Authors: Tahmima Anam
‘For the operation. I’ve recruited a team, and we’ve received our orders.’
Rehana hadn’t given much thought to what they would actually do once they’d dug up the garden and readied the house. It already looked like work. But they had only been preparing. For this.
‘What will you do?’
‘We’re planting an explosive at the InterCon Hotel. We’re making a statement.’ He put his hand to his cheek and rubbed his jaw.
‘Statement? What sort of a statement? Will people get killed?’
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‘No. We’re hoping there won’t be any casualties.’ Now he was referring to dead people as casualties. ‘Is it dangerous?’
‘You want me to lie, don’t you?’ Yes, please. ‘Of course not.’
‘It’s not dangerous. I’m just the lookout.’ He held her wrists. ‘Thank you, Ammoo. I keep meaning to say that.’
‘I’m just happy to have you near me.’ She wanted to ask him to promise nothing would happen. That he would be safe. That he wouldn’t get himself killed, or maimed, or something selfish like that. ‘When will it happen?’
‘Tomorrow, early morning – before sunrise.’ ‘I’ll be praying,’ was all she could think to say.
His hand was on his jaw again, and he seemed to consider something. ‘Why don’t you come before we set off? You can meet everyone.’
‘Your friends wouldn’t mind?’
‘They’ll be happy to get your blessings. Some of them haven’t seen their own mothers in a long time.’
Rehana understood. She felt a flush of pride at being asked. Sohail put his hand to his cheek again.
‘Do you have a toothache?’
He grinned, then winced a little. ‘Just a small one. Nothing to worry.’
A toothache is the sort of thing I used to worry about. Now I worry about your legs, your heart, your life.
Before dawn the next day Rehana crossed the garden and walked through the narrow iron gate she had built to divide the proper- ties. She had made puris, half with potatoes, half with dal, and halwa. It felt foolish nowadays to take pride in cooking, but she couldn’t resist taking pleasure in the domed rise of the puris, the perfect, vague sweetness of the halwa. It was her first time at Shona since the guerrillas had taken over. From the outside, nothing seemed different; she knew some of the plants had been dug up, but they’d settled back, even though they looked a little
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ragged and unkempt. I must remember to water everything tomorrow, she thought.
The first thing she noticed when she stepped inside was the thick darkness. The curtains were drawn, so that even the weak moon- light and the even weaker streetlights did not penetrate; it was like closing her eyes to sleep. As she adjusted to the darkness Rehana could make out shapes crouched on the floor. Then there were moving pinpoints of light: cigarettes, she gathered, from the smell.
‘Hello?’ she said into the darkness.
‘Partho, turn on the light,’ someone said. She heard a scratching sound, then saw the flame of a match. The hurricane lamp was lit. The lamp was passed along. Each face glowed orange, one at a time, as though they were a cast of actors introducing themselves. They smiled or nodded at her; one raised his hand to his forehead and salaamed. She couldn’t help thinking they all looked so happy. Not scared. Not as though they might be facing death, or worse. But as though they were about to play cricket and found them-
selves gifted with a cool afternoon. Casual. Carefree.
She tried, but could not tell them apart. They were a blur, shadows behind a veil of cigarette smoke, old and very young all at once. When the lamp was passed to him, Joy stood and approached Rehana. He held the light up, and she saw he was grinning. ‘Such bodmashes we are, Auntie, making a mess of your house.’
‘Don’t be silly, beta. My house is yours. But I don’t see your brother?’
‘Aref is in Agartala,’ Joy said. ‘He’s been assigned to another mission.’
Maya was already there; she began circulating with the plate of puris. Rehana thought of the last time they were gathered this way, with Maya leading the songs and Sharmeen pumping the harmonium. She wanted to cradle Maya in her arms. Tell her that she remembered.
‘Someone will come to collect the boxes,’ Sohail said. ‘And we’ll be bringing in more donations.’
‘We’ve heard about your sewing group,’ Joy said; ‘the muktis
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will really love those – if only you could see the camp, Auntie – nothing soft about those beds!’
The other boys laughed from the shadows.
‘Oof,’ one of them said, his mouth full of puri, ‘and the food
– the rootis are hard as sticks, and full of holes.’
Sohail tugged at Rehana’s arm. ‘Ammoo,’ he said, ‘this is our commanding officer.’ He led her to a corner of the room. He whispered, ‘He used to be a major in the Pak Army.’
‘Hello,’ the man said. He was standing directly in front of the lamp and she couldn’t make out much, except the span of his shoulders and the firm grip he returned when she, not knowing how to greet him, offered her hand.
‘Oh, hello,’ she said, returning the squeeze.
‘It’s kind of you to give up your house, Mrs Haque,’ the Major said.
‘Yes, yes, of course.’
‘The whole nation is grateful.’
He was probably thinking she had done it out of some sense of duty, and looking at him now, the tightness of his grip still ringing in her fingers, she wished it had been so; not that the act was any less noble, having been done out of love for her son; even so, it was somehow bigger, in this room, and in this tall man’s presence, to have done something for the country and not just in the service of her children. Perhaps she really was doing it for the country.
From the distance, the sound of the muezzin interrupted her reverie and reminded her of the time. ‘Please forgive me,’ she announced to the huddled group, ‘it’s the morning Azaan. I have to pray. And we haven’t had the halwa.’
‘You finish saying your prayers and then we’ll eat,’ Sohail sug- gested.
‘OK.’ There was an awkward pause. ‘Would any of you like to join me?’ She glanced around; some of the boys were staring down at the ground. She was sure they needed some reassurance, some certainty, before going on their mission.
‘Ma,’ Sohail said finally, ‘Partho is Hindu.’
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‘Doesn’t matter,’ Rehana heard someone say from the back of the room. Still no one moved.
Rehana was about to move to Mrs Sengupta’s bedroom when the Major said, ‘Why not? Mrs Haque, you stand in front.’
‘Really? You don’t mind?’ Rehana was pleased, though she knew she really shouldn’t; women weren’t supposed to lead the prayer. But she went to the curtained window that faced west, and the boys lined up behind her. Even Maya joined in, standing between Sohail and Joy. Rehana pulled her sari over her head and tucked the end behind her ear.
God is Great.
I bear witness that there is none other worthy of worship. Come to prayer, come to felicity.
Glory to you, O Allah. Blessed is your name, exalted is your majesty.
In you I seek refuge.
Holy are you, and magnificent. Come to prayer, come to felicity.
Rehana couldn’t sleep. Shortly after dawn she’d said goodbye to Sohail and his friends and counted, over and over like the long, repeated summer days, all the things that could possibly go wrong. The boys were too young; they were excitable; they were carried away by the thrill of danger, but what did they really know? She’d said all the prayers, Zohr and Asr and Magreb.
In the evening, when the Radio Free Bangladesh broadcaster announced that there had been an explosion at the InterContinental Hotel, Maya let out a whoop of joy and ran through the house, waving her green and red flag.
‘Ammoo! Listen!’ and she pressed the radio to Rehana’s ear.
Foreign journalists have requested the permission of the govern- ment of Pakistan to access the front lines of the civil war after an explosion at the InterContinental Hotel revealed the extent of resistance to occupying forces. The government of Pakistan
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denies all reports of genocide, and President Yahya Khan accuses Sheikh Mujib and his associates in Calcutta of spreading false propaganda against the Pakistan government.
So the operation was a success. But that still didn’t mean they’d got away with it. Rehana closed her eyes and said Aytul Kursi for what felt like the thousandth time that day. She couldn’t sleep. She thought she heard Maya in the other room. Ma! she was saying, I forgive you! I forgive you! Rehana leaped out of bed and ran to Maya’s room and found her with fingers poised over her typewriter. Her heart was pounding painfully in her chest.
‘What are you doing?’ Maya asked, her head tilted. ‘Did you see a ghost?’
When Rehana heard the noises coming from the driveway she knew something had gone wrong. She had been so sure that it had; it was almost a relief to discover she was right. It was an hour before dinner; she’d just put the rice on the stove. She bolted out of the kitchen and saw Sohail and Joy pushing a green car towards the house, the engine switched off. There were others in the car, though she couldn’t make out their faces. Stricken, she ran across the garden and through the gate, meeting them just as they were taking the Major out of the car. Sohail and Joy were both covered in blood, and with them was a stranger, a slight man in a white coat, looking terrified. The Major was between them, motionless and grey.
‘Oh, God, he’s died.’
Sohail dragged the man out by his shoulders. His head lolled to the side. ‘Take his legs!’ he whispered. Sweat was pouring down Sohail’s face and pooling around his chin. Joy grabbed the Major’s legs, and they pulled him to the front door.
‘Goddammit!’ Joy kept saying. ‘Goddammit!’
They laid him across the rose-petal carpet. Someone had tied a cloth around his leg. He was awake, groaning, tossing his head; when he turned his face, Rehana saw there was a triangular splin- ter of wood lodged in his cheek. Sohail stood over him while Joy pointed a gun at the doctor.
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‘Fix it.’
‘I can’t. I need things – medicine, anaesthetic.’
‘You’ll have to make do with what you’ve got in the bag.’
The doctor was no older than the rest of them, probably hardly out of medical school, a thin, delicate boy with greasy hair.
‘You have to take him to the hospital!’ he said.
‘Are you mad? Do you know how many people are looking for us?’
The doctor waved his arms. ‘I can’t. I can’t do it.’
Rehana found herself kneeling beside the Major, looking the young doctor in the eye. ‘Listen, this is an emergency. Just do your best.’ She kept her gaze on him, until he nodded slowly.
‘We have to get the shards out of his leg,’ he said, looking only at her. ‘There are several smaller traumas, but the main thing is the leg. And the face. I wouldn’t know what to do with the face.’ ‘Just patch it up,’ Joy said. ‘We’ll take him to the field hospital
in the morning.’
‘He can’t go very far.’
‘Fix it! We have to move out tonight!’ Joy pressed the gun to the doctor’s temple.
‘Joy, baba, this man is trying to help,’ Rehana said. ‘Please, take the gun away. I’m on the right side.’ ‘Just fix it.’
‘The gun! Take it away first!’ The doctor blinked away tears.
Joy lowered the gun, but he kept his finger curled around the trigger.
The doctor took a syringe out of his bag and filled it with the contents of a small, upturned bottle. Then he went to work on the Major’s leg. Rehana remained beside him, strangely un- affected by the sight of the Major’s torn limb, the ragged flesh exposed, the whiteness of bone shining through the dimness of the room. She didn’t hesitate when the doctor told her to peel back the Major’s trousers and begin to clean the smaller wounds. He gave her a pair of tweezers and told her to pick out the shards. She bent over the leg, working quietly, ignoring the shudders coming from the Major.
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When Rehana finished with the tweezers, the doctor started to stitch. ‘Thank you, Mrs Haque.’ She could tell he wasn’t just thanking her for helping to clean the wound.
The wood was still lodged in the Major’s cheek.
Sohail whispered something to Joy, and he put down his gun, crouching instead and holding a kerosene lamp over the doctor’s arm. ‘Auntie,’ Joy said, ‘you go and take a break.’