The Good Muslim (30 page)

He smiled again, as though there were no tragedy in the world he hadn’t heard of, and conquered. ‘All right,’ Maya said, ‘come along, then.’

They set off as the sun whispered towards the horizon, moving against the current, the people on the shore growing smaller, into bright yellow specks, like lit cigarettes in a dark room. Through the slats in the bamboo she could see the water rising against the boat. They passed the first hour in silence. The boatman hummed as he rowed. Then Khoka said, ‘Dakhtar, I shouldn’t ask. But you’re in trouble?’

Maya hesitated, wondering if he would understand any of it. ‘I’m looking for a boy. My nephew.’ As she started to speak the story poured out of her, about how she had returned, after her long absence, to the bungalow in Dhaka, her mother’s illness, the appearance of Zaid.

Khoka’s face moved with every episode of the story. She could tell he was thinking of himself, comparing his life and his miseries with those of the other boy. He was adding it up: the death of his parents, the long days he spent carrying the crates of drinks up and down the ghat. All the other hidden injuries. By the end, she had almost forgotten where she was as she described Rokeya’s disclosure, her meeting with Sohail. When she looked up, she saw Khoka’s eyes were shining. He leaned over the side of the boat, took a handful of water and splashed it on his face.

It would not have been appropriate for him to embrace her. But when he wiped his face roughly with his palms, it was as though he held her; as if he had said, you are right to be here, to be on this boat, to be travelling upriver in search of this boy. When you find him, you will also find me.

And this is how they passed their journey upstream, with the Jamuna pounding its banks, demanding its passage, breaking and swallowing pieces of the shore as it went, propelling them towards their destination, at its own pace, its own command.

She told Khoka what she knew of the madrasa.

‘You don’t know the name?’

‘No. I’m not familiar with these parts.’

‘You don’t know the village?’

‘No. I’m sorry.’

‘Then we will go to every madrasa in every village near Chandpur and we will find him.’

Zaid had said it was surrounded by water. She hadn’t understood before, but now she saw what he meant. The river was so vast, and so fierce, it created islands of its own. She had heard of these but she had never seen them. Khoka told her they were called chars, and he pointed them out to her now, shallow, floating cakes of land, rising just inches from the water, scattered with pale shoots of grass.

‘These islands come up every year, after the monsoon. They might stay, they might get eaten by the river in a few months. That one over there’ – he pointed to what looked like the shore – ‘is old, it’s been around for years. Your madrasa must be built on one of the older islands.’ He said something to the boatman. ‘Let’s stop here and ask.’

‘Too late,’ the boatman said. ‘We’ll stop now and try tomorrow.’

Maya checked her watch. Seven o’clock, but it was fully dark already, the river grey and black and suddenly quiet.

The boatman boiled rice on a makeshift stove beside the engine, and Khoka fried a few shrimps he had caught over the side of the boat. They ate in silence, Maya surprised by the delicious, salty crunch of the shrimp. After the meal, Khoka said, ‘The boatman wants to ask you a question, Dakhtar.’ He guided the old man towards her. Deep folds sectioned his face and made it kind. ‘My wife,’ the boatman said, ‘it’s her throat.’ He moved his hands up and down his own sagging neck. ‘It’s round, like this.’

‘You mean it’s swollen?’

‘Looks like she swallowed a pumpkin.’ His own lips were rimmed with orange from betel nut, his mouth black.

‘It’s called a goitre,’ Maya said. ‘She needs iodine. When you go to the shop to buy salt, tell them you want salt with iodine.’

‘Will it cost?’

‘Same as the other salt.’ It was the law now that all salt must contain iodine, but not every producer complied. In Rajshahi she had persuaded the salt-sellers to convert to iodine salt. There were no swollen throats in her village.

The boatman raised his right hand to his forehead, thanking her. Then he signalled for her to stretch out along the boat; he and Khoka would find a dry spot on the shore. She fell asleep quickly, hugging her arms tightly over herself and using the burkha as a blanket.

In the morning Khoka hailed a group of men heading towards the fields. Yes, they were told, there’s a madrasa here. They trudged between a few patches of paddy and came upon a blue school building made entirely of wavy sheets of tin. A handful of children loitered on a rough patch of grass outside the building. ‘This can’t be it,’ Maya said, turning away.

‘You don’t want to find the headmaster?’

‘Look,’ she said, pointing to the children. ‘Girls.’

They continued upriver, the boatman straining against the current. They stopped a few more times, turning up at makeshift schoolhouses and outbuildings on the grounds of mosques. The islands had an air of impermanence about them, the people appearing light and carefree as their saris and lungis ballooned out with the force of the river wind. Perhaps, Maya thought, as the sun dipped once more under its watery horizon, I will return here someday with a happier heart.

The next morning they stopped at a large island that rose several feet from the river. Maya and Khoka followed the path that began at the water’s edge, their toes sinking into the silt. After a few steps the ground grew higher and became dry, and then the going was comfortable, Khoka swinging her bag as he walked, the koel and the bulbul singing in chorus, singing them on.

Two more false starts and they were standing in front of a small blue door worked into a solid, windowless wall. Maya felt a hollow throb at the pit of her stomach. ‘This must be it.’ She pulled the burkha out of her bag and slipped it over her head. She tied the nikab over her head and face, surprised by the feeling of her own breath against her cheeks. ‘Wait by the boat,’ she told Khoka. ‘We may have to leave in a hurry.’

She circled the building like a thief. There was a high wall going all the way around the compound, and several smaller buildings around a central courtyard. A deep smell, of unwashed boys and rotting bananas, coated the building like a mist. Finally she gathered up the courage and knocked. A boy, older than Zaid, opened the door immediately. ‘Where is the Huzoor?’ she said. ‘Take me to him.’

He hesitated. ‘Big Huzoor or Small Huzoor?’

She didn’t know. ‘Doesn’t matter. Big, I suppose. Whoever’s in charge.’

The boy straightened, as if remembering something. ‘Women are not allowed,’ he said.

‘It’s all right, he’s expecting me.’ She reached out and patted the boy’s cap, but he stiffened, stepping back into the darkness.

‘No,’ he said, and made to close the door.

She grabbed his shoulders. ‘The Huzoor will see me,’ she said. ‘Take me inside.’

He pushed her and slammed the door. She banged with her fist, knowing he was waiting on the other side. ‘Open up!’

She circled the building again, looking for an entrance. It appeared deserted, no footsteps, no sounds of any kind. She went back to the door. Banged again. The inside of the nikab was black and searing. The breath roared out of her.

Nothing. She turned around, ran back to the river. The boat was unmoored, Khoka and the boatman waiting with the oars on their laps. ‘They won’t let me inside,’ she said.

‘How many?’ Khoka asked.

‘Just a boy. The classrooms must be at the back, but I couldn’t tell.’

‘Let me come with you,’ Khoka said. ‘I can try and find a way in.’ He waded to shore.

They tried the door again. The boy opened, and Khoka spoke. ‘We need to come inside,’ he said; ‘it’s very important.’

The boy pointed to Maya. ‘No women allowed.’

Khoka pushed the boy aside and stepped through the gap in the door. Maya was about to follow, but Khoka closed the door behind him. She heard a scuffle inside, footsteps, muffled, tense voices.
Right now
, she heard.
Right now
.

The door opened. Khoka was holding the boy by the elbow. ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay here.’

‘What did you tell him?’ she whispered.

‘That you are the sister of Huzoor Haque and you have come on important business, and that, inshallah, if you are allowed inside, great blessings will fall upon the madrasa.’

‘Really?’

‘Actually forgive me, Dakhtar, I told the boy I would beat him till the blood ran out of his ears if he didn’t do as I said.’

The boy sniffed angrily, turned around and led her through a corridor and out into the open courtyard. He asked her to wait while he spoke to the Huzoor. ‘Tell him I’m Mrs Haque,’ she said. She waited, trying not to fidget in the heat. The boy emerged and led her into a small chamber. A very thin man with a neatly trimmed beard sat behind a desk with a pen in his hand. Glasses high on the bridge of his nose.

‘I’d like to speak with the Huzoor,’ she said. ‘Which one are you?’

‘I’m Choto Huzoor.’

‘Where’s the Big Huzoor?’

‘Travelling.’

Maya appraised the man. Rokeya’s sister was right about the burkha: from inside, she could stare freely without being noticed. She saw the man’s tapered, unworked fingers, the dark pools of his eyes, with their trace of surma. His jellaba was long, sweeping his ankles. She swallowed a fist of fear, remembering the man who had put the knife to her throat.

He set down his pen. ‘How can I be of service to you, sister?’ He smiled with narrow teeth.

Maya approached, put her hands on the table. ‘I want someone. A boy.’

The Huzoor looked down at his shoes, and suddenly she wasn’t afraid of him; he knew why she was there, knew it from the way she stood and pointed her face at him now, and his fingers trembled and the pen shook, like the line of an irregular heartbeat. She said, ‘I won’t stay long. I’ve come to collect Zaid Haque. You will give him to me and I will not trouble you further.’

She prepared herself for an argument, but he sat frozen at his desk, the pen hovering in mid-air. She noticed his fingernails were dyed red with henna. She repeated herself, raised her voice. She heard herself threatening him, telling him she would tell the Big Huzoor and he would inform his superiors. He would be disgraced. Then she would call the police and have the madrasa closed down. He would be arrested. Have you ever seen the inside of a prison, Huzoor? He stood up now and blocked the door, and she stepped up to him, placed her hands on his chest. ‘I know what you’ve done,’ she said. ‘I know and God knows and you’ll burn in dosok for it.’ There was a tremor in his voice as pointed to the back of the compound, mumbling something about a shack, a locked door. ‘I know what you’ve done,’ she said again, as he pulled a key from around his neck. ‘I know and God knows.’

She follows the outline of the building, turns around a bend and finds herself on a path leading through the bush. She sees the school building, a rectangular room with a tin roof. And, from within, a hum, many-voiced, like the sound of bees.

Just as the man said, there is a small square shack, the size of a chicken coop. There is no roof but the walls are high. She bangs on the door before attempting the lock. She is afraid to cry out, afraid she will be heard, afraid of what she will hear. The door replies. It is not a voice, only a soft rap, rap rap, not even from knuckles, more like the press of a hand. The lock is attached to a bolt on the door.

She uses the key.

The door swings open and he is inside, squatting over a pit dug into the ground. She holds out her arms and he leaps into them, and she thinks he is calling her name, Maya Maya Maya. Her heart sings along to it, but then the words come into focus, and she remembers she is still in her disguise, and that he has mistaken her for his mother. Ma, ma, ma.

She packs him into the boat. He clings to her.
The Arabic alphabet
, he says.
Alif-ba-ta-sa. I know it
. They make it to Gaibandha. On the boat, in darkness again, Maya pleads with Zaid to eat something. He refuses, gazing through the thin bamboo netting that arches over the boat, his eyes searching for the night sky.
I know the Arabic alphabet,
he repeats.
Where is my mother?
She isn’t here, Maya tells him, you know that.
Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Raheem
, he begins, reciting the words he has been taught.
Nauzubillah hira-shahitan-ir-Raheem
. A small lizard has made its way on board, and scuttles back and forth among the curved roof slats. He settles for this, chasing it with his finger.

His grandmother is waiting at home, Maya tells him, she will be so happy to see him. His father too. At the mention of his father he says,
I don’t want to go home. I know the Arabic alphabet. Alifbatasa. BismillahirRahmanirRaheem
. There is a cut on his cheek. A bruise on the crease of his elbow.

She feels a sharp twist of guilt now, for the chappals she never bought him, for allowing him to be caught stealing, for not treating him more like he was hers, like something of her own. She expects to be angry too at his father, expects the rage to have thundered into her by now, but at this very moment she can only summon reproof for herself.

Khoka cannot take his eyes off the boy. He stares and stares, chasing Zaid’s hand as it picks up the lizard, pulls off its tail and flings it into the water.

As they approach the shore Zaid’s recitation gets louder and louder.
I like oranges
, he says.
Bring me an orange. Bring me a bicycle.
He starts reciting the call to prayer.
AshahadullahMuhammadur RasoolAllah
. He stands up and leans his weight this way and that. The boat tilts. The shore is crowded with boatmen and fishermen and people like them, people between one place and another. Closer now, and he begins to wail, banging his fists against Maya as she throws her arms around him. ‘You want to stay on the boat, Zaid, is that what you want? You want to stay the night here? All right, all right.’

They turn around again, moving away from the ferry dock, and the boatman moors them against the river bank.