shut. If she sit on behind she can look only at ground. It like big big foot press on the back. Any time she wanting to look higher she roll on side. She move along with shuffling and use hands as paddle. After it get dark man come and put on handcart and take somewhere. One time he come and she do not want to go. She start shuffling back away and shout. She get so far as coconut vendor at other corner.
I like to watch this woman. She have courage.
When I get address I write again to you.
Hasina
A young man, tall as a stilt-walker and with the same stiff-legged gait, came and sat on the opposite bench. He put his motorcycle helmet on the ground. He ate a sandwich in four large bites. Something in his jacket crackled like a radio. He spoke to it and it appeared to speak back. He put on his helmet and left. Nazneen needed a toilet. The baby made her want to urinate about eight or nine times in the day, two or three times at night. It was past noon and all morning she had not thought of the toilet once.
She would have to urinate on the grass like a dog, or else wet herself and walk home in soaked clothes. But how would she go home? That was the point of being lost. She, like Hasina, could not simply go home. They were both lost in cities that would not pause even to shrug. Poor Hasina. Nazneen wept but as the tears started to come she knew that she was weeping more for her own stupidity than for her sister. What propelled her down all those streets? What hand was at her back? It could not help Hasina for Nazneen to be lost. And it could not give Nazneen any idea what Hasina was suffering. She watched heads above the railings. The people who looked in looked away again, neither slowly nor quickly, without interest or design. Razia always said, if you go out to shop, go to Sainsbury's. English people don't look at you twice. But if you go to our shops, the Bengali men will make things up about you. You know how they talk. Once you get talked about, then that's it. Nothing you can do.
Hasina would be talked about.
The baby had taken over her bladder. The baby was not much bigger than a lychee but it was in charge of all her internal organs, particularly her bladder. Nazneen got up and began walking again. The sun had gone somewhere. It no longer peeped out from time to time from behind the clouds. The clouds rushed at the tops of buildings as if they would smother them in a murderous rage. The buildings stood their ground, impassive as cows. And at the very last second the clouds went to pieces.
Nazneen wondered if Chanu worked in a building like these. She imagined him in a glass office, surrounded by piles of paper and talking in a big voice to his colleagues who hurried back and forth, getting on with their jobs while he talked and talked. It was lunchtime now and the streets were busier. People carried white paper bags with sandwiches poking out. Some ate and walked to save time. She might see Chanu; he might work just here, in this building, or this. These were important buildings. They were proud of what they were. They could be government buildings. Chanu might be walking towards her now. He could be behind her. She turned round and bumped into a man carrying a plastic cup of hot tea that spilled on her arm. She turned back again and walked quickly, stepping hard on her twisted left ankle, to distract from the pain in her arm, to punish herself for being so stupid. Someone tapped her on the shoulder and she leaped like a dog away from a whip snake. He came round to the front. A brown-faced man in a dark coat and tie. He had a handkerchief arranged like an exotic flower in his breast pocket and his glasses had lenses as thick as pebbles. He said something. Nazneen recognized Hindi when she heard it, but she did not understand it. He tried again, in Urdu. Nazneen could speak some Urdu, but the man's accent was so strong that she could not understand this either. She shook her head. He spoke in English this time. His eyes looked
I like to watch this woman. She have courage.
When I get address I write again to you.
Hasina
A young man, tall as a stilt-walker and with the same stiff-legged gait, came and sat on the opposite bench. He put his motorcycle helmet on the ground. He ate a sandwich in four large bites. Something in his jacket crackled like a radio. He spoke to it and it appeared to speak back. He put on his helmet and left. Nazneen needed a toilet. The baby made her want to urinate about eight or nine times in the day, two or three times at night. It was past noon and all morning she had not thought of the toilet once.
She would have to urinate on the grass like a dog, or else wet herself and walk home in soaked clothes. But how would she go home? That was the point of being lost. She, like Hasina, could not simply go home. They were both lost in cities that would not pause even to shrug. Poor Hasina. Nazneen wept but as the tears started to come she knew that she was weeping more for her own stupidity than for her sister. What propelled her down all those streets? What hand was at her back? It could not help Hasina for Nazneen to be lost. And it could not give Nazneen any idea what Hasina was suffering. She watched heads above the railings. The people who looked in looked away again, neither slowly nor quickly, without interest or design. Razia always said, if you go out to shop, go to Sainsbury's. English people don't look at you twice. But if you go to our shops, the Bengali men will make things up about you. You know how they talk. Once you get talked about, then that's it. Nothing you can do.
Hasina would be talked about.
The baby had taken over her bladder. The baby was not much bigger than a lychee but it was in charge of all her internal organs, particularly her bladder. Nazneen got up and began walking again. The sun had gone somewhere. It no longer peeped out from time to time from behind the clouds. The clouds rushed at the tops of buildings as if they would smother them in a murderous rage. The buildings stood their ground, impassive as cows. And at the very last second the clouds went to pieces.
Nazneen wondered if Chanu worked in a building like these. She imagined him in a glass office, surrounded by piles of paper and talking in a big voice to his colleagues who hurried back and forth, getting on with their jobs while he talked and talked. It was lunchtime now and the streets were busier. People carried white paper bags with sandwiches poking out. Some ate and walked to save time. She might see Chanu; he might work just here, in this building, or this. These were important buildings. They were proud of what they were. They could be government buildings. Chanu might be walking towards her now. He could be behind her. She turned round and bumped into a man carrying a plastic cup of hot tea that spilled on her arm. She turned back again and walked quickly, stepping hard on her twisted left ankle, to distract from the pain in her arm, to punish herself for being so stupid. Someone tapped her on the shoulder and she leaped like a dog away from a whip snake. He came round to the front. A brown-faced man in a dark coat and tie. He had a handkerchief arranged like an exotic flower in his breast pocket and his glasses had lenses as thick as pebbles. He said something. Nazneen recognized Hindi when she heard it, but she did not understand it. He tried again, in Urdu. Nazneen could speak some Urdu, but the man's accent was so strong that she could not understand this either. She shook her head. He spoke in English this time. His eyes looked
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