchen duty and she made a hundred and twenty-seven samosas.

‘Once again the electricity has gone. So here I am writing with a rechargeable lamp and yet again women spent hours making food that just gets plundered while the uncles sit round arguing over money.
Money's the thing in this house; in this country, I suppose. I saw something else today. My younger cousin got beaten with a stick for going into the jungle on her own. She's only six! But I also saw how much determination – or should I say fight she had in her. She wouldn't give in. She wouldn't cry. That's the spirit. I felt sad and proud of her at the same time. If I had a child, she'd be just like that.

Got a text from the club! ‘We wish all our friends a happy Christmas and a prosperous New Year'. A blanket text but hey, Merry Christmas, me. I managed to get a message to Neil. I can't expect them to hold my job open forever. Best case scenario – I'm home in a week. Worse case? I lose my job. Deal with that after the wedding. Roll on Wednesday.'

The morning of the wedding saw her brother up and dressed hours before the Nikah in his white cotton dhoti and traditional pagree wrapped round his head, while women bustled about laying plates of food. Flashing lights had been hung over the front porch to proclaim the celebrations and, outside, trestle tables were set up beneath the orchard trees, with webs of coloured lights draped round the branches. The wedding passed without a hitch, the banquet ran its course and at the end of the night Mazid led his new bride inside and Aila retired to her room.

‘Not much longer now. Should I speak to Dad about the return flights? Feel a bit mean hassling him. He's so happy here. It's where he belongs. Hell though this place is, I do love seeing him as he should be. Not the slave to a burning oven.'

In the morning she managed to steal more time, to continue with the diary without everyone crawling over her
until
she became aware of her father in the doorway.

“Get dressed please and put a sari on. There are people coming to see you,” he said and Aila barely had to time to dress before four women walked in and sat on her bed. She dropped her eyes.

“Are you keeping well?” the first one said.

“I'm strong and healthy now. Nothing to complain about.”

Then another spoke. “Does your mother wear trousers and tops at home?”

“No, auntie, she wears a sari.”

“How tall is she?” the one with bright hennaed hair asked and put an arm around her. “Stand up Munni,” she said while she lifted the hem of her sari and examined her feet.

“May I sit next to her?” the old one asked moving towards her. She took Aila's hands and turned them over carefully in her own, studying her fingers. “How do you do Wudu with those nails?”

“I will cut them.” She knew she'd been subjected to a formal examination and had been drilled since childhood in the right responses to give. So while they talked she made tea, and they watched her every move until they'd seen enough.

As they left, she thought, it's no surprise this would happen. Her father would of course be making approaches to other families of her caste while they were here. If that was the case, though, it was unlikely he'd be thinking of a match from London. Her train of thought was interrupted by the presence of two uncles in her room; there being no such thing as knocking first. She knew what was expected and salaamed them both in turn.

“So Munni, have you eaten?”

“No I haven't yet but I'm fine,” she said, careful to show she wasn't greedy and always thinking about food. “Would you like some tea?” she asked knowing they would listen to her feet to hear how heavily she walked and, as she poured the tea, she couldn't help overhearing. They seemed to be organising when the wedding would be, the date of the Sinifan and how much gold – and land would be given to her. Sinifan? Why are they talking about an engagement? Must be that she was being put through the motions of another proposal. There'd be time to sort it out later.

When Mazid appeared she spoke in a rush. “Oh my God, you won't believe what's been going on in here.”

But he cut her short. “I've got someone with me.” A tall thin man followed him into the room and he said, “May I present Gourab?”

In the instant before she lowered her eyes again Aila recognised the janitor and couldn't understand why he appeared to chat with her brother like a long-lost friend. They talked about his hobbies and interests, his dreams and ambitions and Aila felt grateful for the veil that hid her laughter until Fadil returned and said the words that chilled her. “Whatever your answer is, tell your father.”

This cannot be real; this can't be happening, she thought. Sadhan appeared at the door. “That was so funny, Dad. What's wrong with these people?” Her voice came out small and strangled.

“You can't say no. We've already said yes. You will be married on Friday. The mehndi will be tomorrow.” He closed the door.

The whole family went out to celebrate that evening, leaving Aila alone. The walls in her room slid into screams and the rest of the night passed in tortured sheets. She came to as the sun rose and heard banging downstairs. Like fists on a distant door. She heard what sounded like hammering in a far room but couldn't make sense of it.

That afternoon she was told to put the lime green blouse underneath the sari they had bought, as the sleeves weren't long enough. There wasn't time to have it made properly.
The mehndi passed in a blur. She sat in the centre of the main family room on a mound of cushions with her face covered while people milled around chatting and eating. Henna paste was brought in and someone put two dots on her hands. Just two blobs, like dried blood on her palms. No artistry, no skill, and no mother.

The day of her wedding felt strange. A merciless sun hung by a thread in the flat afternoon sky and alone in her room it was hard to breathe. The house was filled with the sound of flip-flops slapping over stone floors. A crimson sari had been laid out on her bed. Decidedly not Benharasi silk, it smelled of bleached incense and scratched against her skin as she wrapped the cotton behind her and tucked it in at her right hip. The door opened and Bhabani stared inside. Aila flung a length of cotton over her chest, and the old lady hobbled out, satisfied things were in hand.

She finished dressing and sat back down on the bed. The tikka lay in its box. Red gold against polyester white padding and beside this her father had put the choker necklace and earrings he'd chosen. She examined the filigree in her fingers: a simple pattern; lightweight; easy to wear. All this was just as well, because there was no-one around to help.

Surely a mother should be here to clasp the necklace and position the tikka in her hair? She pushed the bangles up her arm, one by one. “I want Mum,” she said when Sadhan came back into her room. “The photographer is here. At least brush your hair, and take this.” He gave her a bright pink dupatta to cover her face when they finished.” Your mother's ill. Let her rest.”