A Golden Age (35 page)

Mrs Sengupta lifted her head. She shook it. Rehana pointed to the notebook. ‘That’s for you.’

A few days before this, Rehana had said, ‘Did you know the story of how I lost the children?’ She told Mrs Sengupta about the courthouse and the judge, and how she had allowed her grief to betray her. ‘But I got them back. You can find Mithun too. And Mr Sengupta.’

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Rehana was convinced it was just a matter of being lost. Maybe they were rushing to get somewhere and Mrs Sengupta got separated from the others. Mr Sengupta must be looking for her right now; that’s why Rehana kept checking the register to see who had arrived at the camp. Rehana had visions of Mr Sengupta hunting through every refugee camp, every train station, every hospital, for news of his wife. Surely if they were patient, they would find each other again.

The next morning, when Rehana went back, Mrs Sengupta held up the notebook. She had written a few lines.
I went into the reeds
, it said.
In the pond
. She pulled the bamboo pipe from under her pillow and put it to her mouth.
I left him
, she wrote.

‘I don’t know what you mean, Mrs Sengupta,’ Rehana said. An image came, unbidden, of Mrs Sengupta sinking into a grey- brown silt.

Mrs Sengupta’s hand moved slowly over the page. She finished a sentence, crossed it out, then wrote again. After what felt like a long time, she handed the notebook back to Rehana.
I left him and ran into the pond.

It couldn’t be right. It couldn’t have happened that way. ‘You got separated?’

Again she began her slow scrawl, her fingers knotting together.
I didn’t think about him, I just ran.

‘Mr Sengupta?’ Rehana asked. She had already written some- thing down and was pointing to it now.
They shot him
.

She couldn’t bear to see any more. ‘Supriya, get some rest now, I’ll be back with some lunch.’

Mrs Sengupta gripped her notebook.

True
, she wrote,
true true true
. She closed her eyes.

Rehana left her that way, black-lipped and shaking her head back and forth.

Rehana didn’t know what to say. She was afraid some accusation might slip from her lips, even if she said it was all right, that she understood. No matter how she tried to picture it, she still could not help feeling disgusted by the thought of Mrs Sengupta aban-

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doning her son. There must have been some other way. There was always another way. She could have taken him with her. Or stood between him and those soldiers. And how could she bear to be alive, not knowing, imagining he might be somewhere, lost, with strangers, or worse?

The next day Rehana avoided Mrs Sengupta. She did not visit her the day after that. A week passed, and she tried to put it out of her mind. Then she found the telegram. It was early in the morning, and she was looking for a safety pin among Maya’s things when she found it, dated 16 October 1971. Two days ago.

sabeer dead stop tried our best stop couldn’t save stop god bless mrs c

Rehana folded the telegram, neatly, making sure the edges lined up. She felt weak and shaky and her fingers trembled, but she con- tinued to fold, until it was a tiny sliver of paper that she could tuck into her blouse, like loose change. All the way to Salt Lake she felt her heart beating against it. She remembered that terrible night, lashing herself to Sabeer as they travelled through the dark, his chipped hands hugged to his breast. Then her thoughts lingered on Silvi, and Mrs Chowdhury, and Romeo turning to dust under a coconut tree, and her whole body burned with the need to go home, back to the neighbourhood, to the bungalow, and to Shona. Home made her think of Mrs Sengupta. Where would Supriya go, when this was all over? Rehana decided to approach her, to tell her the truth. That she didn’t understand how a mother could abandon her son to save her own life, but that it was not, in the end, her place to understand. That was between her and

her maker. She was only her friend.

At the ward Rehana waited for her daily appointment with Dr Rao. The trembling in her fingers spread to her arms, a cold trav- elling shiver.

The doctor approached, making his hurried, long-legged strides. He was right on time, as usual.

‘Did you check the list today?’ Rehana asked.

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‘Yes, Chachi, I checked the list.’ ‘And?’

‘Nothing, I’m sorry.’ He sighed. They went through this every day. ‘Chachi, I know she’s your friend, but there’s really not much more we can do.’

‘But her son is lost – now we know exactly where he was last seen. We have to keep looking. Promise me you’ll keep looking.’ She stood up to go. The floor tilted towards her. She lunged forward, leaning heavily on the doctor’s arm.

‘Chachi? Are you all right?’

‘Nothing. I should probably have some breakfast – haven’t eaten all morning.’

‘There must be something in the kitchen. Shall I take you?’ ‘No, please don’t worry. The list – you’ll keep checking?

Sabeer Mustafa. I mean, no – Mithun. Mithun Sengupta. You got the name?’

‘Yes, Chachi.’

The spinning went on as Rehana made her way to the canteen. The din of the hospital was by now familiar to her, and she had learned to ignore it, just as she could ignore the pressing mass of people with urgent faces who lined the corridors. But now there was a roar in her head like rushing water. She put her hand to her mouth and felt the flame of her breath. I need to sit down, she said to herself. Just for a moment. She was scanning the room, looking for an empty chair, when Maya intercepted her.

‘Ammoo, are you all right?’

‘Nothing, jaan, just a little weakness.’ A feathery shiver passed through her body. ‘The telegram – why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Ammoo, let’s sit down somewhere.’

‘OK.’ Maya grabbed hold of Rehana’s hand. They made their way though the beds. Some of the women waved to Rehana as they passed and cried out, ‘Apa!’ Rehana heard them as a warbled, rippling echo.

‘Maya-jaan, I’m not feeling well,’ she whispered. Maya was in front of her now, pushing people aside. ‘Make way, please!’ she was saying.

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Rehana slipped out of Maya’s grip. The people rushing into the hospital overcame her, and she let go, falling into the throng, strange, icy hands gripping her shoulders, raising her up, her arms flopping like fish fins, and then darkness.

Rehana drifted in and out of a heavy-lidded sleep, her throat thick with questions. She dreamed of Sabeer, his cracked lips mouthing something incoherent, and Mithun, with a face like Sohail’s, under water, wailing for his mother.

‘Ma,’ she heard Sohail say, ‘I’m here, Ma.’

When she woke, she patted herself; her face was still hot, but the shivering had stopped, and now there was just an aching heaviness in her limbs and a hard throbbing in her head. She rubbed her feet together; they were buttery, even the heels. Someone had been tending to them. She turned and caught a whiff of jobakusum.

‘My hair . . .’

‘Mrs Sengupta’s been washing it,’ she heard a man’s voice say. ‘Doesn’t speak to anybody, just does it. And your feet.’ The voice had a weathered rasp.

She wondered if she was dreaming. ‘Sohail?’

He leaned over her so she could see it was really him. ‘When did you come?’

‘I was coming anyway – you didn’t get my letter. Just a few days. You’ve been in and out.’

‘What happened?’

‘Jaundice. Rao said you’ve probably had it for weeks, you just didn’t know. It’s very contagious – they had to check everyone.’

‘Maya?’

‘She’s fine.’

Rehana had so many questions, but she was too tired to form the words. ‘Hold my hand,’ was all she managed to say. Before she drifted away, she saw Sohail’s arm, caramel and shiny with sun, moving across the bed.

‘I have an assignment, Ammoo,’ she heard him say the next day. He had brought her a green coconut with a triangular hole cut

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into the top, which she was tipping slowly into her mouth. ‘We’re going to take out the grid.’

The coconut water was milky and sweet. She dipped her finger into it and pulled out a strip of the flesh. Sohail smiled through his beard-cloud. Rehana couldn’t help noticing how beautiful he was, and so alive, his eyes electric as he told her the news.

‘Whole city will be in total darkness. We’re going to dig up the stash in the garden, Ammoo. I have to go back to Dhaka.’

‘What about us?’

‘You too. I’ve come to take you home. And Maya.’

Home. She wanted to throw her hands in the air and send up a cheer.

‘Is it safe?’

‘It’s been two months since you left and we’ve kept a close watch on the house – it doesn’t look like they know anything.’

‘Sabeer died.’

‘I know.’ His face betrayed nothing – no relief, no shame. ‘He didn’t die for nothing, Ma. We’ve made some major gains.

Just last week we took the Pak Army out of one of their major supply routes in Comilla.’

‘Are we going to win?’ It was the first time she had asked him the question.

Sohail was about to say, Yes, of course. But she gave him a weak squeeze of the wrist that meant she wanted to know the truth, and he paused for a minute before saying, ‘It’s not impos- sible.’ He waited another moment, and then said, ‘We’re out- numbered, outgunned, outmanned. But sometimes we can beat the hell out of them.’ And again he smiled his cloudy smile and said, ‘I can taste the end. The modhu-roshogolla-honey end.’

When she opened her eyes again, Mrs Sengupta was at the foot of her cot. She looked like a dark apparition, the washed planes of her face muted and still. She wore a clean sari and flat sandals. Her hair was oiled and tied into a glossy braid.

‘Now I’m the one in the sickbed,’ Rehana said. The barest smile touched Mrs Sengupta’s lips.

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What happened to you, Rehana wanted to ask. Instead she said, ‘You washed my hair?’

Mrs Sengupta bent her head but didn’t open her mouth. She waited stiffly at the foot of the bed. A few moments struggled by. ‘I’m going back to Dhaka,’ Rehana said finally. ‘Why don’t you come? The war will be over soon. It’ll be like it was before. You can stay at Shona – we’ll be neighbours again. Or come and stay at the bungalow with me. Remember Road 5? And Mrs Chowdhury, and our card-friends – they’ll all want to see you.’ Rehana’s throat was sandy. ‘It’s your home too. Come with us.’

Mrs Sengupta showed no hint of understanding. She kept her eyes on Rehana’s face and fingered her glass bangle, moving it up and down her forearm. Then she walked around to the side of the cot. Rehana reached a hand to her hand. She felt the blood leaping under Mrs Sengupta’s skin. At that very moment she was convinced the glass bangle had kept her friend alive, like a pulse at her wrist.

Mrs Sengupta dipped her face to the cot. Rehana thought she might be trying to tell her something; she struggled to lift her head. It was the barest, faintest touch as Mrs Sengupta’s lips brushed Rehana’s cheek. Then she rose and turned to go.

Rehana made one last attempt. ‘Please, Supriya – come home with me.’

But she was already gone, pulling the sari over her shoulder and moving with that slow grace Rehana had envied since the first day she had arrived at Shona, perched on her high heels with a book under her arm.

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November
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