A King in Hiding (3 page)

Kolkata! I was lost in wonder at this city of riches, with its vast shopping centre, its lights everywhere, its Metro and its smart hotels. Our room had a television and a bathroom.

It was a strange city too. People there spoke Bengali with a peculiar accent that I tried to imitate. There were traffic jams like at home, not because of the traffic but because there were people walking about all over the roads, and cows wandering through the streets wherever they wanted to go. There were lots of other surprising things, like the street sellers offering strange red fruit called strawberries. And I nearly fell over in amazement when I passed a woman on the pavement and she was walking about smoking like a man!

I came second in the championship, and it wasn't difficult to persuade my father to let me go again. A few months later, I was the winner. When I got home, in the middle of the night, my mother ran to me and gave me a big hug.

‘
Amma, Amma
, I won the tournament! I beat grown ups! I beat
Indians
!'

Next day, she told the whole neighbourhood about my triumphs. She said that one day I would take part in the world championship, she was sure. People congratulated me. I felt proud.

That evening my father brought the newspapers home. There were stories about me: ‘Bangladeshi Boy (7) Wins Kolkata Chess Tournament', and ‘A Champion in the Making'!

Life was good.

Chapter 3

MY LIFE IS OVER

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Bangladesh is a young country with a troubled history. East Bengal was first established when Bengal was divided in 1946; when India gained its independence the following year, East Bengal became part of Pakistan. From 1955 it became East Pakistan, and in 1971 it declared independence as Bangladesh. The political life of this new state was punctuated by a succession of military coups, assassination attempts and violent rivalries between the two main parties. It was in the run-up to a presidential election, when political tensions were running particularly high, that more personal events were to impinge directly on Fahim's family and tear his peaceful life apart.

People were talking on the radio about the coming elections, which were constantly postponed, and about demonstrations. Soon we could hear gunfire in the streets. The army was firing on the protestors. It sounded like there was a war going on. Our parents said we mustn't go out, first of all in the evening because of the curfew, and then, when it got too dangerous, in the daytime too. The streets were deserted.

The grown-ups would talk about what was going on. They were frightened. The more frightened they became, the more they talked. They said the police were hunting down the protestors. That they were going into houses, beating the people who lived there, searching them, turning everything upside down looking for weapons, stealing money. When they found the people they were looking for, they treated them like criminals. They made up robberies, murders, whatever, so that they could arrest them, throw them in prison, and sometimes have them executed.

My father seemed preoccupied. He spent less and less time playing chess and more and more time on the telephone. He talked to people I didn't know. He looked serious. Sometimes I would overhear snatches of his conversations with my uncles or my grandfather, about people who were jealous of the club's success, and about the tournaments I was winning.

Several times people came to our house, forcing their way in and demanding to see my father. They asked lots of questions that I didn't understand. They searched the house, made lots of noise and woke up the baby, who started to cry. Jhorna and I would hide behind our mother. They went away, and then they came back again. They shouted, asking again where my father was, but my mother said nothing and stayed calm, even when the baby really screamed. Before they went away they looked at me, and I was scared. I didn't know what they wanted. After they'd gone my mother went and hid, and I found her crying. That made me angry. No one had the right to hurt my mother. I hated those men. If I'd been bigger, I would have stood up for her. But I didn't even know how to comfort her.

There was a family meeting to discuss it all, with my uncles, aunts and grandparents. One evening, my parents called me into the living room. Looking grave, they explained that I mustn't go outside any more. Not for any reason. Not ever, not even to go to school. Too bad, I could study at home. They explained that some very serious things were happening, and that they were afraid I might be kidnapped. I didn't know what made them think that, but they looked very serious. And things like that did happen in our country. If people wanted to hurt someone, they'd take it out on his son. Ever since I was little I'd heard stories of children being snatched away and never seen again. But this time the child in danger was me. And the only way to avoid the danger was never to set foot outside the house.

In the mornings I would stay inside. In the afternoons, when my friends came home from school, I would be allowed to play in the courtyard. But only in the courtyard. Never in the street. Never anywhere near the street. From the doorway, my mother would watch me constantly.

My life was awful. I was bored. I was frightened. Whenever I looked at my mother, her red-rimmed eyes would make me feel sad. At night I would imagine men pouncing on me, kidnapping me, selling me as a slave in a faraway country where I would never see my family again. When I finally got to sleep, different men, wearing masks and dressed all in black, would come in and stab me to death.

One morning, an anonymous letter arrived. That is, it didn't say who'd sent it, but we knew all the same. My parents didn't read it to me, or even show it to me, but they told me about it. It said that some men were going to kidnap me because I was so good at chess.

I didn't understand why these people were attacking me, I just knew that I was too young to die. That night in bed I heard voices:

‘His life is in danger, you must take him far away.'

‘But all five of you can't go, you'd be spotted in no time.'

‘A family with three children, one a baby, is bound to attract attention.'

‘They'll track you down, even in India.'

‘You'll need to cover your tracks. If it's just the two of you it will be more discreet.'

‘But what will you do for money? Travelling is expensive.'

‘Leave the rest of them behind, nothing will happen to them. It's Fahim who's in danger.'

‘We'll look after them. Go somewhere safe, you and Fahim. You can send for them later.'

I was outraged. I clenched my fists. I wanted to punch the men who were threatening me, the cowards who were attacking me without daring to show their faces. I didn't want to leave Jhorna and the baby. I didn't want to leave my mother. I couldn't imagine life without her, far from her arms, her voice, her smell, her smile, the way she looked at me.

My father called me into the living room. My mother was pale and silent. My father told me that the next day he and I would have to go away. He said I was too young to understand, but that we had no choice. And I didn't dare to ask any questions.

The neighbours came round. The evening was sad, like when someone has died. Except the dead person was me, and I wasn't dead. Not yet. I'd be dead if I was killed. If I was kidnapped. If I was taken away from my mother.

I cuddled up close to her. I wouldn't leave her. We didn't even think of going to sleep. In the morning, she hugged me tight. She was weeping. Over and over again she kept saying:

‘Take care of yourself, my son, I love you. Don't forget me. May God reunite us very soon. I'll think of you every day. I'll always be with you. You will be in my heart for ever.'

We left. Just the two of us, my father and I. It was 2 September 2008, the worst day of my life.

I was eight years old.

I was lost.

My life was over.

Chapter 4

AN ENDLESS JOURNEY

I
t was all so confused. In my memory everything is all jumbled up. There were buses. Aeroplanes. Kolkata. New Delhi. Life on the run. Journeys that went on for ever, that put me off travelling for good. My father searching. Making calls. Always making calls. Trying to get as far away from Bangladesh as we could. Embassies, consulates, trying to buy tickets to get out of Asia, far away. So that no one could ever find us. An airport. An ancient Aeroflot plane. A night flight. A stopover in Russia, maybe?

I forgot it all as soon as it happened, blotted it out of my memory. My father and I would never talk about those days and nights, the running away. We'd put it in a box and shut the lid on it. Much later, when I came to work on this book, I would find that my memory had kept all of the pain, but had mixed up everything else. Because that wasn't really what happened.

My father had gone on ahead to make all the arrangements. He wasn't at home to tell me that we had to run away. It must have been one of his brothers. In the morning, it was my uncle, along with my mother, my brother, my sister and my grandmother, who took me to the border, where my father was waiting for us.

So it was on the border with India, far away from Dhaka, that I kissed my mother for the last time. Everyone seemed to be crying: my mother, my grandmother, Jhorna, everyone. Except for me. The only person who didn't cry was me. I don't like to show my feelings. I don't like feelings.

But I don't remember any of it. I've blotted out my memories. Shut them in a box. Even my grief, my overwhelming grief. More impossible to bear with every mile we travelled. Every morning when I woke up. Every night when I went to bed. Every time I had a nightmare. Even the pain. Week after week of pain, month after month, sometimes intense, sometimes dull. I don't remember anything. Anything at all, except the feeling that I would never see my mother again.

To blot out my memories I slept, I slept all the time. Even today I can't talk about the day that I lost my mother. I can't even talk about her.

My father decided we would go and join a friend of his in Madrid. In Spain he was bound to be able to find work and get papers, it would be easy. But he didn't manage to get a visa and we fell back on the Italian embassy: the idea of a father wanting to take his son to Rome seemed normal enough. We got stamps in our passports: free movement for a month in what they called the ‘Schengen area'. Apparently the flight was very long for me. Apparently we spent a week in Rome, with a friend of my father. Apparently I was ill. I don't remember anything until our journey took us to Budapest.

It was dawn one morning in October when we got off the bus. All of a sudden the air was so cold I could hardly breathe. It was as though the Hungarians had turned the air-conditioning up full in the streets and the thermostat had got stuck.

Budapest was so different from Dhaka. I examined it eagerly. Everything was clean and tidy. The traffic was orderly and well behaved, even if everyone did insist on driving on the wrong side of the road. It was nothing like the chaos of Dhaka. The people walking along beneath the tall buildings looked strange. Of course I'd seen white people before, in films. Even in real life. But never so many at once.

We wandered around looking for our hotel. In Dhaka, any bus driver could tell you where to go. In Budapest, nobody understood me, even when I asked in my best English, the English I'd learned at school. Nobody had heard of our hotel, and later on nobody had heard of the chess club. When he was in India, my father had entered me for the First Saturday chess tournament in Budapest in October. Although I was so sad, I still felt a little thrill of curiosity at the thought of my first tournament in Europe.

It was raining. We got lucky when a lady went out of her way to show us how to get there. She pointed out a building that was way too quiet. On the other side of the street, outside an official-looking building with a flag flying on it, a soldier was marching up and down, swinging his boots right up to his waist.

The entrance hall was dark. Instinctively I shrank back. My father squeezed my hand. We went up to the first floor. As soon as I opened the door my fear melted away: a crowd of cheerful people turned to look at us. They smiled.

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We can only imagine the world of difference between the Dhaka club that Fahim was used to going to with his father and the offices of the Hungarian Chess Federation. Within this period building in the historic centre of Budapest lay a sequence of small rooms cluttered with tables inlaid with chessboards, jewels of the art of marquetry, and lined with bookcases containing a selection of venerable magazines and a library devoted to the vast literature of chess.

A bearded giant rushed towards us, his arms flung wide open.

‘Hello Mr Nura,' he said in English, lifting my father off his feet. ‘I am Nagy Laszlo.'

The organiser of the tournament had never seen my father, because he had communicated with him online. But he couldn't help but recognise us: we were the only non-white people there.

‘Do you want a drink? Something to eat?'

He introduced us to the players and the referee, and everyone gave us a warm welcome. They congratulated my father on his courage. Did everyone in Europe know that he'd saved my life?

The tournament lasted a week. There were dozens of players: teenagers, adults, even old people – but no other children. I was the youngest player and also the smallest, and I had to sit on top of a stack of chairs in order to reach the table. I was competing in a group of six players, which meant I played ten games, two against each of my five opponents. With a point for each win and half a point for a draw, I decided to aim for five points, five out of ten.

In the first round, I played against the best player in my group, a Hungarian who had a bumbag holding secret treasures that I could only guess at. The game didn't last long. He was nice, but you could tell that inside he was angry, especially when I checkmated him. Nagy Laszlo was delighted. He threw his arms around me, and it was my turn to fly up into the air:

‘Bravo! Bravo Fahim! You are incredible!'

The Hungarian was surprised. He wasn't happy. In the return match he'd try harder.

My next opponent was an old man. Really old. He had to be at least – I don't know how old. Before we started the game he offered me a sweet. I didn't know him so I said no: I'm not daft. So he unwrapped it and popped it in his mouth. Instantly I wished I'd said yes. He had wrinkles and he shook, which was annoying. I couldn't concentrate. I wasn't great in the next game either.

Then I played a British journalist, who was really nice. She had blonde hair and her name was Diana. She was good. It was a tough game. I captured one of her pieces without giving up anything in return. I had the advantage and I hung on to it. I defended my piece so she couldn't take it. I dodged and feinted and wriggled. The game went on for four hours. Gradually we were reaching stalemate. It was impossible to mount an attack. That extra piece was blocking the way. Finally I gave up and suggested a draw. Fortunately in the next round I got my own back. Putting on my best serious face, I said to Diana:

‘You play well. You gave me the hardest time of them all. Can we play again?'

We met up again for friendly games as soon as we could, and we became friends. From then on she would greet me not with a handshake but with a kiss on the cheek, as though we were family.

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Later, in a piece entitled ‘Fahim the Conqueror' and published on the Chess News website, Diana Mihajlova wrote:

‘The chess-playing part was easy and tremendously enjoyable, but communication was difficult as the father spoke no word of any European language, though the boy was making the utmost effort with his admirable if broken English. I retain a picture of the two of them – the boy always impeccably groomed and perfectly behaved, the father polite, quiet and visibly over-protective of his child, always hand in hand, as if facing together the menace of this new, frightening world.'

The First Saturday was nearly over. I won the last two rounds against a strange man. In my head I called him Madness. I finished with six-and-a-half points out of ten. The other players congratulated me. I was so happy. I'd beaten my own goal. Now all I wanted to do was go home and tell … No, I couldn't think about that.