sped by. ‘And what’s important in your life?’
With considerable reservations, I tell her about Amelia.
‘Will you marry her?’
‘I don’t think so. Maybe live together.’
‘Without marrying?’ Nasreen asks incredulously.
‘That’s fairly common now.’
She presses her cheeks between her hands. ‘Don’t even joke about it to Ma.’
‘She could add that to my catalogue of sins.’
‘But you do like Amelia very much.’ It’s more a statement of hope than a query.
I nod.
‘I wish I had been half as cautious as you about marriage.’
‘It’s not always possible to control what happens to us.’
‘But there are times when we can be too accommodating to others.’ Nasreen reflects ruefully. ‘Hanif wouldn’t allow me any independence. I couldn’t study. A job was unthinkable. I was from the stable of the Alams. A thoroughbred to be shown to the world.’
‘Was there another woman?’
‘No. Hanif’s married to his wealth. His business started to lose money, then he became depressed and drank heavily. He needed to find someone to blame. I took his yelling for a couple of years and did everything I could to please him. That was a mistake. I walked out the first time he hit me.’
From the edge of the bed, we can see our reflections in the mirror of the dressing table. ‘You don’t look much different from when I last saw you,’ I say enviously. The man next to her looks distinctly haggard.
Nasreen throws back her head and laughs. It’s a gentle laughter though, one that reprimands me but welcomes the flattery, too. ‘Well, you know more about change than any of us.’ She puts her arm around my shoulders, grows serious again. ‘The war claimed so many lives in different ways. There were times when I felt as if I’d lost a favourite brother.’
We sit quietly, gazing at the mirror, waiting for a miracle to happen, for the recreation of those years when we took our pursuits for granted. A long-haired young man, quoting Marx to annoy his older brother and forever willing to talk politics, doesn’t appear. Neither does an irrepressible school girl with a shrill voice, ever ready for pranks. The silence becomes an acceptance.
There was a time, I think, when mortality was nowhere in sight and we didn’t sniff the air nervously for a whiff of its approaching stench.
We hear Ma calling us.
‘It’s time for afternoon tea,’ Nasreen reminds me. Our regrets are hidden.
‘Already? Silver teapot, strainer, cups and saucers?’
‘Teabags in porcelain mugs. Stop trying to be a magician. The past won’t come back. It likes its safety in memory.’
Outside, the raw afternoon is beginning to mellow. Later it will bruise quickly to a shade of deep purple.
Suddenly, I miss Amelia.
FIVE
Mutations
‘It’s all there.’ Zia points to the stack of manila folders on the knotted-cane coffee table. ‘Bills, receipts, official correspondence and documents. Look through them if you want.’
I remain impassive. I’ve been unable to concentrate on my brother’s clinical relating of his meetings with accountants and solicitors who’ve devised ways to reduce our accumulated debts.
‘How much did you have to contribute?’ I ask.
‘In your currency…about nineteen thousand dollars.’ He looks at Ma and says loudly, ‘That’s a lot of takas.’
‘I’ll cover half of that,’ I promise, without a clue how I’ll find such a sum.
Zia’s ploy to chasten Ma into thriftiness isn’t having the intended effect.
She looks uninterested, as though the grim times will simply swirl past us like a dust storm. She continues to read a Bangla newspaper. Head bowed, Nasreen is engaged in mending Yasmin’s school uniform.
‘We would’ve been fine if I didn’t find out that Abba and Uncle Musa had sold off vast tracts of land after the liberation war,’ Zia says. ‘The money was used to help those guerrillas who had been crippled or maimed. You could hardly criticise what they
With considerable reservations, I tell her about Amelia.
‘Will you marry her?’
‘I don’t think so. Maybe live together.’
‘Without marrying?’ Nasreen asks incredulously.
‘That’s fairly common now.’
She presses her cheeks between her hands. ‘Don’t even joke about it to Ma.’
‘She could add that to my catalogue of sins.’
‘But you do like Amelia very much.’ It’s more a statement of hope than a query.
I nod.
‘I wish I had been half as cautious as you about marriage.’
‘It’s not always possible to control what happens to us.’
‘But there are times when we can be too accommodating to others.’ Nasreen reflects ruefully. ‘Hanif wouldn’t allow me any independence. I couldn’t study. A job was unthinkable. I was from the stable of the Alams. A thoroughbred to be shown to the world.’
‘Was there another woman?’
‘No. Hanif’s married to his wealth. His business started to lose money, then he became depressed and drank heavily. He needed to find someone to blame. I took his yelling for a couple of years and did everything I could to please him. That was a mistake. I walked out the first time he hit me.’
From the edge of the bed, we can see our reflections in the mirror of the dressing table. ‘You don’t look much different from when I last saw you,’ I say enviously. The man next to her looks distinctly haggard.
Nasreen throws back her head and laughs. It’s a gentle laughter though, one that reprimands me but welcomes the flattery, too. ‘Well, you know more about change than any of us.’ She puts her arm around my shoulders, grows serious again. ‘The war claimed so many lives in different ways. There were times when I felt as if I’d lost a favourite brother.’
We sit quietly, gazing at the mirror, waiting for a miracle to happen, for the recreation of those years when we took our pursuits for granted. A long-haired young man, quoting Marx to annoy his older brother and forever willing to talk politics, doesn’t appear. Neither does an irrepressible school girl with a shrill voice, ever ready for pranks. The silence becomes an acceptance.
There was a time, I think, when mortality was nowhere in sight and we didn’t sniff the air nervously for a whiff of its approaching stench.
We hear Ma calling us.
‘It’s time for afternoon tea,’ Nasreen reminds me. Our regrets are hidden.
‘Already? Silver teapot, strainer, cups and saucers?’
‘Teabags in porcelain mugs. Stop trying to be a magician. The past won’t come back. It likes its safety in memory.’
Outside, the raw afternoon is beginning to mellow. Later it will bruise quickly to a shade of deep purple.
Suddenly, I miss Amelia.
FIVE
Mutations
‘It’s all there.’ Zia points to the stack of manila folders on the knotted-cane coffee table. ‘Bills, receipts, official correspondence and documents. Look through them if you want.’
I remain impassive. I’ve been unable to concentrate on my brother’s clinical relating of his meetings with accountants and solicitors who’ve devised ways to reduce our accumulated debts.
‘How much did you have to contribute?’ I ask.
‘In your currency…about nineteen thousand dollars.’ He looks at Ma and says loudly, ‘That’s a lot of takas.’
‘I’ll cover half of that,’ I promise, without a clue how I’ll find such a sum.
Zia’s ploy to chasten Ma into thriftiness isn’t having the intended effect.
She looks uninterested, as though the grim times will simply swirl past us like a dust storm. She continues to read a Bangla newspaper. Head bowed, Nasreen is engaged in mending Yasmin’s school uniform.
‘We would’ve been fine if I didn’t find out that Abba and Uncle Musa had sold off vast tracts of land after the liberation war,’ Zia says. ‘The money was used to help those guerrillas who had been crippled or maimed. You could hardly criticise what they
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