 
Chapter 1

March showers were pelting upon her with such fury, as if each drop had a vendetta to settle. The cool waters thrashed against her unprotected skin, yet she continued to run wildly, in her desperate effort to reach home. So desperate she was that she neglected the importance her coat could have served in this weather.

It was fast approaching six in the evening. The realisation struck fresh fear within her, yet she ran and ran, ignorant of time, fighting against her own weight, for being wet did little to encourage her light-footedness. Her jeans have become two shades darker with the wash of the rain, sticking to her lithe legs and suffocating the strained muscles. Her top hung limp from her slender shoulders, water trickling from the hem as if it was being rinsed from a washing line. The length of her dark hair increased as the wetness added on noticeable inches, and her pumps were equally drenched as her feet overlooked the numerous puddles.

At last, she reaches the long awaited road of Kensington. That house in the middle belongs to her. She climbs the cursed steps and rings the bell. There was no answer. She began to fear the worse. Refusing to take heed to Misfortune's temptation, she rings the bell again. At length, the door opens. Her father answers the call. His face possessed a look of evident distress, speechless and concerned, confirming all that which she until now believed to be some misconception, a tyranny of fate. He called her in, and she entered in haste, towards the desired room.

The door was ajar, invitingly open. Yet she stood stationary before it. There was no sound coming from inside. An unnatural silence emitted from there. Her breaths were heavy. She did not know what reaction to undergo at this point nor how to cross this final step. How foolish she felt that she risked her future to come here and when here, she fears to make that final step.

Sam watched his daughter's hesitance from behind, understanding precisely the reasons that stalled her from entering the bedroom. He walked up to her and, holding her gently by her drenched shoulders, led her inside.

Darkness and gloom at once befalls her eyes. Curtains were safely drawn and those sat around the bed had a solemn look about their face as they turn to see her. 'Mayah,' the weak voice calls her. 'Amar shoona,' her Dhadhi calls her yet again. 'Kothai thumi,' she asks lifting her heavy head from the pillows, searching desperately for her granddaughter.

Mayah quickly reaches the bed in which her Dhadhi lay, and grasped her tightly by the hand. Her Dhadhi's eyes scarcely opened, but felt the familiar touch to know her grandchild was here at last in her close proximities. Mayah stayed in this arrangement for a long while. Everyone in the room slowly and quietly left. The door remained ajar, for it was her Dhadhi's greatest fear to be inside a room locked. She would always say, "When the world no longer remains such that we can trust the words of another man, then how can man place his trust in the unspeaking." Speak Mayah willed her Dhadhi. Do not let your words fail me now...

Flight after flight of stairs she was ascending. Scarcely did she climb one that another began, endless and ever growing. Yet she needed to reach the top. Someone was there, calling her, waiting for her arrival. 'Mayah . . . the voice calls her name again, and as she looks up, the face disappears. Who called her? Who waited for her there? She felt herself panting again, experiencing the familiar sensation of restlessness, feeling the cramps at the back of her shins. Yet she knew she had to reach the top. 'Mayah . . .' The voice called her again. She must overcome this length and get there. She ran and ran through each staircase, upending each step with unyielding determination. Every time she believed to have reached a landing, the steps extended to form another flight of stairs, growing and growing. Yet no length could avert her eagerness. So fast was her pace that she could see nothing else but that peak, which she must reach. Her hastiness and desperation neglected her to see anything, not even those steps she was to put her foot onto next. Her foot misplaced, she lost her balance and . . .

Her whole body shudders with shock.

She woke with a start, but her eyes remained closed. Her head cushioned amongst the pillows and her body draped under the safety of blankets, Mayah soon realises that the violent start was in response to waking up from a bad dream. It was just a dream she recites to herself \- that same dream.

This was not the first time she had the misfortunes to experience such a dream, and neither can she remember the first time it began to disrupt her sleep. She encountered the dream so often that the image of the ever-growing stairs has embedded itself in her mind, and only found the night as the proper hour to torment her. She was awake, but still recovering. Indeed, she could no longer distinguish dream from reality. To her it all appeared as both and nothing.

She would have continued her struggles in distinguishing one from the other had she not heard the unmistakable closing of doors. She felt the bed shook and with it her entire body. Her sleep now fully broken, her eyes were obliged to open.

Her grey eyes greet a cloudy darkness. She was in her bedroom. She rose up from her bed instantly, finding herself changed from the drenched clothes and into one of her pyjamas. Her head felt heavy. She put a hand to one of her temples to ease the pain, when she belatedly realises the loose strands of her hair dangling around her forehead are dry.

Then at once, she becomes alert of where she was.

In another overcoming of flurry, she reaches for her phone, which lay idly on the table beside her bed, and switches it on frantically. The time was past midnight. The update instantly immerses her mind with unkind thoughts of her Dhadhi's health. She threw aside the bed covers, and removed herself from the bed to investigate her Dhadhi's whereabouts, cursing herself for falling weak to sleep's enticement. Indeed, she could not tell when she fell asleep.

She escaped darkness and greeted another. The passageway lights were off, but voices from a nearing room indicated that not all were asleep. Her ears followed the unintelligible voices, and eyes therefore met with a door at the far end of the passageway. The door was conveniently ajar, through which the thinnest shaft of light absconded. She neared the room cautiously, careful not to step on that shaft of light. The convenient opening of the door permitted her ears to place names on those who were inside. It was her parents, who were in the study - her late grandfather's study. Her father only entered this room when he was in a trouble which going into that room can help him overcome. She therefore had sufficient proof to conclude that her parents were in some turmoil.

'. . . it is not right,' her father clarifies yet again. 'To let Amma go in her health will not be right.'

'It is her wish,' her mother argued. 'She did a lot for us, even after your father's passing away. If Mum wants to go then we have no right to stop her.'

'As her son, I do have the right to stop her. Besides, Dad would agree with me,' her father affirms. 'If Dad were here today then he would agree with my decision to refuse Amma's obstinate requests. What sin do you wish me to commit by allowing my mother to make travels to her native country? You of all people are aware of the risks.'

'Are risks any less here? Mum refused to eat anything until you agree her demands. She put her obstinacy into act and you saw what happened? She fainted. She spent two days in hospital. The social services almost got involved. It was only by God's will that nothing serious unfolded, that Mum gave her excuses for her poor health, or else what face would we have shown Mayah. What answers could you have given, Sam?'

'My refusal is firm, Jill,' her father says, willing to end the conversation. 'I cannot knowingly put my Mum in danger.'

Silence succeeded. For a short undisturbed while, it continued in that trend until she could hear footsteps nearing the door. She could not deduce the reasons, but she was unwilling for anyone to find her awake. She was certainly afraid to have her parents find her in this proximity to their conversation. Thus, she retraced her steps quietly and quickly towards her bedroom, closing the door quietly and slipping into the bed. Twenty-one years of experience has taught her that her mother will enter her room one more time before retiring to her own bed. The doors open with gradual force, and soon her mother proves her suspicions correct. She closed her eyes as if she were peacefully asleep. Despite the darkness, she could feel the casting of her Mum's shadow as she stood beside her bed. She then felt her Mum's warm hand on her forehead, doubtless to check her temperature, for she had remained in those rain-drenched clothes for a long while. She received her Mum's hand welcomingly. It exuded an untainted sense of affection, a familiar concern, and invoked a strange consolation that perhaps only a mother could give. She felt rather childish to seek this comfort, but as all are aware, no child ever becomes of that age so to have no need for their mother, and likewise a mother never sees an age in her child so to cease her concerns. Satisfied she had not caught a cold her Mum removes her hand and gently rearranges the quilt to tuck her inside securely. She did not leave immediately, and Mayah understood very well the reasons that stalled her Mum.

At length her mum overcomes those stalling reasons and leaves the room. Assessing her parents have safely returned to their rooms, she decides to leave her bedroom again, cautiously turning the doorknob until it releases to an open. She stretches her head out of the door, and no longer saw the thin spectrum of light absconding from the study. She left her room quickly, setting to the original route, from which that the overhead conversation had deviated her. Her feet lightly treaded along the carpet, quietly leading her to the intended room. She questioned the absurdity of having suddenly adopted the behaviour of a common intruder. She is a known face in this dwelling then why the fear of being discovered?

The door of Dhadhi's room was conveniently ajar, through which she quietly entered. There, her Dhadhi lay, sleeping peacefully in her bed. With more gentle steps, she nears the bed, sinking into the chair beside it, which doubtless seated many today, as they extended their wishes and sympathies. Here, she sat a long while, becalmed and watching absently the rising and falling of Dhadh's chest. The soft light emitting from the lamp, stretched its rays towards the unwell, enabling her to see the true extent of the strain on Dhadhi's face.

She was at a writer's conference when her phone beeped with the alarming message that Dhadhi was in hospital last night, and that she was only discharged this morning. Her father informed her with notable subtlety, informing her of this incident once Dhadhi was safely at home. When she reprimanded him for not informing her quicker, he reasoned that he did not wish to worry her, and probably would have kept the matter outside her knowledge had Dhadhi not insisted to see her. Save for her bag she left everything and headed home, constantly suppressing the regret that she should not have left Dhadhi. Yet, she did not leave her side for pleasure. It's been almost four months since her graduation. But how many occasions have men dedicated their efforts in their chosen field and found the grounds infertile to apply their labours? Her quest for employment was not for financial stability, but for improvement of mind. It is her belief that a person's mind must always remain occupied and hands should not be kept idle, setting to tasks that can exercise the mind. Despite her mother being a renowned author and her father being a City Banker, she had no clue of her own career. In the effort to reach a clarification, her mother suggested her to attend the writer's conference in Solihull. It was a two-day conference, which required her stay there. The audience doubtless had given her curious looks as she hastily excused her way out of the auditorium. She was so much in a flurry that she did not return to the hotel to retrieve her belongings. Besides, all she needed was her bag.

Escaping her absent thoughts, she rises from the chair and walks over to the window, pushing aside the curtain slightly so to take a peak outside. Grey eyes scanned the skies with intrigue. The young night had transformed into the comings of a dark morning. The stars were seldom visible in these polluted climates, but tonight they showed the faintest inkling of their existence, veiling themselves behind the cashmere spreads. Absorbed under these views, she unexpectedly hears her name. Startled, she let loose of the silken drape, and turned her head towards the source to find Dhadhi calling her in a weak whisper. She retook her position beside the bed, cursing herself for becoming the cause of waking Dhadhi. Her Dhadhi's eyes remained closed, allowing her frail hand alone to search for her granddaughter's whereabouts. It did not take long for Dhadhi to locate her face, touching her soft jaw line. Mayah takes her hand into her own, confirming that she is here.

'I know,' Dhadhi says, a small smile curling on her dry lips, her eyes still closed. 'You have been here for the last fifteen minutes. I was waiting for you to speak first.'

Nargis Nessa is Mayah's paternal grandmother. Her Dhadhi's past and adolescence is one of great bravery and often submerged the hearer into deep intrigue. Her story when narrated, as Mayah had often demanded to hear, often had the hearer to ask if what they heard was real or fiction.

In those days, Bangladesh had not formed let alone be an independent state (even if that today). She barely reached sixteen when she married Francis Young, who was well into his mid-twenties when he proposed marriage. He was a political journalist of a prominent newspaper, reporting on the tension between East and West Pakistan. The news did not appeal to many journalists, chiefly due to the inconvenience of location. Both parts of the country were struggling for their Independence. In 1963, sixteen years after India had declared independence from the British, he took up a career defining position in East Bengal for six months to cover reporting on the major political unrest between the two wings of Pakistan. Mahatma Gandhi's patient tactics resulted in obtaining independence from the British, but a civil conflict broke out instead. Being a journalist, Francis found the opportunity in this conflicting division, installing himself in the true situation to absorb the political tension. The Bengali Language Movement was perhaps the most notable resolution to form from the conflict, and as a mark of achievement, Shaheed Minar was inaugurated in Dhaka in that year of his travel too, meeting the likes of Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, the 1st President of Bangladesh. In that year the East Pakistan's political party, Awami League, rose to power and overshadowed the West Pakistani oppositions, becoming the major motivating factor in inciting the opposition and fuelling the ongoing tension.

Chapter 2

Francis was not alone in his travels, and was in the company of his photographer friend, Jonathan. They took residence in a small village located in a district of Dhaka, East Pakistan, to capture the conflicts of which small villages were bearing the brunt. Numerous photographs, images and interviews of local villagers and townsmen were taken, as well as of prominent political figures. They encountered no problems on their period of visit, and the East Pakistani's took a great liking to the Englishmen. But it was in September of 1963, consequently the second last month of their stay in East Pakistan, when they met with a threatening incident, which divided a girl from her country before it should become victorious.

Let us begin with that night. It was the early days of Sarat season. The night air was as humid as it was in the day. The overpowering smell of jute travelled from the vast fields surrounding the village. It was a restless night, the sticky air too disturbing and distracting to permit them any sleep. Amidst their awakened eyes, they heard a loud knock at the door of their village house. It was their tour guide, Jameel. He appeared every sense of the word afraid, wrapped in a black shawl as if to conceal him from being noticed. He was flustered, and with a restless mouth, informed them that half the village had been set to fire. Jameel did not hesitate to speculate that it was most likely to be a supporter of Ayub Khan, the West Pakistani opposition leader, who set alight the village in response to Awami League gaining power. He warned that they were not free from danger here, and advised them to follow him out of the village and seek refuge in the nearest town, where security is higher. Francis and Jonathan, immediately set to the given advice, and led themselves to Jameel's follow. Their belongings and equipment hastily packed, they walked into the inflamed night. It became apparent at once that they were not the only ones following the same advice. The sight was one of great worriment. Villagers, with their young children, were running about like helpless preys seeking shelter from an avaricious predator, which has been starved for months. Men and women passed buckets of water passed around to extinguish the infectious fires, but their efforts went to vain. Empty buckets dropped to the ground in defeat as villagers decide to abandon their village and seek shelter elsewhere, scurrying here and there in wilder and frantic manners. Fortunately, Amar managed to hold a rickshaw on standby beside the village, waiting to collect them.

Knowing the destination often made the journey easier, and the logics would have applied in their case too had they not belonged to a profession encouraging them to capture the unique sights. They were compelled to stop and capture the images that can heighten their careers. The village looked as if hell itself had spitted upon it, igniting all those that came into contact. Jameel's warnings constantly revised their feet to follow their guide. It was this looking about, capturing, stopping and starting, which met their eyes with some burning houses not too far from them.

Both he and Jonathan were provoked to put their equipment into use once again, unknowingly attracted to the blazing scene, drawing nearer to the inflamed houses. Their cameras took pictures of one house after the other, ignorant to the rushing crowd, and negligent of villager's cries and distress. The passion for their work placed them into such positions that others cries did passed their ears unheard, disabling their hands to offer help to those in need. Their interest would have remained unattached to the true surrounding had not Francis witnessed a rather startling incident through his camera lens. In the distance, a distressed girl stood before a blazing house. She was trying with every effort to enter the house, but the doors were caught ablaze. She obstinately tries to enter again, neither fearing for her life nor the raging fire, which peaked with the purposeful agenda, as if to barricade her from entering. She walked up to the prison-like windows beside the obstructing door, and yelled something through the metal bars. Helpless, she pulls away from the windows, and for the first time he sees her face, distraught but determined. Her hands flap about in the air, hailing each passer-by to help her. But all are ignorant to her existence let alone hear her voice, passing her without a moment's glance. She returns to the window, and yells helplessly again.

At last, he loosens his hold around the camera, hanging inattentively by his neck. A sudden compassion erupted through him, leading him to offer his assistance to the helpless girl. When he reached her, he found her face drenched in tears, and thus asks her who was trapped inside.

She did not understand him, but with the support of the Englishman's gestures, she understood precisely what he asked.

He did not know much Bengali, but his length of stay here understood him that when she said "maizee" and "baba", she meant "mother and father". The doors had caught in more flame, but he did not surrender to their determined agenda. Frantically, he looked around for something to hold the doors as wide as possible, eventually finding an upturned bedstead on the veranda. With the girl's help, he thrust it between the two inflamed doors, and trusting her with his camera, he put his life at risk, walking along the length of the bed, through the angry heat, until entering the house.

He yells for prisoner's attention, searching restlessly for the girl's parents. The whole house was dark, and the only light aiding his support was that emitting from the fires, which had spread violently inside, blinding him to see anything without shielding his face with his hands. Thick smoke infused each room, choking him as if it was punishing him for crossing into this threshold. At length, he notices a locked room. He kicks the door open, entering the room, greeted with heavy clouds of smoke. He calls out to them, but hears no response.

Then, in its unforgiving imprisonment, he finds the girl's parents. Her father lay motionless on the floor and her mother equally still, curled up beside him. He desperately feels for their pulse. He felt none. He searched again, insistent to find one. But it became apparent that death had shown no compassion.

Ignorant to the raging fire, he stayed helplessly knelt before the corpse, not knowing what face to show the girl, who waited expectantly to receive her parents. He would have perished away in those flames too had he not heard a sudden yelling.

Someone else was trapped inside.

Following the voice over the deafening flames, he meets a door at the very end of the house. Smoke was trailing from beneath the closed door. His grief quickly transformed into aggression, unleashing upon the door. He kicked them, determined to open them. When they do, he found the room alight, with a man immersed within the merciless flames. He led the man out, but the man did not follow. Instead, he made his way into his parents' room. The fire obstructed his entrance, but he saw two still bodies encircled within the flame. He let out a violent cry of grief, and would have entered the death enticing room too had Francis not restrained the man from permitting to senselessness, dragging him out of the house. The man attempted, but struggled to release from his tight grip. Standing outside the cremating structure, the man now completely lost his senses, stubbornly fighting against the Englishman's grasp to go inside and claim his parents. Seeing the man in desperate cries, the girl waiting outside too began to follow suit, knowing precisely the cause, helplessly holding him back before the insatiable fire should find the advantage to consume one more. The man surrendered at last, falling to the grounds in a cry echoing against the crackling heat, demanding the reasons to why it killed two innocent people. The girl wept on the man's shoulder, while Francis oversaw the despairing scene, not knowing whether to console the mourning pair or let their grief run its course undisturbed. The images of the dead bodies flashed in his mind mercilessly and the echoing cries caused great discomfort to his ears. He wanted to pull away from the unsettling scene, but feet struggled to follow. What attraction was there in that scene that eyes should not look away and instead encourage the suffering of his heart?

Jonathan was also lost, searching for Jameel, who was searching for the two English journalists. The bright flames made it difficult to distinguish faces. At length, Jonathan and Jameel untie, but Francis' whereabouts remained unknown. How could they find the lost, which did not search for his lost companions nor did anything for his seekers to discover him?

After much effort and concern, Jameel located the wandering of the remaining Englishman. Keeping ignorant of the mournful pair before the alighted house, Jameel revises the English journalist of the dangers and impracticality of staying in this village. But Francis did not appear to take heed to his words. Desperate, Jonathan and Jameel both forcefully apply their words upon Francis, pulling him by the arm and distancing him from the sunken grievers. The whole time, his gaze remained upon the particular scene, even when he was taken to such a distance that the two mourners appeared like ashes amidst the hell-like scene. The girl's distraught face flashed before his stunned eyes and the man's painful cries deafened his ears. The images of the dead bodies etched into his very lids. He had no difficulty in recalling the torment he underwent when he left the bodies there, unclaimed, soon to be engulfed by the fire. In the desperate effort to vanish the tormenting images, he abruptly turns away from the cremating grounds. His effort went to vain. Images of the dead bodies became more prominent.

At last, they reached the perimeter of the village after an unarguably trying walk. Jameel looked about anxiously for the rickshaw he ordered to be on standby, but none came into his view. How would they? The sheer volume of people, all of whom were franticly fleeing the burning scene and desperately seeking to escape the disintegrating grounds, had discouraged the wise rickshaw riders from making their stop. They feared for their own safety. The few drivers that were compassionate enough to provide assistance, halted their rickshaw, and offered to carry as many passengers their strength allowed them. But people fled their village in such fright and unaccountable numbers that they neglected to consider the rickshaw's incapability, seizing their good fortunes to find a rickshaw and flocking themselves on the crippling transport as if it were a scared stone they could not leave untouched.

In their failed attempt to hail any transport, Jameel walked them a further good distance. Empty rickshaws scurried passed, fearful should someone stop them, whilst a few others stopped before they conclude their journey. The weight the wheeling transports carried had exhausted drivers for them to continue cycling. Thankfully, Francis and his two companions were under no such dependency to have any halt their journey. With complaining limbs, they continued to walk when at length they met with an open-back lorry. Seeing three nightwalkers wandering alone along the quiet road at this hour had the drivers come to a stop. They enquired with interest what has them traversing these roads in this strange manner, to which Jameel promptly recalled the night's events leading them here. The lorry drivers were conveniently making their travel into town for work purposes, and so accepting the offer of a handsome fare, they permitted the three night-wanderers a ride in their vehicles to the main town. The remainder of the night saw them sat at the roofless back of the lorry, taking them into the town where they could receive better help.

Chapter 3

It had been over a week since they arrived into this town of Dhaka. Political unrest notched higher, and every newspaper discussed the same topic of Ayub Khan's dirty tactics to discourage the Awami League. They took shelter at a small lodge whilst desperately arranging for flight tickets to England. Their stay in Dhaka had been shorter than originally planned, but circumstances became such that it would not be wise to stand on these unsettled grounds. It was on that day they were returning from Dhaka airport with the success of obtaining tickets, which confirmed their departure date in four days, when Fate felt the tingling to play another game.

The majority of survivors from the fire that night had come to this town, for it was the nearest to the village. Amongst them was that girl, who lost her parents to the unforgiving blaze. She was out in the bazaar that day, undertaking the usual chore of buying groceries when she noticed the Englishman that helped her on the night of the fire. She quickly made way towards the Englishman, filtering through the crowd in the busiest hour of the day. She was relieved to find him in the company of Jameel, who became an unanticipated interpreter to the words she wished to say to the Englishman.

Francis was equally surprised to see the girl again. Her sudden reappearance had him forcefully recall the incident that took him the course of a whole week to forget. However, he was under a strange relief knowing that the girl had escaped the ruined village safely. Then, without quite intending, he enquired with concern how the man is, who she was with that night of the incident. Her face shrunk with an unmistakable look of sorrow on hearing the question. She was hesitant to reply, but overcame it once understanding that keeping silence would be unfair on the Englishman's evident concerns. She owed the man great favours, for had it not been for his kind help that night then she would have lost all her family members to the fire.

Francis soon learnt that the man was in fact the girl's older brother and they had arrived here having encountered much difficulty. Currently, they were staying at an acquaintance's house in this town, but her brother is working hard to arrange other independent accommodation, making daily visits to the ruined village in the hope of making some recovery of their home. When the fire had completed its course, the villagers got together and retrieved the remains of the dead. Her parents' were amongst the count. Her brother and villagers have since buried the deceased, their funeral corresponding to the usual religious customs. She had no shame to admit either that such was the depth of their destitution that it denied them the liberty to mourn. The dead have been buried, but the living must continue to find resources to survive.

She then went on to speak of the purpose she came to meet them. Jameel relayed the message that she still had the Englishman's camera from that night. She saw the instant relief on the Englishman's face, his lips unfurling into a pleased smile and his dark features relaxing from the concern he was previously under on her behalf.

Until now, he suspected the worst for his camera's whereabouts. He forgot that he leant it to the girl for safekeeping and believing instead it to be lost to the fires. He was impelled to accept that the last five months of effort had gone to vain. Imagine his relief when the girl offered to return his camera here. She said it would only take her ten minutes to run to her house and retrieve his belonging. Francis did not wish the girl to exhaust herself, explaining there is no rush and she may return it leisurely at the lodge they were staying once she finished her shopping. However, the girl confirmed it was no difficulty and the current time suited her best. Jameel also advised the same. There may not be another opportunity to allow the transfer, for his departure from the country is merely in four days. The go-ahead received, the girl quickly paced towards her place of abode, her slender figure wrapped carefully in a sari, expertly filtering through the busy crowd. In the meantime, Jameel and Francis took a brief refuge at a nearby tea stall, the latter already planning his next excursion once reunited with his camera.

The girl was correct in her estimation, and returned within ten minutes. She used the drape of her sari to wipe away any dirt the ten minute journey may have encountered the camera, despite keeping it in unharmed conditions throughout its owner's absence. He watched admiringly at the girl's affectionate care, almost freely allowing the delay in beholding his item. Contemplating the excitement perceivable in the Englishman's light-grey eyes, she handed him his camera, watching in slight humour as the Englishman turned his camera in his hand admiringly. To his great relief, the equipment remained just as he had last saw it. He passed on his gratitude to the girl for undertaking the inconvenience on his behalf, followed promptly with his farewell. He found it an uneasy parting. Being a journalist, there were many questions he wanted to ask the girl, believing it will help him to construct an exciting article and ultimately please his editors. However, assessing that the girl's grief was perhaps still too raw to converse in greater lengths about the incident, he let pass the opportunity.

Fortunately, he kept firm on his next venture. Their stay here was short, and now in possession of his camera, he requested Jameel to take him and Jonathan to the alighted village one final time, hoping to capture some useful shots to incorporate into their latest article.

If any ever wished to see how Hell will look once its punishing fires were extinguished then that village would have served a good indication. Ash, debris, scattered bricks, and fallen branches sealed the vast plains of the village. Some parts appeared to have been only just extinguished, evident by the trailing smoke absconding from the ashen piles littered abundantly on the grounds. He put his camera to employment, taking repeated shots of the damages. His camera lens scarcely went astray from his eyes, freely navigating the area and capturing the appropriate images when a particular face came under his view. He lowered his camera and eyes alone absorbed the picture. There, in the distance, stood that man whom he rescued from the fire that night, standing next to the very house his parents took their final breath. An elderly man was in his company. Hence, thanking his fortunes to be met with the girl's brother, Francis took the opportunity to ask questions his civility denied him asking the girl, thinking men are stronger hearted than women in overcoming a loss. But when he reached the intended address, the brother, unknown to his approach, walked off into another direction having been called by someone else. The old man however kept firm in his position before the ruined house. Seeing the brother occupied in conversation with someone else, Francis decided to ask the elderly man questions, believing he too was a victim of this ruin. Jameel followed the Englishman, and on reaching the elderly man, he translated the questions, to which Francis sought the answers. The elderly man looked rather pleased that he should interview him, seeking the clarification whether an English newspaper will really printed his picture. Learning the answers were to his favour, he responded to each question without hesitation. 'He is not from this village,' Jameel translated from Bengali to English. 'He is the landlord of the place that man,' he nods towards the girl's brother, 'and his sister are accommodating.'

Francis then enquired if he came to see the extent of damage caused by the fire.

'Yes, and no,' Jameel translated once again. 'He came to see the damage to calculate an estimation of the cost of recovery. He will pay to reconstruct this house.'

'That is very kind of you,' Francis thanked. 'Is it only this house or are you offering to help a few others too?'

The elderly gave a chuckle here before replying. Francis too smiled, believing the man's answer comprised of a gentle humour, but Jameel's silence and evident shock had him consider otherwise. Eager to learn what the man's reply was and admittedly growing irritated at Jameel's silence, he insisted Jameel to share the answer. 'He said,' Jameel says, little recovered from his shock, 'why would he help the others - it's not as if he is marrying into their family. His interest lies specifically with this house because that man agreed to give his sister's hand in marriage to him. He will be getting married to that girl - that is why he paid for their parent's funeral too. They had no money to their name after the fire ruined their home, and so he offered to help them. But banks only give loan under some security and investors only put their money on assets that gives them the hope of a healthy return. So seeing his sister unmarried, and himself being a widow, he said he would not ask for repayment, but only if his marriage to the girl can commence. The brother agreed immediately, for after all he is doing the brother a generous favour by disburdening him of an unmarried sister. 'Times are not that good,' the old man added, 'that man should wander around with a beautiful and unmarried girl beside him.'

That night Francis could not sleep. Why should he care what happens to the girl? Why is his sleep suffering for the girl's sake? It is someone else's life and his concern should remain primarily with his profession. The reasons, however sensible, were equally unacceptable.

An unsettling feeling had detained him, which the cooling night could not douse either. Unable to cope with his distresses, Francis rose up from his bed, and began pacing restlessly the length of his room. He was quite familiar with concept of a young girl marrying a man old enough to be her father. The conduct was commonplace in a country such as this. However, his acquaintance with the girl, made it difficult for him to accept the occurrence of such shameful marriages. His sensibility advised him to keep his affairs strictly concerned with his business, but his impulsive side had him give this matter more thought than necessary. Yet, what could he do? The girl's brother had already given the old man his word. Marriage with the scheming old man was a confirmed deal. But it was the innocent girl who was repaying the debt with her life and happiness. It will not be fair on her prospects.

No longer quarrelling with why he assigned this level of interest to the girl's welfare, Francis had formed a stout determination. He wanted to hear the girl's opinions on this alliance too. Perhaps believing that marriage will bring some relief to their impoverishment, the girl found no reason to object. Perhaps she had no inkling at all about her marriage. Thus, the night somehow passed, with sleep barely touching his lids. The next morning, while Jonathan took the remaining tour of the town, he instructed Jameel to meet him at the lodge to discuss an important matter. He wanted to learn of the girl's whereabouts. Just once, he wanted to meet the girl and clear his confusion, promising himself that if the girl was fully content with this marriage then he will no longer interfere. His concern for the girl's welfare had astonished Jameel, who refuted his unnecessary interference. But the journalist seemed almost possessed with the idea, adding that if he shan't help then he shall employ other tactics. Worried that the journalist may take some thoughtless action that could accost him into unnecessary troubles, Jameel was compelled to offer his help. They quickly plotted a design to enable the Englishman to meet the girl discreetly, for it was not common custom in this country for men and women to converse openly under the witness of onlookers. With some difficulty, Jameel obtained the girl's address and with more bravery, Jameel and Francis entered their footing into it. It was a large building with numerous rooms owned by the old landlord whom the girl was to marry soon. The old landlord had an astute memory that men of his age commonly had difficulty retaining. Thus, remembered clearly the face of the Englishman, initially believing he may have returned for a further interview. Jameel explained the situation to the landlord, stating that the journalist had lost his room from his current lodgings due to a dispute with the owner, therefore required temporary accommodation here until their flight date, which is in three days' time. But the old man was a businessman after all, calculating quickly what income he can make of this Englishman in these few days. It was only on the offer of a double fare that the scheming landlord agreed to let him a room.

There was scarce time in his favour and so Francis set to work immediately the next day. He kept careful observation of everyone's whereabouts. Enlisting the help of Jameel once again, a small-scale but impressive, surveillance unit was set up. Children of those families who were also staying under the landlord's kindness, were told to inform either Jameel or the resident at number twelve, of Naris's whereabouts. That was her name. If any child should deceive their trust then he should revoke the small fee, for which they undertake this employment. Here, it became apparent that money was not only a universal language but its effect was equal on both the calculating mind and the innocent ones too.

Chapter 4

With more eyes keeping observation, Nargis's schedule could hardly remain secret.

The next day, when she left her small apartment with a wash load of clothes, heading directly for the Buriganga riverbank, the children immediately informed the resident at number twelve. He settled the children's due and collected Jameel rom his place of residence. Being a journalist, he had the requisite talent to follow one without going detected.

At length, Nargis reached the riverbank. Thankfully, there were both men and women at the bank, and was conveniently busy, making his appearance less distinct. White sheets and long yards of colourful saris hung loose from the washing lines, widely spread to dry under the sun. Nargis promptly took to the task of washing her clothes, while Jameel casually gave him a tour of the scene, pointing here and there, explaining this and that. He took random pictures of the setting as an intrigued tourist would. They have to appear indiscreet. Women shied away as they took their pictures, but men stood proudly at their photo shoot. The sudden coming of a light breeze lifted the hanging sheets as he quietly walked past them, allowing him to see her on the bank. He stood here for a while, his gaze fixed on the girl, as if in a calming trance. The breeze mustered a strange energy, lifting the sheets high into the sunlit air, unveiling completely as if to let his eager gaze see the girl unobstructed. She sat there, at the edge of the riverbank, beating her clothes, rinsing them repeatedly in the silvery water with her lithe arms. He watched her in an inexplicable rise of pain, desiring to request the girl to have some pity on those fragile arms.

Did she hear, wondered he in amazement as she stops almost immediately. Her dark eyes look here and there, as if looking for that culprit that should admire her. He feared the girl might have noticed his shameful behaviour of stalking, but she merely looked for a vacant space upon the washing line. She touched the hanging sheets to check their dryness, and satisfied they are dry, push the whole lot to one side, creating space for her sheet, and unexpectedly bringing him to her notice.

There remained little difference between those hanging sheets and the colour on her face, both plain and drained. Her eyes would have deceived her mind to believe she had never seen that face before had it not been for the unmistakable camera. His identity fell to her familiarity at once. She was scared and concerned for her safety. She suspected his intentions to be ill. Yet she made no move to ascertain her safety, eyes fixated upon the Englishman lest the slightest flicker should provoke him. She stood immobilised, one arm stretched to the sheet and another holding the one she intended to hand. Questions overwhelmed her mind to his purpose here. Perhaps he was just taking pictures. Or did he misconstrue the reasons she returned his camera to him? Did the Englishman conceive some other meaning of finding him in the bazaar?

'Do not be alarmed,' he said noting her sceptical gaze upon him. Jameel, now beside him, translated without delay, echoing his words into Bengali. 'We want to discuss something important. It is related to your brother. But we cannot discuss this here.'

'What about my brother?' she asked in the natural sisterly concern, looking from Jameel to the Englishman.

'Not here,' Jameel echoed again. 'We need a quiet location,' he said looking away from Francis. 'But you should choose a place you feel most safe.'

He did not wish her to interpret any offensive meaning from his request.

She was startled, but more eager to learn the matter regarding her brother. She could not agree rashly and place herself in possible danger. The English are not to be trusted. She gave his request a lengthy thought, but her brother's safety raised her concerns more. She studied the Englishman continuously, hoping to detect insincerity in his character. To her dismay, she found nothing to favour her doubts. His grey eyes possessed innocence and his face portrayed an unarguable concern. But even under this witness, she could not resolve her mind to heed to his request. 'Jameel will be present too,' he made clear, having read her hesitations accurately. 'If not trust me, an outsider,' Jameel repeats, but in Bengali, 'then at least have faith in one of your own.'

She did not know why, but it was this – the Englishman's last sentence – that formed her agreement.

The condition that she decides the meeting place gave her great confidence. Public meeting place posed many dangers. She decided her to meet them at her present accommodating place. If she should be under any threat then at least help will be nearby. As the matter regarded her brother, she shall inform him too of this meeting.

'No,' Francis objected rather quickly. She understood that much English that Jameel did not have to translate. 'Your brother must not be aware. Please,' he willed her.

Her questioning look softened at length. It was another fleeting acceptance, in which her mind did not feel the necessity to predict the possible disadvantage of her bravery.

'My brother spends most of his time in our old village,' she informs the two men. 'Anytime between two and four will suit.' Her brother comes home for lunch at one, and then returns home at five for prayers.

He and Jameel left immediately, while Nargis resumed her chores with a heavy heart. That night she could not sleep. Her brother's welfare had her in great distress. What matter involved her brother that the Englishman needed to discuss? She had lost her parents already. She cannot bear to lose her brother.

The reason became clear the next day. It was approaching half-two. Her brother was safely out of the small apartment when they arrived promptly. It was an awkward setting. They sat opposite her, stealing glances at each other as they struggled to find the fuel, which could ignite mouth to erupt words. She felt rather self-conscious, holding securely the drape of her sari as it guarded her petite frame against their watchful study. A brief silence ensued between a conciliatory greeting and her eventual initiative to enquire the matter involving her brother.

'Your marriage,' Francis began. 'Do you know who you're marrying?'

Jameel found a slight discomfort in relaying the question, for it was not the usual custom for men to speak openly of these subjects with unrelated females. However, reclaiming his position as a mere interpreter, he helplessly overcame his modesty and translated promptly.

The voice was his, but the words were of the Englishman. Thus, she kept her gaze attached to the latter throughout. His acknowledgement of her marriage startled her. She wondered how and why the Englishman showed interest in her personal affairs. They waited patiently for her reply, but overcome by embarrassment, her mouth did not find the encouragement to speak. Her gaze lowered as mouth continued its struggle. Francis noticed the indicatory features to conclude her discomfort. His length of stay here has made him familiar to the customs here, but the current matter was not such that he could abide by them. He pleaded her to speak openly.

'I thought you wish to discuss something about my brother?' she asks, her voice small, her gaze lowered, clearly demonstrating her discomfort on the subject.

The medium, through which her words traversed, obediently delivered her question to Francis. 'So you are getting married,' Francis confirmed, a little disheartened though did not understand the reason. 'Do you know who you are marrying?'

She nodded.

'And you are happy?'

She nodded again.

He thought a long while about her response.

'If you can say no to this marriage,' he asks, 'would you say it?'

Her dark gaze lifts at him in astonishment. Girls did not have the liberty to decide whom they marry.

'You are not happy,' he states on her behalf. 'Then why did you give your consent? Why did you agree your marriage with a man old enough to be your father?'

Her silence turned into a form of punishment to his eager ears. She sat still, eyes unable to meet anyone in the room, gradually welling up, and she began to feel even more embarrassed. She dared not blink lest she should squeeze her to escape. She was at a senseless age, lacking understanding to give any suitable reply. She was afraid and nervous, embarrassed and humiliated - by what or whom she could not tell. She feared to speak her mind. She feared to lose. She feared the truth. Her heart and mind was not one with the alliance her brother decided.

The realisation detained her in such fear that she advised herself to remain silent, and not endanger her brother's expectations.

'I have no right to interfere,' the Englishman said in abating tones, 'but you have the right to make decisions for yourself. You will do no wrong if you voice your refusal to marry the landlord. It is not your brother's marriage - it is yours.'

His words were fresh to the ears of that sex who was accustomed to hearing the contrary. The rim of her lower lids had now surpassed its ability to collect her tears, giving way to a hushed cascade.

'Do you know how old your suitor is?' he asks in an uprising of disgust, rising to his feet unable to sustain his anger. 'Your brother wishes to get you married to a man whose widow you will most certainly become in just a few years should you marry him! Then what? Who will you marry next? It is not your happiness your brother seeks, but a form of financial recovery. It is not marriage, but an exchange, a selfish deal between your brother and that scheming landlord. Your brother wishes to rebuild a house on the foundation of your ruined prospects. Do not sell yourself at such despicable prices, and sacrifice your hopes for believing yourself fulfilling a sisterly duty.'

Jameel came to the end of his translation. This time he did not wait for the journalist to finish first before proceeding with his directed role. It appeared as if the journalist forgot the girl's inability to understand the language and spoke freely without pause or indeed allowance for him to translate.

Jameel's mouth moved, but she heard only the journalist's voice. He spoke those words, but it was the journalist, who defined them. He was livid, but why for her sake? Why does he show compassion for her welfare?

'Why,' she musters encouragement to ask, keeping her dark eyes fixed with his, 'do you care so much about my future?'

Mouth opened, but spoke not. Eyes met hers, but answered not. Her question silenced him, and instead he wonders, unable to reach an answer to her question.

Jameel waited rather impatiently to hear the journalist's reply. He too wished to learn the reasons of the journalist's interest.

He looked astounded, nay, lost - he was lost. He was but a mere guest. Amongst them, he was but a stranger. Then why did he attach himself to another's affair? And this strongly too that he should leave his place of living.

'I don't,' he says at length, keeping his gaze fixed on her. 'I don't care.'

What else was she expecting to hear that she should look at him in contempt?

He felt uneasy and irritated, at what or whom he could not decide. He could only ascertain that much that his interference will avail no consequence. Thus, he decides to leave.

He nods to bid his leave, and she notices a faint disappointment in his eyes. She looked at endearingly at his concerns for her welfare, that there was one that sought her betterment.

He turned away, and she felt as if he extinguished all her hopes.

He did not like the way matters ended. He sincerely hoped to convert her mind about this marriage. He leaves instead knowing he achieved nothing.

Chapter 5

The electricity went out again. A single oil lantern lit his room to cover electricity's absence. Occasionally, he would hear the barks of an ownerless dog, echoing from nearby alleyways. When dogs quietened, he could hear the crickets, whose pulsating beats resounded against the empowering darkness. He could not sleep. The noise was not the culprit to his sleepless eyes. The burning wick of the lantern had him helplessly recall certain events of the past. Upsetting images flashed in his mind, taking away his sleep. Yet he had no complaints, knowing that he was not alone struggling to sleep.

He took accommodation at another lodge. Two days have passed since he last saw Nargis, and no two minutes have spared his mind about her. Her helpless state haunted him, and he often wondered if he could have done more to encourage her to speak her mind. He should not have left her so abruptly. He should not have said that he did not care. Now he must suffer knowing that the girl has to marry the old landlord.

The country is in a pitiful state. The men believe improvement will come with independence, and no independence comes before a rebellion. But it marks the beginning of a revolution. Men will rejoice in their victory. The women will have to wait for theirs. The inferior sex will have her due, but the wait is long. The concept was not only true to women in this undeveloped economy. It was a universal truth, for which women cannot refrain from taking blame. Knowingly or unknowingly, they strengthen such truths through their fear of speaking. They oblige towards their duties as a female, honouring the social expectations, which her mother ingrains in her mind from an age where the mind is easily convinced. She does not question the custom, and fulfils her duties as a daughter to become a wife, eventually giving her husband the joys of becoming a father, the whole while praying that her womb bears no daughter. She suffered the consequence of being a female too closely to permit her daughter the same fate.

She has too many relations to please. Here, if a girl is fortunate enough, she leaves her father's house, and enters her husband's household. There, she exhausts herself in fulfilling her many various roles, sometimes the wife and sometimes the daughter-in-law. It is her duty. It is the custom. She is obliged to discard any other interest she has that is not for her family's betterment. But men are not often affronted to the equal expectation. No one will condemn their acts should they question customs. They will bravely announce wars to seek betterment, whereas women console with their loss too easily. What else could they do? If she rebels, she disgraces her and her family. In preserving her honour, she knowingly admits the next generation of women into hardship. For her, life was merely a battle. She has not yet reached the war grounds. Nargis was one such girl amongst many, whose inferior sex has silenced her voice. Men will elevate through many ranks in the country's newfound freedom, but the girls will continue to sacrifice their will. Sometimes she will obey her father's command and sometimes she will accord to her brother's orders.

Tomorrow, he shall return home, knowing that as a journalist he cannot share this reality. It was a truth difficult to capture unless in personal experience of it. There was no difficulty in writing an article on political unrest. There are plentiful words to describe the raging fires of burnt houses that evidence anger and jealousy. But how was he to discuss those quiet fires that burn within the women of the country. How are they to display their unrest?

The last two days has seen him mostly accosted inside, scarcely leaving his room except to use the bathroom, which was kept separate to the house. It was not that he wanted to be in solitude, but he wanted to be away from the bitter reality. The unchanging reports on political unrest, unstable authority, and corrupt policing, were beginning to irritate him. His heart has become somewhat impure on writing on the despairing subject. This was certainly not the first country warring to become an independent nation. The country will rejoice in achieving independence.

There was a sudden knock at the door, making him start. The hour being quite unusual to expect visitors, he looks at his watch to confirm the time. He presumed the late caller to be Jameel, whose calls the lodger cannot forbid however inconvenient the hour. However, the knocks growing impatient, he considered otherwise. He opened the doors to the familiar face of the landlord. A lantern hanging from his hand, the landlord peered at him in evident reproof. 'You have a visitor,' he said abruptly. 'No visitor at night,' the landlord angrily reminds him.

He wondered in confusion to the visitor the landlord was referring. Jameel certainly was not a visitor. The landlord mutters something in Bengali, before looking to his right to beckon the caller before him.

It was the girl's brother. He had an unmistakable look of disapprove. 'Do you know him?' the landlord asked, having not heard any words of greeting from him. He unknowingly nods to the enquiry. The landlord muttered something else in a grump, instructing him to inform someone on the desk when the visitor leaves.

Mukhtar walked into the room, his expression little unchanged. Having looked here and there searchingly, he abruptly asks a question, which took him by astonishment. 'Where is my sister?'

He has learnt of everything, but matters would evolve to this disgraceful extent, had passed his estimation. His negligence has seen him desperately trying to locate the Englishman since yesterday. At last, he finds him. Now he can find his sister too.

Nargis appointed the meeting in her apartment to keep her safe amongst strangers, but she neglected to observe the dangers of her own. A neighbour had seen two men leave her apartment, one of them being an Englishman. Being well acquainted with Mukhtar, the neighbour wondered what business had him call an Englishman to his abode. Thus, curiosity compelled him to make inquiries, but to his great surprise, he found Mukhtar's sister alone in the apartment. He waited for Muktar's return to home to relate to him the results of his findings. It soon appeared that Mukhtar was just as astonished to learn his sister had been the recipient of two men's visit. The spark ignited, the neighbour began to add sufficient fuel to keep the fires ongoing. "It is good that I came to see this first," he claimed, "or else any other person would have spread this news to the whole town. Your sister's marriage would have been at stake and your honour would certainly have been lost."

Mukhtar at once made the confrontation with his sister, demanding to learn the purpose of the Englishman's visit.

She was speechless by her brother's acknowledgement on the matter. His insistence to learn more had given her mouth a voice. She confessed the truth, which she has been repressing in her heart since. She did not want to marry the landlord. She objected to her brother's decision, adding that if she would rather die than marry an old man. The mute suddenly had a voice, and he began to fear the consequence of it. He has given the landlord his word. The landlord has already invested a great deal of money into the reconstruction of his village home, including living in this lodge rent free for the sake of his bride-to-be. If his sister refuses marriage then he will be liable to make repayments, or worse, become homeless. He tried to make her see sense. This marriage was for improving her position too. She will become the wife of a respectable man of good wealth. She shall have all the amenities that their poverty cannot offer. Yet she remained resolved to her objection. His fear grew, and assessed the likelihood of this news becoming known to the landlord. Thus, he agreed to her decision, hoping this tactic may avert any drastic steps his sister may take in her headstrongness. However, the next day, on coming from mosque after evening prayers, his sister went missing. She left him a note. She had discovered of her wedding day. Her objection remained firm. Worried that his sister's shameful behaviour will come to the neighbour's knowledge, he began his search. He searched everywhere, but could not find her. There was no one that she is well acquainted with as to provide her refuge, and neither did she have any money to pay for lodging. However, with a calmer mind, he remembered those words that instigated his sister to object her marriage.

The Englishman.

He strongly suspected the Englishman's involvement. Perhaps he may have paid her another visit and persuaded her to embark on this act of malignity. He immediately set forth to locate the Englishman. He desperately enquired every lodge. Thankfully, there were not many tourists in this part of town. "The Englishman" became description enough. It so happened, that at a certain lodge, his enquiries resulted with some hope. There were two Englishmen lodging here two days ago, but one of them has since left. Their guide and another Englishman still keep their rooms here. Both have gone out, and so he waited until they returned to the lodge. It was not until after sunset that the guide and Englishman returned. Grasped by anger, he asked the Englishman of his sister's whereabouts. The Englishman and guide looked confused. They denied any involvement. Mukhtar remained persistent, asking whether it was not them that day that visited his sister. They denied everything, pointing out that there was another Englishman, who was a resident here before he left to take up another accommodation at another lodge. He seemed quite eager to move out. The seed of suspicion sprouted, Mukhtar desired to learn of address of this lodge. Jameel, the tour guide disclosed it quite reluctantly, and at last, he finds the other Englishman.

Francis was at first surprised that the brother could speak English, and then confused at the question the brother asked.

'Where is she?' Mukhtar repeated his question, searching the Englishman's dimly lit room frantically. He looks under the mosquito net, but found no one asleep. His questioning eyes glowered on the Englishman again. 'Where is my sister? I know you came to talk to her. You are the one who provoked her. She must have come to you. Did you not come the other day?'

'I did what I felt was right,' Francis answered determinedly.

There was a certain relief that he caught the right Englishman this time.

'Who told you to interfere? Because of you, my sister has gone missing?'

The news startled him greatly. He sought confirmation.

'Don't act as if you don't know anything,' the brother, Mukhtar, accuses. 'I can't find her anywhere,' he says helplessly, desiring to cry, but unwilling to show his weakness. He takes a seat on a nearby chair, no longer able to overlook his exhaustion. 'God save me from humiliation!' he pleads, putting a hand on his forehead as if defeated against the circumstance. If the neighbours should come to learn of this, then what face will he show before everyone?

The brother worried about his honour, and Francis feared for the girl's safety.

'You must have left her no other choice, but to run away,' he says to the brother in anger.

'I made a decision for her betterment,' Mukhtar fiercely clears himself of the accusation. 'But you poisoned her mind against me! You English are all the same – divide and rule!'

'I simply asked your sister a question,' Francis justifies, angered by the brother's bitter remarks. 'She was not happy with this marriage, yet you forced her. You did not have her best interest at heart. You wanted to rebuild your house. You sold your sister for some bricks! Your sister's suitor was a father of four children - a man old enough to be her father. Yet, even then, if her heart was content with this alliance then I could at least understand. But she was not happy. She was forced. She did not love him -'

'Girls do not marry for love!' Mukhtar exclaims, looking shamefully at the Englishman's ignorance of their customs. 'Love is a luxury in your country, but here we cannot to afford it. Our daughters and sisters marry for survival.'

'By pushing them into misery?' he asks disgustedly at the brother's explanation.

Mukhtar had the strong intention to justify his decision, but revising the objective he needed to complete before sunrise, he decides to leave. It would be futile to argue with the westerners. Besides, their interference has never done the country any good. It is in their nature to leave matters to another's distress.

'Wait,' Francis suddenly halts him. 'Did you inform the police? Perhaps they could help find your sister?'

The suggestion had him turn around at the Englishman again. He kept his dark livid gaze fixed with him, noticing the evident concern in the Englishman's eyes. The Englishman was truly naïve to the sensitivity of the situation. 'If marriage is survival for our daughters and sisters,' Mukhtar states, 'then her sudden disappearance becomes her family's death.'

He added nothing further, turning away to resume his exit.

Francis could not deny the truth. News of girls' sudden disappearance, particularly of unmarried ones, would result in her family's humiliation. He was not a stranger to the uncompromising value of honour here. The authority will not take the matter seriously. His concerns for the Nargis's safety garnered a tempest in his heart. He began to feel guilty, and so, felt just as responsible for the consequence of her missing whereabouts.

At once, his concerns gathered more strength when he assessed her brother's failure to recover her. Worrying thoughts struck his mind, suspecting the girl to be suffering one extreme to another. He could not rest.

Thus, he makes immediate preparation to seek Jameel's advice.

Chapter 6

Jameel received him with relief, and embraced him dearly. Scarcely did he have the opportunity to question the reason, that he notices someone else present in the room.

There, stood behind Jameel, he sees the unforgettable face.

Her brother advised her to keep indoors until he settled the matter with the landlord. So tactful her brother was, and so naïvely unaware she became to her brother's secret designs that she did as told. But God is kind, and kinder to the innocent. She became aware that her marriage was secretly underway.

Her brother took advantage of her gullibility. He fixed the date for her marriage, and the truth would have remained outside her understanding too had she not received a visit from one of the children of the landlord. The girl was the youngest child of the landlord's four children. The little girl asked her if her dress was pretty. When Nargis enquired to what occasion she would wear this dress, the girl answered that she will wear it to her father's wedding, which is to be in a week's time.

"Who is he to marry?" she asked next with a sinking feeling. The girl embraced her warmly, addressing her endearingly as "Chuto Amma". She was to become the girl's second mother.

Fear and anger collided with each other in such violence that she could not divide one from the other. Her brother betrayed her. He was intent on her marriage to the landlord. Her sensibility dissolved, and impulsiveness took cover. She could not placate her heart to this marriage, and it certain that her brother will remain equally determined upon it. In a state like this, no order of rationality seemed forthcoming, and all possibility of irrationality was inviting. Thus, taking advantage of her brother's absence, she decided to leave this accommodation. She took nothing with her, too determined with the single objective of getting as far away from her brother and this impending marriage. But where was she to go? She had no money and knew no one that could help her. In her overcoming despair, she recalled the mention of the lodge the Englishman and his guide was staying in, when she was in the bazaar that day. She prayed that the Englishman did not leave, and so set forth to the lodge.

Shock does not come nearer to the description when he opened the door to the unexpected visitor yesterday. For a while, he was unable to find his voice. She pleaded that she needed help. He allowed her in, and she began to narrate her story. She was afraid, that much was clear. Her hands were shaking and her mouth was so dry that often she could not speak. He offered her water, and she drank the contents heartily, receiving the strength to conclude her narration. The Englishman's interference has created a huge turmoil. He had good reason to worry. The girl's brother was bound to look for her throughout the whole town, and this prediction soon came true this evening.

He has kept her hidden in his room since last night. He deliberately kept the matter unknown from the journalist, fearing his reaction. Francis was a good man, and should he learn of the girl's escape from her brother, then it may postpone his return home. Until the English journalists do not leave for England tomorrow, he decided to let the girl stay here. Admittedly, he did not know what to do with her after that, but that was the least of his worries then. However, as events have proved, she was no longer safe here. He has already fallen under the brother's suspicion. Had he not diverted the brother's attention towards Francis, then there was a strong possibility that he would have searched his and Jonathan's room to find his sister. Thankfully, he spoke in Bengali to avert Jonathan's understanding of his conversation with the brother. He had to lie to protect the girl, but that did not reduce his worries for Francis. He was making swift preparation to visit Francis that he found answering his call instead.

He sincerely wished to keep this proceeding outside the journalist's knowledge. His efforts have gone to vain. The complications of keeping the girl here are many, and to none could he or the Englishman come to resolve.

Accosted in the corner of the room, the two men continue to discuss in great lengths. She watched the scene like a silent spectator. Unlike her brother, she did not understand English. Her parents invested more liberally into his education, for it was not the custom to undertake the inconvenience with daughters' education. Girls are to ultimately marry and settle down with a family. The brother she depended on and hoped to care for her welfare after her parent's decease, schemed to pass on the responsibility to someone else in return for money. It was disheartening to learn that an educated man would have such selfish thoughts. If education results with such characteristics, then she was grateful that her sex was kept impoverished of it.

The two men continued their discussion. She blamed herself for placing them into this unnecessary trouble. She should not have behaved so rashly. Her rashness had neglected her to consider the reality. It was unfair on them. She had no right to disburden her worries onto those unrelated to her affairs. She should return to her brother. Perhaps marriage will solve everyone's problems.

Her gaze lifts again at the closed door, which was conveniently near her. She looked over her shoulder again, her eyes peering through the tiny holes of the mosquito net. Each hole clustered together, finely forming a mosaic picture of the Englishman engrossed in conversation with Jameel. They remained immersed in their discussion, nodding at intervals, but shaking their heads in disapproval more often. She rose quietly from the bed, and overcoming those few feet, left the room.

So immersed they were in conversation that the two men failed to notice her leave. Francis began to sense a strange emptiness in the room. He could not distinguish the reason, but he felt an urgency to look at the bed. Eyes piercing through the dim lighting of the lantern, he looks for the girl behind the draping nets. He could not see her, and felt the first beats of alarm. He nears the bed, and at once, realises Nargis was truly gone. Giving no explanation, he quickly follows her unseen trail.

He ran through the unlit corridors, and so quickly, that he misses a few steps while descending the stairs, falling onto the landing with a hurtful thud. Flustered, he tries to recollect his footing when he feels someone helping him up. He believed it was Jameel, whom he thanked. He felt a twinge on his elbow, finding it bruised and bleeding. He flinched in pain as it throbbed against the touch of his helper's hand, and at once realises that the hand did not belong to Jameel.

She was here, stood before him. Her small face looked distressed as her gaze studies his bruised elbow. Then, bringing forth a corner of the drape of her sari, she dabs the wound gently, wistfully blowing cool air on it as does. He did not move, watching her absently as she treats his wound.

The sudden arrival of Jameel makes them both start. He expresses his relief on finding them safe, but adds that they must find some way of getting the girl out. The receptionist does not know that she has been staying as an unpaid guest in this lodge.

They whispered, but in this surreal quietness, even a whisper can sound like thunder. Perhaps the reception heard something, for they heard rushed footsteps coming towards them. The noise grew threateningly clearer, nearing them with ease. A cloud of yellow light gradually pushes aside the heavy darkness, and a voice yells through it, demanding who wanders here unauthorised. They take a cautious step back so to conceal themselves between the two walls of the staircase. Alarmed, she looks at the journalist, and he read accurately the concerns in her dark eyes. He nods in reply, and she willingly places her trust in him. Any sudden movement could deteriorate the situation. They keep still, noticing the yellow light becoming brighter as the watchman progresses along the corridor, determined to catch the intruders.

Then he suddenly stops.

Lifting his lantern, his hand follows carefully the whispering breaths, expertly detecting the suspected intruders. But before the dimmed ray should reveal their identity, he, Nargis and Jameel immediately disperse. Jameel heads upstairs towards his room, while Francis and Nargis seek an escape. They have to get out of the building. The watchman becomes alert at once, chasing the shadowy figures, threatening them to stop.

He holds her hand firmly, and she unconsciously allows him. They run, unknown to the direction, but each in the consolation that they were not alone.

'You have been silent for a long while now,' Dhadhi whispers, her voice low and heavy.

Nargis has been stealing frequent glances at her granddaughter, observing her grey eyes intently as they read the decaying article that Francis wrote many years.

Mayah starts at her Dhadhi's voice. She has lost count on how number of times she read this article. "Improve Here or Betterment Elsewhere?" The article was her Granddad's first piece of published work upon his return from East Pakistan. Her Dhadhi keeps the most celebrated articles of Granddad close by her reach, referring to them whenever her heart sought some consolation. It has been two years since her Granddad passed away, but Dhadhi has not overcome the loss. The length of her mourning has quietly prolonged and none could do anything to recover a genuine smile from her lips.

Folding the article, Mayah slips it back into the album leaf, and turns to the next one. Most photos in this album are black and white, of which the majority are of her Grandparents. This one in particular always drew her attention, for it was the photo of Dhadhi and Granddad's marriage. Her Dhadhi is dressed in bridal attire, her gaze demurely downcast as Granddad looked at her in shameless admiration. Her Dhadhi is an undeniable beauty, and despite the photographs lacking colour, Mayah could easily deduce that Dhadhi was doubtless glowing. Her Granddad looked fittingly handsome in his suit, which he wore to accord with the customs of an Islamic marriage.

She looks on wonderingly at the picture. A chance encounter had forever united her grandparents. Jameel Dhadha was one of the few witnesses to the ceremony. The photos evidenced their joys accurately. It was a small ceremony, and a controversial one. The marriage disconnected her from her native home. Her brother had disowned her upon her refusal to marry a scheming landlord. The games of Fate are truly applauding. She often wondered what would have happened if her Granddad was not in East Pakistan that day, amidst the fires.

'How are you feeling now?' Mayah asks, clasping her Dhadhi's warm hand.

'I feel like I haven't eaten for days,' her Dhadhi humours.

Her expression changes instantly into disapproval as she recalls the incident that hospitalised Dhadhi.

'Why did you do it?' she asks, looking away angrily. 'Why did you harm yourself like this?'

'To scare your father,' Dhadhi admits, whilst trying to instil some humour. 'Did he get scared?'

'This is not funny,' Mayah says impatiently.

'I know,' Dhadhi abates her. 'I also knew nothing would have happened to me. There is plenty of time left for me to meet your Granddad again. Besides, you have to prove my intuition correct.'

She shakes her head helplessly at Dhadhi, who claims her intuitions lead her to believe that she will provoke some needful change. "It will be a change that many have wanted to see for a long time now," her Dhadhi will add in wise tones.

Her Mayah will prove nothing less, and she waited eagerly to greet that day. It took two miscarriages before Fate finally granted her son and daughter-in-law a child. Previously doctors had given their word. Her daughter-in-law's chances of conceiving were very slim. They presented options of evasive medical treatments, and if that should fail, then there was the possibility of adoption. Discussions were merely ongoing when news of Mayah's arrival concluded the debate. The sweetest fruit is the one that takes it's time to ripen. Her Mayah was doubtless one of those. She possessed a certain rebellious streak that keeps slyly dormant. Her round face and soft feature could quite easily deceive others to believe she was a quiet, peaceful girl.

'I want you to be part of my success too,' Mayah replies at length. 'What you did the last two days was inconsiderate to my feelings.'

'What else was I supposed to do?' her Dhadhi asks in irritation. 'Your father will not take heed to my pleas any other way. I had to resort to the extreme. Your words of consolation cannot deny the inevitable,' her Dhadhi explains looking away, unable to meet her searching eyes. 'I am but merely a guest to life. We all are. I fear time will pass me so quickly that I shall not have the time to reconcile. I have no complaints against anyone, no grudge to settle, and no such desires I wish to fulfil. I have only one request,' she says meeting Mayah's eyes. 'I want to reconcile with my brother.'

'Your health is very weak,' Mayah explains, feeling compelled to disoblige with Dhadhi's request. 'And that's not the only reason Dad refuses your request. There are many risks. The country has changed very much since you left it. Unfortunately, people don't change. Your brother will not accept you. Seeing you suddenly may provoke his anger. He has a family of his own, and you have yours. Why can't we just accept matters as are they are?'

'Because he is my family,' Dhadhi corrects her. 'He is your family. Your father cannot keep denying the truth of his connections. Why does he fear for my health? I am at an age where I cannot fear the unexpected. What is the worst my brother can do to me?'

Dhadhi's question had silenced her. She wanted to argue her cause, but to her irritation, she found no validation.

Dhadhi has not visited her native country since marriage brought her to England. That was over forty-seven years ago. After Granddad's death, Dhadhi has expressed fierce desires to see her brother, hoping to reconcile with him, but her father constantly objected. Once, her mother suggested accompanying Dhadhi to Bangladesh. Her father's objection was so firm and her mother's intention so determined that her parents got into a huge argument. Dhadhi felt she was the cause, and reasoned with her daughter-in-law to confiscate their plans. To amend one relation, she could not stake another. Circumstances forced Dhadhi to quit her hopes, but recently she been undergoing fresh desires. Very recently, Dhadhi secretly booked tickets online to Bangladesh. They only discovered this when her father found the printout of the confirmation of travel on Dhadhi's bed.

'I may not get another chance, Mayah,' her Dhadhi says. 'Tell Sam to let me go.'

'Mayah,' she hears her Granddad call her.

She follows the voice, looking over her shoulder at the window behind her.

'Come,' here he persists.

She looks at Dhadhi's closed. Her deep unhesitating breaths indicated that she was asleep. Gently, she unclasps Dhadhi's hand from hers, and walks over to the window. She opened the curtains until she could peak at the night sky.

'My Nargis is right, you know,' her Granddad clarifies.

Mayah shook her head hopelessly at his agreement.

'This was a narrow escape,' he adds. 'Hunger strike at her age!' he exclaims, reproaching Dhadhi's obstinacy. 'Who does she think she is? Mahatma Ghandi? But she's right. This hunger strike would have most certainly sent her up to me! I don't want your Dhadhi to come here feeling famish. You must persuade Sam to let his mother visit her estranged brother.'

'Dad will not agree,' she reminds him. 'Mum has also tried, but Dad is impossible to persuade.'

'Son like mother,' her Granddad huffs in irritation. 'Both are obstinate as each other. If your father had even the slightest quality of patience from me –'

'From you?' she raises her eyebrows questioningly at him.

A smoky cloud passes over the crescent moon as if to cover her Granddad's brief embarrassment.

'You will have to do something to fulfil my Nargis's request,' her Granddad suggests recovering from his embarrassment.

'But Dad is not being irrational,' she defends her father's decision. 'He refuses Dhadhi's request because he worries for her health.'

'No one is immortal, Mayah,' her Granddad reminds her dutifully. 'Death is a certain path for all. You cannot gamble with its uncertainty. Would it please you if your Dhadhi comes here undone? It is her brother after all she wants to see.'

'It is not me that has any objections,' she says defensively.

'But you are the only one that can make it work regardless of the objections.'

Unable to comprehend him, she looks confusingly at the night sky.

'You are the only one,' her Granddad explains, 'who is free of suspicions.'

She listened attentively, while her eyes gazed absently at the sky. Dhadhi's health has been deteriorating steadfastly since her Granddad's death. Her asthmatic attacks have become more frequent, doubtless provoked by her fear of never seeing her estranged brother again. As such, she has become a regular visitor to the hospital.

Her father's unchanging refusal may seem ruthless, but it was necessary. He was simply observing the duties of a son. There was no one there to accept them as their family. Why should his mother make the first step towards reconciliation? His mother did not break the ties.

Death is a certain path for all Mayah fearfully recalls.

She turns away abruptly from the window, stunned gaze landing immediately upon her Dhadhi. She seemed peacefully asleep, but Mayah knew that was merely a display. Her Dhadhi was afflicted with an unceasing pain. The hunger strike tactic was a faint reflection of that pain. This was the first such manner of persuasion Dhadhi employed to break her rigid son's decision. This will not be her last attempt either.

She walks up to Dhadhi's bed in an unrushed pace, staring cautiously at the frail figure. She reclaims her seat beside Dhadhi. For a long while, she sat here, thinking hard. On one side, she saw a sister's affection, and on another, she saw a son's duties. Her thoughts swayed this way and that.

Then, she stopped thinking.

She left her Dhadhi's side, walking resolutely towards the door. Her hand had scarcely touched the handle, when she stops, looking over her shoulder, catching another glimpse of her Dhadhi. She does not know what is right or wrong, or whose side she should take. She only knew that much that she was not ready to lose her Dhadhi.

Chapter 7

The single child complex can be both beneficial and problematic. The strain of obstinacy is ever prevalent in those, who had not the blessing of siblings. They did not understand the virtues of negotiating, and were accustomed to having their way, employing all possible tactics and arguments to win another's approval. Mayah was also such a single child.

The flight took off two hours ago. It has taken twenty-two years to make her first visit to Bangladesh, despite her close roots to the country. Technically, it was Dhadhi's first visit too. She only knew that much about the quarter of her origin that Dhadhi related to her. She was eager to see her to meet the rest of her family.

Two weeks have elapsed since the hunger strike incident. Noting a marked improvement in Dhadhi's health, Mayah relayed her proposition. She has decided to take Dhadhi to Bangladesh. Understandably, her mother and Dhadhi objected. It took a great deal of convincing to get their approval. Dhadhi did not want to lie to her son, whereas her mother could not let two women of vulnerable age go to another country, and that too unsupervised. The concerns of each were justified. Hiding the truth is just another reflection of telling a lie, but truth has not prevailed in their situation. Perhaps, with patience, they may win her father's approval, but the virtuous trait was not at their disposal currently. For the young, patience teaches discipline, but for the old it can become a curse. Dhadhi's age made patience too great a risk to appreciate it. If Dhadhi's health should deteriorate to an extent that she must cease any strenuous travel, then guilt will most certainly engulf her and her parents. Besides, what could be done today, why leave it for tomorrow? What can be done today, why not do it now? Thankfully, her mother understood the delicacy of the situation, but that did not eliminate her motherly concerns. She had a daughter, whose young age could easily make her fall prey amongst opportunists. Admittedly, this remark only challenged her to disprove her mother's fear. She has not given any the right to touch her in a way that she must lose the preservation of her chastity. Without her consent, none will have the courage to do so either. Her mother remained unconvinced and strongly objected the proposition. Indeed, she still does not know what finally convinced her mother. It appeared, Dhadhi was equally shocked and confused when her mother gave the consent two days after their discussion.

Plans were swiftly underway. To avoid her father's suspicions, she took Dhadhi to their Hertfordshire cottage, under the pretext that the countryside would revive Dhadhi's health. Her father agreed, taking the inconvenience of dropping her, her mother, and Dhadhi there. They scarcely stayed there for two days. Her mother bought her a new phone, and kept her old one. This way, her mother can reply to her father's messages.

There are many challenges ahead of them. They are contemplating to find the lost amongst strangers. However, now that they have embarked on a starting point, the remainder of their journey would follow suit. They may have to improvise, but this would only make this game of hide-and-seek more enjoyable. They will be staying in a hotel in Sylhet, and from there they will visit Jameel Dhadha. Dhadhi's contact with him has been scarce over recent years. There was never much to say. The last time she contacted him was to inform him of Granddad's death. She had his last known address. The plan is to contact him once they reach the hotel. His assistance is vital if they are to locate Dhadhi's brother.

She looked at her granddaughter, who gazed adoringly at the passing clouds. It was actually happening. After forty-seven years, she was visiting her birthplace and childhood. It was not that she has never travelled at all since her marriage. Her husband's career has taken her many places, save for Bangladesh. It was her choice. Her marriage to an Englishman was a controversial affair. She angered many when she married him, one of them being her brother. The desire to reconcile with him is not a sudden eruption. The thought has been brewing quietly within her since after Sam's birth. She did not want her son to become a complete stranger to her roots. But she could not risk losing her Englishman either, who doubtless remained a target of her brother's anger. She feared a sudden confrontation between them would provoke such a situation that would lose her one or the other. Yet, see how ruthless her Englishman became. He left her nevertheless.

She did not cry and said nothing at his death. She went into isolation, and sank every day in despair, hoping that death would call her too, for enduring his separation was becoming a struggle. Then, one evening, when she gazed absently at the dark sky, she heard her Englishman. At first, she believed her despair had descended her into a state of delirium. But when he spoke again, she was certain that the humour could only come from her Francis. "If you had shed at least one tear," he said, "then I should have been in the comfort that I left a wife who loved me dearly." Here, she cried for the first time after his death. He immediately reprimanded her defeated state, and made her realise how many depended on her. Sam, Jill, and Mayah looked to her for direction. They will be lost without her. They did not have the strength to endure her separation, as she had to endure his. She has much to do and see. Introducing Sam, Jill, and Mayah to her native country was her primary task. Helping Mayah to settle in a stable career, and seeing Jill begin her next novel, was another priority. Francis said his death took the best years away from him. How dearly he wished to hold his great grandchildren, but he consoled his loss knowing that his Nargis will fulfil his wishes.

How easily he said two words to invoke new life into her. It was her Englishman's insistence for her to visit Bangladesh. It was his decision to reconcile with her brother. He said it was necessary. Two years after his death, she finally makes this trip.

She had hoped that eventually her son would birth an attachment to the country where half of his origin belonged. She had hoped that he too would pine to see the other half of his family and see the roots of his culture. At every reason, he was disobliging. He was angry, and abhorred her brother for conspiring to sell her. He has taken to the belief that every man in Bangladesh was like her brother. She has constantly failed to convert his mind. There was guilt at lying to her own child, but her compassion for her grandchild's courage was greater. The child has risked and sacrificed much to accompany her. She has staked her father's trust and compromised with her career. Like her Granddad and mother, Mayah also aspires to become a writer. She has written various articles, yet she was undecided on a specific career. This trip has stalled her to arrive on a decision, but Mayah was too determined to take her to Bangladesh to consider the consequences. Indeed, she booked the tickets before seeking anyone's consent.

She was beginning to feel tired, as if her ignorance on the last two weeks of extensive planning and thinking had finally caught up with her. Her eyes heavy, she rests her droopy head on Dhadhi's shoulder, grasping her tightly by the arm. The airhostess was walking up and down, offering tea, coffee, and hot chocolate. She liked the smell of coffee, but disliked the taste very much. She also hated the smell of Red Bull. Once, she had to get off her carriage on the District line because someone was drinking the vile drink. The dim lights encouraged her sleep further. Across the aisle, she paid particular attention to one of the passengers. Every so often, he withdrew a small red box from his pocket. Each time he looked at it with more admiration than the last, his smile apparent by the lift of his cheek. She wondered whether it was a pair of earrings, or perhaps a ring. Perhaps he was going to propose to someone in Bangladesh. If that were the case, then Bangladesh has certainly evolved. Dhadhi said that in her time girls did not have the right to choose their husband. Her family selected her partner. Love marriages were very rare, and should a couple marry for love, then the girl was more likely to become subject of her in-laws' taunts. Her in-laws would her make mistakes appear bigger than they really are because she compelled the son to disregard his family's choice and married for love. She loses the credibility to voice her complaints because it was her decision to marry into that family, who constantly faults her every action. Her family advise her to endure the mistreatment, for she chose that life.

Against such thoughts and customs, her Grandparents married. Had it not been for that night, then Dahdhi may have lost Granddad to England forever.

Suddenly they stopped running.

Francis looked behind him and saw Nargis shaking her head at him, as she held the banisters breathlessly. Her eyes requested him to allow her legs some mercy. He read her pleas well, but could not neglect the watchman's determination to capture the unauthorised wanderers. He gestures towards the corridor beside them, where they can rest without danger. She nodded, following him through the unlit corridor. There, in a corner, they sit down. He looked cautiously into the cloudy dark distance, expecting the watchman to discover them soon. Fortunately, he saw no one nor could he hear anything except for the girl's effort to quieten her heavy breaths lest the noise should attract the watchman's attention. Her chest hurt, and the limbs of her legs throbbed as they try to regain some feeling. Overcome by weakness, she leans against the wall. He watched her in alarm. Her shrivelled lips evidenced her thirst, while her brow glistened with specks of sweat, some gliding down her face. The rigorous running had loosened her plait, allowing the shorter strands of her hair to escape, sticking to her face and neck.

Her displaced state was a result of his encouraging her to speak the truth of her feelings about marrying the avaricious landlord. She had lost her parents, and now by his doing, she has lost the only family she had left.

When she opened her eyes again, she saw the Englishman's gaze was downcast, a solemnness about his face. She patted his knees to reach his attention. When he looked at her, she sought to know the reason behind the solemnness with a gesture of her head. He shook his head as if to say there is no reason. Had he looked her in the eye when he gave that reply then perhaps she would have believed him, but his looking away only proved that there is a reason. She patted his knees again, and again he lifted his grey eyes at her. She smiled at him, hoping he too would smile, but he did not. She could not make him smile.

Her smile disappeared, and he was the reason. Suddenly, he felt the urgency to preserve it upon her lips, and so he smiled. How was he to express his relief, when he saw her smile reappear? She met his eyes, and there, she held her gaze with his, forgetting her modesty and the impropriety of her conduct. She was not alone in the crime, for he could not seem to look away either.

Lantern still in hand, the watchman appears before the intruders. His presence did not seem to start them the slightest. The lantern hovered over them, yet they did not once blink. He found great humour in their fearlessness, looking from her eyes to his and from his eyes to hers. Only when he spoke did they come to realise that there was a third person amongst them. The Englishman started abruptly, getting to his feet, the girl following suit. He would have attempted to escape again, but did not have the heart to put Nargis through the pain of exhaustion.

'No room?' the watchman asked. He was a podgy man, with a rather fluffy moustache. He was not young and neither old, but was mature enough to comprehend the eyeful stares the girl and boy were exchanging. He did not speak English fluently, but was able to speak enough for the Englishman to understand.

Francis shook his head in reply.

'Husband, wife?' the watchman asked next, looking meaningfully at the girl. 'Jamai bou ki?' he repeats but in Bengali.

Francis struggled on an answer. Admitting they are not would subject them to further questions.

Replying to the positive may become a means of getting out of here.

'Ji,' she said something beyond his understanding, lifting the drape of her sari onto her head as he often saw woman do in the country. He looked on with great puzzlement at her change of behaviour.

Perhaps it was the peculiarity of this night or maybe she could no longer repress her playful nature, but either way she rose to the opportunity. Having answered that she and the Englishman are husband and wife, she then recounted the rest of her sorrowful story. She told the watchman that her husband was unfortunately a mute, and that they were here at this merciless hour because they were evicted by their landlord elsewhere. When she learnt that her brother was seeking temporary accommodation here, she came to him immediately to receive some help. But heartless he is, said he cannot offer her any and told them to knock on another door, and if no other door should open, then the doors of God are always open. The watchman shook his head at the lack of humanity in this world. He was disgusted that a brother should not show any compassion to his own sister! He sympathised, but stated his inability to help in this case. She lowered her head at his kindness, and requested him to lead them out. As he led the way, she looks at the Englishman and puts a finger to her lips, gesturing him to keep silent.

A safe distance away from the lodge, they both broke out in giggles. He was impressed at her tactic, but equally curious to learn what she said. In fact, in all his elation, he forgot that she could not speak or understand English and asked her what she said to the watchman. Her laugh gradually disappeared, and the elation of both so left. She was embarrassed at her inability to comprehend what he said. She very much wanted to speak to him. She very much wanted to thank him for undertaking all this difficulty on her behalf. But more than anything, she wanted to ask him why he was doing all this for her. He did not have to come to Jameel, and alert him of her missing whereabouts. He could have kept himself divided from her complications, but not once did he turn away. Not once did he look away.

Chapter 8

Keeping a room at a household whose owner always desires to earn an extra income, worked greatly in his favour. The owner agreed to overlook social propriety, and allowed the girl to lodge for the night in his room. The settlement of an extra and generous fare suited the accommodator well. His room only supplied two single bedsteads. Upon one, Jonathan slept, utterly unaware to the perils his friend has been encountering throughout the night. The other bedstead belonged to him, which he offered to her. At first, she shook her head at his offer, gesturing to sleep on the ground instead. However, defeated to his repeated wish, she accepted the bedstead.

At some hour in the middle of the night, he suddenly awoke, hearing the distinctive sound of someone sobbing. Alert, he sits up and follows the noise to the source. Amidst the dimness, he found Nargis sat in the corner of the room, her arms wrapped around her knees and her head buried in her lap, quietly crying. There was no mystery to the provocations of her tears. She has lost family and home. In a country, where women's honour can be at stake by keeping connections with men of no relation, she was here spending the night with two male strangers. She was directionless, and must be feeling like an outcast, not knowing what to expect tomorrow. She had every right to cry. He gave her the liberty to do so. Her heart was in need of a relief. He lay on his mat again, but found it difficult to oblige with his decision to permit her tears to shed. He heard her gentle whimpers, and resisted all temptation to comfort her. He had no words of comfort to offer her. He is but a mere guest in the country. He is due to leave for England today. He does not know what will happen when Dawn reappears, or from where he will greet the next day. Knowingly or unknowingly, he has taken on a responsibility beyond his ability to manage. He had not anticipated that such would be the consequence of inciting one to speak the truth of their feelings. Just as Nargis was doubtless, he too descended into confusion and dismay. He began to envy her sex. When in a state of despair, she may cry freely. She had no shame to display her defeat against her circumstances. Had it not been for his sex, then he too would have shed a tear or two.

Jameel suspected the journalist would shelter the girl in his lodge. He made his visit the first thing in the morning. It seemed as if Francis and related to Jonathan the events that brought the girl here. Amongst them, they debated on their next action regarding the girl's future. They established the obvious, that her stay will have to be short in this lodge. The two Englishmen will not see another night in this country. They are due to leave for England today. Considering the limitation of time, the party had reached a sensible solution. Nargis must be reconciled with her brother, and the brother must drop his insistence on her to the landlord.

She peered distrustfully at her brother from behind the Englishman's shoulder, her eyes dark and obstinate. Jameel had gone to collect her brother. Initially, he was relieved to see his sister. Her safe return has restored his hopes. However, how quickly the Englishman severed his every hope when he relayed his proposition. He must accept the condition that he will not marry his sister to landlord. Upon his acceptance, Jameel will collect the landlord, and an Imam from a local mosque. Before these witnesses, he is to repeat the breaking of this marriage proposal. He was livid. The Englishman has committed many crimes. Lying and providing his sister refuge were two of the biggest. His shameless sister has left him nowhere. He feared how many have come into knowledge of her association with this Englishman. He has given his word to the landlord, who has invested greatly into the restoration of his village house. He had no income, and was living off the landlord's generosity. At once, he began to fear his future prospects and his reputation. Nargis's marriage to the landlord must happen.

Francis waited patiently to hear the brother's answer. He could not leave Nargis knowing that she will not fall victim to compulsion or scandal.

Mukhtar was obstinate against defeat, but the matter was too delicate to display his refusal to their proposition.

'Nargis,' her brother calls her, and she unthinkingly clutches onto the Englishman's arm. 'Do you not trust your brother?'

She shakes her head.

'Come,' Mukhtar tries again. 'I won't get you married to the landlord, I promise. Let us end the matter here, and safeguard the little honour we have left. Your missing whereabouts has subjected me to much embarrassment. I don't want to this drama to continue anymore. So let us go home peacefully.'

The brother spoke in Bengali, but whatever he said had clearly not been to Nargis's appreciation, for she clutched onto his arm tighter.

'If you truly will not get your sister married against her will,' Jameel says in English, 'then I shall fetch the landloard and Imam, and before them you will pledge.'

Mukhtar was losing his patience. He makes a step towards her, and Francis instinctively adjusts his position so to shield her. The brother proceeds closer to them, and Jameel, predicting the likelihood of a brawl, steps in between the two parties, as if he was the mediator between East and West. He just prayed that the warring sides do not churn him into chutney in their collision. Taking God's name, he masters to form some reconciliation, requesting each side to sit down and talk peacefully.

But Mukhtar's patience was fully tested. His sweetness abruptly vanishes, and his voice becomes aggressive, ordering Nargis to come with him. Fearful, she clutched the Englishman's arm even tighter. The Englishman made every effort to protect her. Then, completely beyond their expectations, her brother strikes a hard blow into the Englishman's abdomen, gaining his opportunity to grab her. She tries to release her wrist from his hold, but his grasp was painfully tight, dragging her away from the Englishman, who lay on the ground, as his friend made desperate enquiries to his health. Jameel was trying his best to restrain her brother, but her brother's determination would not fade. Jameel's struggle ends, when her Englishman returns a strike upon her brother, releasing her arm at once. But his determination was such that he recovered quickly, approaching her again. Jameel again restrains the brother, but fearing the situation will deteriorate to treacherous outcomes, he advises the Englishman to run. Jonathan also reinforced the same instruction, but Francis was unprepared to leave Jameel and his friend with the violent brother. Jameel sounded more determined to have his instructions heard, advising him desperately to take the girl somewhere safe. He will handle matters here.

He did not know what made up his mind, but holding her hand, he led her out of the room, brushing past the lodge owner and his mute wife, who came to investigate the disturbing noises.

They ran and ran, not knowing where they were going. He only knew that Jameel was right. He needed to get the girl to safety, away from her insane brother. Eager in his quest, they crossed the busy Dhaka streets one after the other. Rickshaw riders and cyclists rang their bells frantically. Motor vehicles beep their horns annoyingly, but before none could he or Nargis stop, continuing along, unknown to their destination. They ran through the numerous crowds, cutting the paths of marketers who were heading to set up their stalls, dropping their goods, which scattered everywhere at the doing of these two reckless escapees.

In the near distance, he could hear the distinctive sound of trains. They were near a railway station. An idea struck him. He follows the inviting noise, landing them in Kamalapur Railway Station. Immersed in the crowd, Francis looks desperately for signboards to learn the departure of the next train, but the words were Bengali. Challenged by time and fear, his adeptness to think of a solution suffered greatly. He held onto the girl's hand tightly as the crowd push pass them abruptly, trying to board their respective trains. The speakers overhead announce departure times of various destinations. Nargis overhears a family nearby react to one of the announcement. Her attention then returns upon Francis. He suddenly looks more concerned, looking intently at the words on the board. She knew the Englishman well enough now to interpret his expressions. She looked around at that family, hastily heading for their respective train. Where Francis had helplessly decided to flee this place too, he found himself instead led towards another direction. Keeping low, he enquires Nargis to where she was going, despite her inability to reply. At length, she caught up with that family. Soon, he becomes aware of her plans as she nods towards a stationary train on the platform. In five minutes, this train will depart the station. The trains in the country were such that there were no doors to any of the carriages. The final rush of passengers crammed in, some authorised, and others like them without a ticket. They too make their struggles to get in. Eventually, they succeed. The carriage accommodated second-class arrangement. Thus, there were no free seats, with passengers making use of every available space. He and Nargis also occupy a small space along the aisle, holding onto the overhead rail for support. A loud blow of the horn commenced the start of the journey. An immediate relief descends through him as the train leaves the station. He looks at Nargis, predicting her reaction to be the same, but discovers something else that renewed his worries. Her exhaustion was evident, struggling to hold onto the railing for support. Her legs throbbed in pain, as she stood, and desired to rink something that could quench her thirst. She desperately sought to lean her weight on something, while he frantically searched the crowded compartment for an available seat to offer her. He could not have her stand throughout this journey, to which the destination was still unknown. He made meaningful eye contact with those seated in the hope that they will sacrifice their seat seeing Nargis sway on her feet, but all kept unconcernedly seated.

Scarcely did he wish to make a request for a seat, that he felt a weight upon his shoulder. Nargis was resting her head upon it, her eyes closed, as if the effort to keep them would add to her exhaustion. As the train progresses throughout its journey, he notices her hold loosening from the rail. She was swaying dangerously on her fatigued legs. Fearing for her safety, he turns around to steady her, but instead she seeks his complete support, her head falling upon his chest. He felt the warmth of her breath touch him, slowly and quietly. He was aware of other's glances. Yet he ignored each one, keeping her safely supported against him as the journey continued along.

Chapter 9

A wry smile spread upon her lips as she absorbed the startling sights. Forty-seven years ago, Sylhet's Osmani International Airport was barely visible, let alone crowded.

Admittedly, Mayah was nervous. Now that they are finally here, she finally realises just quite how far away from England she really is. Standing here, in this hectic crowd of an unknown country, her confidence found good reason to falter. This was only the beginning of their journey. There is much to do. They need to contact Jameel Dhadha. Without him, there is no hope to locate Dhadhi's estranged brother. The discouraging thoughts were not helping to rebuild her confidence, thus she quickly banishes them before they could cripple her legs. First things first, she reminds herself. They must reach their hotel. Some tea and rest will no doubt revive her confidence.

The hotel they will be staying is the closest one to the airport. It was also the first five-star hotel in Sylhet. Their suitcases collected from the conveyor and stacked neatly on the trolley, they walked briskly towards the exit, following the many helpful signposts, which had messages written in both English and Bengali. She could not read the latter.

As she wheeled their trolley against the white marbled floors, she studied the interior of the airport with some intrigue. Granted, it was not the equal of Heathrow, but for a country, which has been independent for only forty-years, the structure was very impressive. It was clean, white and cool, courtesy to the air conditioning. She did some research on the weather prior to their travel, so she can pack her suitcase accordingly. The average temperature for this season can reach up to thirty-nine degrees. Just before they landed, the airhostess had also confirmed that currently it is thirty-eight degrees in Sylhet. She was quite alarmed. Inside this air-conditioned hub, it was difficult to imagine the heat to be so cruel. However, she need not worry. She has the tropical gene. Therefore, she must be immune to the heat. Of course, it is only when she was outside that they experience the truth. Here, beneath the latched roof of the airport, they absorbed the scene.

Amidst the crowd and innumerable transport, the weather appeared more ruthless. It was not only hot, but humid too. Apprehensive, she looks at Dhadhi, who was no less nervous. They cannot stand here all day. With renewed courage, they walk out onto the baking ground, and begin to look for n available transport that could drop them to the hotel. She felt a twinge of dismay, when she saw family members come to collect their relations, excitingly embracing them. It appeared she was not alone in the feeling, as Dhadhi's dismay was also visible. There was none here to collect them. Indeed, apart from her mother, no other person had even the faintest idea of her and Dhadhi's arrival in Bangladesh. She has yet to inform her mother, who was no doubt waiting anxiously by the phone to hear the news of their safe arrival.

No family yet, but very soon she will be reunited with many. As she walks along, she notices one of the security officers raising a baton at some children, who were poorly dressed. She watched in distress, but Dhadhi explained that those children are most likely to be thieves and beggars. Apparently, their pitiful appearance plays a major part in their tactics to approach travellers and steal their valuable belongings. That said, she was immediately on alert, holding the trolley tightly, every minute counting the number of cases in it. One, two, three, four, she counts yet again to reassure herself.

At length, Dhadhi points at a "baby-taxi", which is a three-wheeled vehicle. These vehicles littered the airport parking space, and none looked vacant, surrounded by passengers. The vigorous gestures of both the drivers and passengers indicated well that there was some disagreement. She wondered for a short while on the possible reasons when it all became clear having watched another passenger of another taxi. This particular passenger forcefully put his three suitcases in the taxi and another on the seat. The suspension sank beneath the weight of the suitcase. The driver quickly remonstrates, taking them out again, and gestures to another vehicle behind him, which looked like an eighties minivan. Instinctively, she looks doubtfully at her own luggage, and eliminates the possibility of hailing an auto-rickshaw. She will need a bigger car. Flustered, she wandered about the sandy grounds, through the cluster of drivers and passengers, eyes peeled for a suitable transport. She asks Dhadhi for some guidance, but her voice sounded distant. Alarmed, she found Dhadhi looking in great discomfort. The bright sunlight and heat was taking its effect on her. She looks around desperately for somewhere that Dhadhi can sit while she finds a taxi. At first, Dhadhi objected, but against her insistence, she sat her down on a bench at the entrance of the airport, and advised her to keep guard of their suitcases while she arranges for transportation.

This business was truly becoming ridiculous. Every time she approached an available taxi, or even one of those minivans, someone else would quickly arrive to claim their ride. She grew more flustered. The heat was unbearable and the sun seemed merciless. There was no doubt sweat patches on the shirt beneath her underarms. Her only consolation was that her linen shirt is white. She was glad she did not drag Dhadhi into this heat. Lost in her own frustration, she almost walked into a taxi had it not been for the loud beep of warning. Deflated, she looked carelessly about her surroundings. The blinding sunlight made everything look like blue and black images. Then, she notices a taxi pull in. With hurried steps, she approaches the driver, and without any delay gives the name of her destination.

'Shapla Hotel -'

'Zinda Bazaar.'

The driver steps out of the taxi, curiously regarding the two persons, who made the different request. He looked questioningly from her to the man next to her, and from him to her.

She and the man look at each other, both in obvious disapprove of the other. His brown aviator shades concealed his eyes, yet she suspected him to look familiar. Her gaze then descends onto a holdall in his hand, which he hooked behind his shoulder. She then scrutinises his appearance, hoping to understand whether he was a national or a tourist like her, and trying to determine if he will understand English when she should speak to him.

He looked slightly dishevelled. His hair was dark, of which the many short unruly strands fell to his forehead. Dark stubbles outlined his jaw and upper lip, and his warmly tanned. So far, his features indicated strongly that his roots are associated to this country, yet she could not make of his language. With a measured move, the man puts his index finger on the nose bridge of his shades, and lowers it carefully. His brown eyes begin to regard rather quizzically, before raising his brow questioningly at her.

'I'm sorry,' she apologises slowly, so her words are comprehensible to his understanding, 'but I was here first.'

She fixes a conciliatory smile to her face, hoping that the asset may turn the situation into her favour. 'Driver,' she turns to the respective person, who watched in visible bewilderment, 'shall we go -'

'Excuse me?' the man beside her says at length, dropping his case aggressively to the ground.

He does speak English, she realises in slight dismay. Somehow, she was hoping that he could not so she could trick her way out of this. He took off his shades completely and began to study her closely.

'Go where?' he says with the corresponding gesture. His accent strongly suggested he was from Britain. 'O Memsahib,' he says teasingly, 'this is not the door to a restaurant, where I will let you go first. Why don't you go in another taxi? I'm getting late,' he says glancing at his watch.

How dare he, she wondered whilst regarding him in grave disapprove.

'Driver, Shapla Hotel,' she instructs firmly, ignoring the man.

'Bysaab,' the man says addresses the driver, 'amar kotha huno. Ami afnaare aro beshi bara dhimu.'

She followed his words in confusion, for he spoke the different dialect of Bengali she could not understand. 'Please,' he gestures to the driver, who obediently heads for his seat. Then, to her great horror, the man opens the door to get into the taxi.

'I don't think so!' she remonstrates closing the door, realising a few faces turning in her direction.

'Please don't exhaust your brain by thinking,' he says sweetly, his lips breaking into a smile.

'This is my taxi,' she informs him equally politely.

'No, it's mine,' he corrects her.

'Mine!'

'Mine!'

'Wait!' the driver interrupts, breaking the arguing pair. He comes out of the taxi, studying his two prospective passengers in fresh amusement. 'First tell me,' he addresses her, 'how many suitcases you have?'

Her cheeks underwent visible shades of red, which any observer could easily associate them with embarrassment.

'How many do you have, memsahib?' the arrogant man teasingly repeats, knowing very well that he has gained victory.

'Only two,' she says in a quietened whisper, unable to meet the arrogant man's eyes.

'No, no, no,' the driver waves his hand in refusal. 'He has one only. You,' he looks at the man, 'sit in car.'

The driver took his position in his seat again, while his passenger did not show any modesty to display his triumph. His smugness was provoking her irritation. Thus, defeated yet maintaining her dignity, she turns away, keeping indifferent to his triumph. She heard the door of the taxi close behind her with a meaningful thud. Her eyes should be searching for another taxi had she not been wishing quiet curses upon that man. She hoped the tyres puncture on his journey, leaving him stranded in the middle of road, and never reaches his destination.

'Oh, and a parting tip,' he suggests as soon as she made a start to walk away.

Reluctantly, she turns around at him, regarding him with a lividness that reddened her cheeks.

'Next time,' he says, 'pack light.'

His remark had astounded her so greatly that she found herself incompetent to reply. He shakes his head hopelessly at her, a smirk apparent on his face. The taxi pulls away, turning a corner and disappearing completely from her sight. The strain of resentment she suffered was strong, transforming unexpectedly into deflation. This was not a good start. Indeed, she felt rather discouraged. Are all people here like that?

'Mayah?' a deep voice calls from behind. Startled, she turned around to find a short Bengali man addressing her. Not enquiring the obvious of how he knew her name, she unknowingly nods in affirmation instead. 'Afnar Dhadhi garitey boshchen,' he informs, gesturing to something in the distance. Thankfully, she understood him. 'Amar shatey cholbo,' he instructs and she obediently follows. She walked, but in the capture of guilt and shame. Dhadhi only agreed on this trip under her trust and support, yet she, a girl of apparent health and agility, could not perform a simple task of hailing a taxi. How will she manage to travel the remainder of this journey?

She walked along morosely, ignorant to the passengers, to the hubbub of crowd, and to the direction she was following. She felt ashamed to go before her Dhadhi. Unknowingly, she also neglected her poor Dhadhi. Her prolonged absence must have reduced Dhadhi to distress about her reckless granddaughter's whereabouts.

Soon, they reach the said vehicle, which happened to be a minivan. All trace of guilt abruptly vanished under the relief of seeing her Dhadhi well and safe, already seated in the taxi, looking through the window at her in a hopeful gaze. The driver opened the door and ushered her inside. 'Where were you?' Dhadhi asks in concern as soon as she sits beside her. 'I was getting worried.'

'Sorry Dhadhi,' she apologises, feeling the return of guilt. There was an unpleasant smell in the car too, and the seats were not much comfortable either. 'I couldn't find a taxi. But are you okay? How did you manage to stop this van?'

'I didn't,' Dhadhi admits as the minivan takes off, reversing out of the small space and making quick progress into the car park's exit.

Dhadhi gave no answer, prompting her to renew her enquiries.

'Well,' Dhadhi says reluctantly, 'I was sitting on the bench you left me, without any trouble, when a well-dressed young boy came up to me, and asked if I want anything to eat or something to drink. He also advised me to wait outside the airport, because not many transports come inside the perimeter of the airport, as there is a parking fee. He was very talkative. He would not leave. Soon after, I learnt that his offer was merely a clever tactic to keep me occupied.'

Dhadhi carefully paused, her face overcoming with strong worry. Instinctively, Mayah reaches for Dhadhi's hand, urging her to continue. 'Well, dear,' Dhadhi continues. 'The young man kept me occupied so his young accomplices could steal our suitcases.'

The news astounded her, before she feels the fresh strains of guilt. While she was squabbling over her claims on a taxi, her helpless Dhadhi was almost subject to a dangerous trouble. She should not have left her alone.

'Did they succeed? Do we still have our luggage?' she asks in panic.

'Well, yes,' Dhadhi acknowledges, as if that was the obvious answer. 'The thieves did succeed, but we still have all our suitcases.'

She did not understand.

'Yes, the boy and his accomplices succeeded to steal one of our suitcases,' Dhadhi explains, 'but, thank Allah, there are still some decent men amongst us, in this day and age too. I would not have realised a missing suitcase had a kind stranger not caught the young thief and his two young accomplices. This kind man detained the three thieves, made them apologise to me, before handing them over to security. I have been so long away from my country that I forgot the depths people stoop for money. My own brother was one of them,' Dhadhi says quietly, unable to meet eyes with her. 'It seems futile to expect positive change here, despite the country attaining a new identity and independence.'

Mayah could not suffice a reply. It was shameful to admit, but Dhadhi spoke the truth.

'Anyway,' Dhadhi continues in brighter tones, 'it was the kind man, who hailed this minivan for me. He gave no name and was in no want of reward. He left just as he arrived as a stranger. As soon as he left, I told the driver to find you. Thank heavens he did! Where were you held up?'

'What can I say, Dhadhi,' she begins, looking at the front window, where there was a display of lush greenery and bright sunlight. 'A kind man helped you, whereas I met a rather rude and arrogant one, who forcefully put his claim on the taxi I stopped!'

'We must keep vigilante, Mayah,' Dhadhi suggests, hearing her granddaughter met with a similar trouble. 'We must not forget that we know little here - even me who was born and raised here. Customs, rules, the law, these are all very different from Britain. Until we find your Jameel Dhadha, we must apply great caution to everything we do. Once we find Jameel bhai, then I can feel at ease.'

Mayah drifts into silence. She saw Dhadhi's nervousness clearly. It was not only Jameel Dhadha that needed locating, but her own brother too. Forty-seven years have elapsed since Dhadhi saw them. Her nervousness was understandable. They have scarcely started their search that they almost lost their valuables. They must be careful.

The passing sights of Sylhet streets helped to divert her thoughts. The roads and streets were, to her great surprise, constructed from concrete, but overly littered. There seemed to be more rickshaw transports than motor vehicles, the drivers of which wore a strange skirt. She was very amazed that the cyclists should be able to ride their rickshaws wearing such bizarre costume. There were scarcely any pavements. It was no wonder the pedestrians walked dangerously alongside other vehicles. Buildings appeared to be mainly shops, covered with innumerable boards and banners, some had words in English, but most were in Bengali. They were not tall buildings, but tall enough to reach the heights of those palm trees. Innumerable poles were also embedded into the ground, which strung power cables, extending from one pole to the next. The poles were not tall. She wondered of the consequence, should there be short circuit in this rather populated spot.

They turn another corner, where the driver informs them that they have reached their destination, nodding towards the window beside him. He parks the minivan beside a kerb, while Dhadhi and Mayah look awe-struck at Shapla hotel. It was the grandest building immersed in a deceiving location. In fact, on first observation, the place did not exude that there would be a modern building accosted within here. The strangest view was that open-eatery, opposite the hotel. It had a tin roof, fences for walls, and benches for tables, filled with sufficient customers. The chef wore nothing but a vest and one of those skirts that the rickshaw drivers wore. He cooked something on a stove lit by a live fire. The cooking steam and smoke eluding from the eatery accumulated the surrounding air. The smell of curry was rather inviting.

The driver carried two of their suitcases, while she carried the others. They proceeded inside the hotel, where a door attendant in navy uniform let them in. The interior did justice to the impressive exterior. It was clean, spacious, and, most importantly, cool. She added a five English pound to the driver's fare, for which he praised her greatly. She and Dhadhi walk up to the reception desk, where a man in a professional black suit greets them. She was pleased to learn he spoke English fluently. It will give her much convenience later. Their details checked on the computer, the lovely receptionist calls the luggage boy, who came with a trolley. 'Afternoon, Memsahib,' the boy greets. He looked to be in his early teens, and she was rather startled to find the hotel would employ such young staff.

The easy part of their journey ends. The difficulty now begins.

Chapter 10

The decision was a difficult one to make, but now it was too late to regret.

'Why feel bad?' her brother consoles. 'It is for your daughter's good. How long were you planning to keep her unmarried? How long did you expect to lie about her age? You have been saying she is eighteen the last four years! It is your daughter's good fortune that a handsome, well-bred man has agreed to marry her despite her drawbacks. He is a sensible man. He will keep her happy.'

'Only until he has hopes to go to London,' his sister, Shumi, argues. 'Do you not understand the danger I have placed my daughter in by agreeing to the demands of the groom's family? And what of the dowry payment? What if Shah should discover that, the lands he assigned to my name, are no longer mine. I should not have given them to the groom's family.'

'It is the custom,' her brother explains. 'We have to gift them something. They did not want furniture, as used to be the case in our time. They asked for that bit of land. How could we refuse it? Besides, you did not give it away to a stranger. It's going towards your daughter's future in-laws.'

'If our decision is so correct, then why do we not share it Shah? Why must we deceive my son's trust? We should confide in him.'

Her brother exhales in frustration.

'How have you deceived him?' he demands. 'It is the custom of this country. Exchanges in marriage are merely tradition. After marriage, the wife shares her belongings with her husband, and the husband's with hers. I have no objection with taking Shah into confidence. But he has been brought up in the absence of traditions and customs. He will not understand. It is because of the way he thinks we have had to let many other proposals slip through our fingers. He doesn't understand the concerns of a parent. He will not understand the pain a parent is afflicted with when their daughter of marriageable age is at home unmarried.'

Shumi listened attentively, but remained inconsolable.

'They only agreed to this marriage in the hope that his future brother-in-law will take him to England and settle him there,' she says yet again. 'If Shah does agree with this, then what guarantee is there that he will accept the other promise we made to the groom's parents. He remains unaware to all these proceedings. He will be here soon enough, and the secrets will fall to his knowledge.'

'We will tell him everything, gently, sister,' her brother pacifies her. 'Let this marriage happen. Everything else will fall in place. The matter regarding the other promise, you know as well as me, that it is only sensible. Shah is twenty-seven now. We need to start thinking about his marriage too, and you know as well I, we cannot do that until Sabina is married. But you don't worry about anything. I am here, aren't I? You just worry about the wedding preparations. Shah will -'

He did not have the opportunity to finish his sentence, as an unmistakable sound of a car draws their attention. With hurried steps, they follow the sound, eventually delivering them to the veranda. The person had his back to them as he settles the taxi fare. By his foot, there was the familiar holdall, and several white carrier bags. Shumi's eyes brighten. There was no need to ponder over the identity of the person.

Shah turns around at his stunned observers. It has been seven months since he last saw his family. For a moment, he was unable to speak or progress towards them. He deliberately concealed the exact time of his arrival. He wanted to surprise them, and surprised they certainly were. He was unjust to keep his mother's eyes yearning to see him. Seven months was a long wait, but the last few days strangely became a longer wait in comparison.

Motherly affections overwhelmed her, and for a while, she just stood there, relishing the sight of her son, whom circumstance had forced to part from her. Much has evolved in his absence. Yet they cannot share any of it with him. 'Amma?' he calls, searching his mother's face, upon which there was a notable stress. 'What's the matter?' he asks in deep concern.

She said nothing, and embraced him instead, letting her head fall upon his chest, where she silently wept. Indeed, she wept so quietly that he remained unnoticed to her tears, and only came to realise when she seemed reluctant to pull away. Astonished but unconcerned, he looks at his Uncle, and with a nod of his head asks what matter puts his mother in this distress.

'Your mother always cries,' his Mamu reminds him with an easy laugh. 'Like I always say, your mother's tear ducts are at least the size of lychees. That is why the whole village calls her lychee! But don't stop her today,' he adds, understanding well a mother's natural anguish of being distant from her only son for so long. 'Let her cry freely, and relieve her eyes of the last seven months of despair. Besides, she needs to make ample space in those lychees,' he humours. 'In a month's time she will lose her daughter too. Your mother will become completely alone.'

'There is still plenty of time for that,' Shah consoles, though his voice carried inadequate encouragement. 'Plus, I've offered many times for her to come to England with me.'

'Na re baba,' Shumi says at once, as a familiar fear overcomes her, pulling away from her son. 'I'm good here. And how am I alone?' she demands.

Shah repressed a desperate desire to laugh at the success of an old tactic. As predicted, his mother transforms into a sudden rebel at the mention of her relocating to England, erasing all traces of a weeping face.

'Your Mamu has no other work to do, and is always here under some pretext or another.'

Shah exchanges an amused glance with his unfairly accused Uncle, while his mother continues to elaborate. 'And how far is Sabina going away from me? What distance is there between Boroy Kandhi and Boldhi?'

Bearing in mind that this was not the first time they had this conversation, Shah had the answer ready for execution. However, the sudden attendance of someone else had halted his reply. There, stood by one of the doors at the veranda, with a sulk on her face, was his only sibling and sister, Sabina. Her untied hair made her face look smaller, the unruliness of which almost protested that she was still a child. Perhaps, that was the interpretation of a brother's eyes, for his little sister seldom seemed to age before them.

Helpless, her sulky gaze lifts towards her brother. A brief glance later, she lowers them again.

She was angry, and he was aware of the reasons too. Thus, holding both his earlobes, he seeks his sister's apology. Her lips unwind into a smile, but she quickly checks it, removing it instantly, hoping desperately that her brother did not notice. She was too furious with him to allow such a simple placation to succeed. She had good reason to be furious. There was the strong possibility that her brother would not attend her wedding. His excuses were not impressive either nor did they invoke her sympathy. Being one of the chief architects of a renowned firm, she appreciated that her brother cannot be easily disposed to attend family matters in another country. She was proud of his achievements, but she was his only sibling. How could he even consider being absent from her wedding? Admittedly, the news of her marriage was sudden, but he had four months' notice to resolve any pending projects. She only heard of his coming home two weeks ago, and even that he did not disclose fully.

The height of his crime was such that a mere verbal apology will be inadequate to receive his sister's forgiveness. He came well prepared with another method. In the palm of his hand lay a small red box. She refuses to take it, but after a gentle insistence succumbs to her curiosity. Inside the red box was a gold ring. She smiled most pleasingly at it, her forgiveness evident through embracing him tightly.

She was a pampered child. She did not lack understanding, though possessed a temper that easily deceived one to believe she did. She was indifferent to defeat, but where subjects of affection exist, she made a natural allowance to practice her obstinacy, especially before her brother. Thus, she vowed against marriage unless her brother was present in her wedding. The last few months has therefore seen him tie the necessary ends at work. His stay was short, but it felt good to be home.

On his last visit, his dear mother spread the news joyously amongst the neighbours. When he arrived home, he greeted half the Sylhet district in his house. They came to greet and meet him. He appreciated their kindness, but having endured a sixteen-hour flight, he was in no mood to converse.

'Granted,' his Mamu exclaims, helping him to another tandoori chicken, 'you did not wish to tell us in advance about the time of your arrival,' he adds, glancing meaningfully at his sister, who gave a brief look of reproof, before serving more pilau rice onto her son's plate, 'but why didn't you let us know once you landed? I could've picked you up from the airport.'

'Oh, Mamu,' he replies, 'I came home after seven months. You didn't expect me to come empty handed, did you? So, I took a short trip to Zinda Bazaar and bought mishti. I thought the sweetmeats will go down well with the neighbours.'

He ate the dishes heartily, which his mother cooked in respect to his homecoming. As always, she remarked about his weight, claiming that he looked thinner. She even accused her little sister that she did not feed him properly. Feeding him was merely an excuse to disburden her heart of the grief of being distant from her son. She found a gentle relief now. Yet his dear mother continued to serve him, as if he came out of a hunger strike. He ate contentedly against his stomach's complains, allowing his mother the freedom to release her affections which his distance forced her to restrain.

'That's thought of you,' his Uncle agrees, but what of the Spicey takeaway' his Uncle enquires next. 'There was no necessity for that. Your mother cooked so much already.'

He looks at his sister endearingly, contentedly eating the noodle dishes he got for her from the popular eatery.

'Mamu,' Sabina volunteers an answer, having swallowed the morsel, which prevented her mouth from answering quicker. 'Amma's cooking is good, but Spicey's food is something else. You won't know until you've tried it. Do you want to try some?' she kindly offers her Mamu again, and again he looked disapprovingly at her plate.

'Don't eat so much of this junk,' Shumi scolds her daughter, taking a seat next to her, 'or else you'll blow up before the wedding!'

'There is still time for that,' Sabina answers haughtily, shaking her head and taking another mouthful.

'See how shameful this girl is!' exclaims her mother in shock, while she chews away indifferently. 'Talking about her marriage before the elders! I told you, brother,' she looks at him fiercely, 'to delay this one's marriage for at least another year. At least that way some sense could have got into her empty head! This girl has no manners or etiquette in talking to others. Heaven knows how her in-laws will cope! We should have Shah married first, and allow this girl to grow up instead.'

'Very good idea,' he agrees, hastily finishing his food. He very much liked the proposition of not giving his little sister away to another family. 'You start looking for a wife for me,' he says getting up, 'and I'll inform the in-laws that the wedding is cancelled.'

'We can't keep her unmarried forever,' he hears his mother say, her voice sounding distant. He saw a sudden solemnness set about her face as she disappeared into lost thoughts.

'We have to give her away whatever the condition,' she says absently.

To preserve their modesty, it was the custom for girls to relieve themselves from the room, when a discussion of her marriage takes place in her presence. Sabina so left the dining room, less from modesty, but more from the grief of hearing her separation from her family. In a few weeks' time, she will belong to another.

The concern on his mother face did not seem trivial. There was some other matter, and he greatly suspected its connection to be with the condition, to which his mother was referring.

'The condition of separation,' his Mamu explains easily, laughing at his sudden concern. 'It will be no doubt difficult to adjust with Sabina's absence. Your Amma is obviously worried about that.'

He looks meaningfully at his sister. She belated realises the danger of unconsciously speaking her mind. She looks at her brother appealingly. He sympathised with her worries, but was equally helpless before their circumstance.

'Perhaps your mother is right about your marriage,' his Mamu interjects cheerfully. 'I think we should have a two-in-one marriage. We lose a daughter and gain a daughter-in-law. That way we will not feel Sabina's absence amongst us. What say, Shah?'

He smiled hopelessly at his Mamu's sense of humour. Thankfully, his mother also smiled, but the strain of sorrow was still evident in her eyes. It was understandable. His sister is but a mere guest in this house. She will be gone to another family very soon. She will no longer only be his sister. She will become someone's wife and daughter-in-law. She will have to adjust to another family's way of living.

The severity of his pains was only relieved through knowing that his sister will have a good husband. Suitors for his sister were not scarce. He found the idea absurd, but many came to view her. She was adequately educated, and had all the talent to run a household smoothly. However, amongst these features, she had one drawback. Like him, his sister also had a dark complexion. Upon a girl, a dark complexion was a curse. If it were not the suitor, who had an objection with her appearance, then it would be his mother. If it were not the mother, then it would be the sister. Amongst these suitors, some accepted his sister as a prospective wife, but when he heard their demand for a dowry, he objected immediately. His mother and uncle would have inclined to such shameless propositions had it not been for his severe objections. For them, marriage was only a fulfilment of social custom, and it was not the custom to have a twenty-two year old unmarried daughter.

Then, on one evening four months ago, he received a call from his mother. She claimed that the Almighty had heard her prayers. She has received a most agreeable match for Sabina. Many enquiries later, his mother reassured him that Shabul has accepted Sabina with her complexion and without an unjust dowry demand. Why should they want anything? Shabul belonged to a reputable family. His father has been a councillor of Khadim Nagar Union for the last four years. His late grandfather also had a prime position within government, holding a post as a senior ranking officer for the Sylhet District Administration, before his death seven years ago. Further research revealed that they are highly charitable people too. His sister will be in good care, and to prove his belief, the groom's family did not even want the gift of furniture.

Chapter 11

There was scarcely any furniture in this house when she married into it twenty-eight years ago. The bari was struggling to accommodate its five members, and was nothing but broken walls, unstable roof, exposed to the dangers of monsoon water. When she looks at the roof today, she recalls those days when the tin roof would slide away with the heavy rainfall. In one particular monsoon season, her mother-in-law, having feared greatly for Shah's health, advised her to make a temporary stay in her maternal home until her husband has not replaced the roof. She ended up staying the whole season while her husband struggled to equate enough money to construct a durable roof. It was upon Shah's earning that she could afford the many improvements to the house. It has taken a period of ten years to get the house in this presentable state. Despite the distance, Shah has always obliged dutifully as a son. He always sent money home, right from getting his first job as a part-time worker at a supermarket. To provide for his family, he has mercilessly sacrificed his adolescence and childhood. At one point, he took up a night shift position so to prevent work conflicting with his study. He was four years old when he separated from her, while Sabina was scarcely three months of age. The children had lost their father about that age too.

The pain of separation is still very raw, and would renew every time her son would bid his leave for London after his visit home. She has pacified her heart several times, but it was unheeding. It was not only she, who has missed the opportunity to see her son grow up from a child to a man, but circumstances has also deprived Shah to be around the warmth of his family. Regardless of having his own relations, he has lived like an orphan. Yet, it was a better life than he could have ever obtained here.

She was not of low birth. She was from a family who could make ends meet without much difficulty. She was the youngest of four siblings and the only daughter. Her parents and two eldest brothers have since passed away. Her younger brother alone bears witness today to her hardships as a single parent.

It was not the custom, but her marriage was a love marriage. She was only seventeen when she married Moyej. They grew up together in the same neighbourhood, but where she was from a financially stable family, he belonged to an impoverished household. As children, they were inseparable, a notion that was unlikely to change in the coming of adulthood. Feeling threatened on learning her parents' wish to get her married, he confessed his love, and expressed his wish to marry her. In witness of his poverty, her parents declined his proposal, but he seemed too determined against defeat. His parents, and even the Mullah, could not do much either to convert his madness, the worst of which surfaced when he slit his wrist. The news spread throughout the whole neighbourhood, eventually reducing her parents to concede. At least they were in the reassurance that their daughter will not stray far from their sight.

There is an old proverb, that one who marries for love alone will have bad days but good nights. Love does not feed the stomach. Thankfully, marriage had imparted within her husband a sense of responsibility. He got a job at a local cotton factory in Upashahar, where his father was also a worker. It was a decent earning, but when she had Shah, suddenly that income looked inadequate to provide for his whole family. He also had the shared responsibility of getting his younger sister married. He and his father started working overtime to provide for the family sufficiently. It was nearing eight in the evening one day, when neither her father-in-law nor husband had returned from work. That night, her two-month-old Sabina was also reluctant to sleep. Growing worried, her two eldest brothers had volunteered to visit the factory to check whether work had detained them. The factory at Upashahar was across the river, and it was by the river that her brother learnt the cause of her husband and father-in-law's delay home. The boatmen said a fire had broken out at a factory. Not many had survived.

Her husband and father-in-law were two of the seventy-six victims that could not escape the blaze. At aged twenty-two, she became a widow, and the mother of two fatherless children. She sank in the lowest despair, fearing for her children's future. Her life looked bleak. With no male earners, her parents and brothers' generosity had kept her household running. But it conflicted greatly with her two sister-in-laws. The amount their husbands should be saving for their own children's future, they were spending it instead on their sister and her in-laws. Consequently, a huge argument broke out, where her sister-in-laws threatened to leave and stay at their maternal home until their husbands decide where their priorities lay.

'Amma?' Shah calls. His mother startles at his voice.

He has been sitting beside his mother on the bed for some time now, massaging her legs. He enquires after her lost thoughts.

'I wish your father was here to see Sabina get married,' she says in a whisper.'

Some sorrows cannot heal regardless of time's generous prescription. He does not remember much about his father. All he can recall is his mother's plain white sari and red swollen eyes as she mourned her husband's sudden death. He took these images with him to England. With age, he became more understanding to the reasons he divided from his family. It was the very argument, which threatened to scatter the members of his mother's maternal home that reduced her to better her children's life another way.

To keep her home secure, she cannot break her brothers' family. She had no complaints towards her two sister-in-laws' behaviour. Every mother wants the best for her child, and certainly did not want to jeopardise her child's future by having another claim right on her child's entitlement. She resisted against their financial assistance, and made peace with whatever allowance the government provided her and her mother-in-law. The widow's entitlement was not generous. With two growing children, she often found money leaving her untouched. How she wished to be born a man. Women of respectable families do not work outside. Among the inferiority of her sex, she was also a widow. It was impossible for her to seek employment. Her hardship did not escape her uncle's view. Her state of poverty was unlikely to improve without a huge sacrifice.

It was on the suggestion of her maternal uncle that she sent Shah to London. Her uncle's son immigrated to London some years ago. He worked at a restaurant. He was married, and had two children. If they legally adopt Shah as their child, then the government can grant Shah Entry to the UK. She thought a great deal about the proposition. Shah was her only son. The thought of living separately from him invoked great fear within her, but her uncle advised her to think beyond an affectionate mother. The prospect of prosperity in the country is bitterly low. Education is poor and good education was only for the very fortunate. She wanted a good future for her children. She wanted her son to benefit from a good education that her widow's allowance cannot provide. If it were in her power, then she would have sent Sabina along with Shah. But society believed it was insensible to exhaust funds into a girl's education, when her ultimate achievement is merely to marry. Shah was her only hope to improve his family's situation. The practice of sending sons to foreign cities in the hope of earning an income for their family was common in the country. Her cousin brother was one such earner. She had consoled her heart. Six months later, the Dhaka High Commission granted Shah Entry to the UK. The reason that she was financially incompetent to provide for two children made the process easier. Her cousin brother and his wife became Shah's legal guardian, and she became that unfortunate mother who must part from her son.

He was not the only son of Bangladesh who bore a separation from his family to earn a living. Indeed, such became his case that in the eyes of the law that he could not refer to his birth mother as his mother. There are many children in the country, who suffer the same fate as his. Poverty and lack of education is such that betterment is impossible. Society teaches boys the value of money and girls the importance of marriage. Suddenly, he became his mother only hope. She depended on him. His responsibility towards his family had trampled the carelessness of childhood. His mother sent him to England for a purpose. He needed to make his separation from his country worth her tears. He studied to deserve her praise. He worked harder to better her circumstance. Despite being under the good care of his aunt and uncle, his heart pined for his mother and sister, whose face he could scarcely remember. He sacrificed his youth to working. He took up night shifts so to study during the day. Achieving top grades and securing a position within a firm that could nourish his ambition as an architect, was merely a reflection of his desire to make his mother proud. She is proud, but at the cost of losing her child and depriving a sister of her brother. It was the common story of the country. Parents are no less willing to barter their daughters in the hope that she may settle into a western country. The parents of a British-Bengali man bring the proposal of marriage to a girl scarcely of age or understanding. The girl's parents accept the proposal instantly. They do not root around to check the groom's character or his credibility as a husband. The fortune of sending their daughter to London or America blinds them so shamelessly that they do not want to investigate the groom's family. There have been many instances, when such girls have called their parents to voice their unhappiness. Some come to discover that their British husband have bad habits of drugs or have a criminal record, while others learn that their husbands have girlfriends. Some even have been subject to domestic violence and abuse. Few such cases have ended in divorce, but the likelihood of her marrying again is rare.

She need not stray far to see the blinding attraction of a British-Bengali. Her son has also been a target of many families, who have a daughter of marriageable age. Countless times, she has given the excuse of getting her daughter married first before Shah can settle down. But see the irony of Fate, that her daughter's marriage has attracted an advantageous proposal for Shah. The paternal aunt of Sabina's husband has sought Shah's hand in marriage for her eldest daughter. She could not refuse. She did not want to endanger her own daughter's happiness. She accepted without seeking her son's consent. He is unaware of these proceedings, and of Shabul Hussain's hope to work in London.

He has been away from his country for over twenty years, but every time he comes to visit, he hears the same news or witnesses the same story. The country has remained unchanged. Had he not been a resident in London, then he would have easily believed the customs to be the norm. But he has seen the two worlds very closely. The lack of opportunity here makes the allure of residing in the west too appealing for both girls and boys. Parents consider daughters as burdens, terminating their education as soon as she shows the features of becoming a woman. She must be married at her parents' earliest convenience, whereas sons are believed to be the valuable source of income. Education alone can eradicate such deplorable thoughts. People here are in desperate to improve their minds. The country needs both men and women to run the economy. The government is not doing enough to establish the virtues of education, or closing the gender gap. There are jobs, but they do not go to the skilled worker. If there are educated employees, then there are not enough jobs. Education is devalued. Until there is not one brave enough to challenge such degrading thoughts, a mother will keep consoling her heart on losing her son, a daughter will have to take the risk of accepting a non-resident Bangladeshi suitor her parents chose, and a son will forever sacrifice his childhood to earn an income and provide for his family. He was not bereft of hope. Amongst them, there is one, who had the courage to leave the improved and seek betterment here.

Chapter 12

The elaborate decor and snobbery of certain guests at the hotel bothered Dhadhi so much that it was her wish to have dinner elsewhere. These guests appeared to be native to Bangladesh. Their English seemed to carry a faint American accent, yet they spoke to the waiters as if they were insignificant beings. These expatriates refused to speak Bengali, and when one of the waiters did not understand their English, they called the manager to complain about the quality of their staff. There was an unnecessary commotion, and frankly, destroyed the mood of all those present in the restaurant. Dhadhi was so angry that she could not bear the sight of those American-return-Bangladeshis. She wanted to be amongst her own people, and eat pure deshi food, on normal plates, without innumerable cutlery. Thus, Dhadhi suggested they visit the eatery opposite the hotel.

She should have suspected such a suggestion to come very soon. She should have understood the glint in Dhadhi's eyes, when they first saw the eatery. Dhadhi was merely on the lookout for a reason. Yet, she could not blame Dhadhi. The smell of food from the eatery was very alluring to resist it.

The people here commonly refer to the eatery as "Arif bhai's dhaba". It had no other title or banner. The hour was closely reaching eight in the evening, but the dhaba was just as busy as they had seen it earlier in the day. It felt nice to absorb the livelihood of the place, having spent the last four hours unpacking, resting and taking a shower. Besides, this will probably be their only night of peace. Tomorrow, they make their first trip to Jameel Dhadha, but this evening she has promised Dhadhi to spend it stress free.

It was a comfortable setting. The weather had also cooled remarkably. It was no doubt a popular stop. She wondered of the hotelier's reaction to this competition. She was not accustomed to the etiquettes of this environment. Observation could not teach her much either. The seating was either benches or stools. The table was no wider than two planks of wood. There was no dress code, no uniformed waiters, and neither were there any menu cards. There were no walls on one side of the building, but on one side, there were shutters. She and Dhadhi were the only adult females here. There were young children, but in the company of their fathers, or perhaps some male relative. There were no women apart from them.

When they arrived, a mature looking man wearing one of those peculiar loincloths, which Dhadhi corrected to be a lungi, escorted them to their seat. Her inability to understand the dialect had Dhadhi talking to the man instead. He seemed pleased to learn that they were British and that they left the hotel restaurant to dine in Arif Bhai's eatery. Unaware to the etiquettes of these places, she requests to have a look at the menu card. 'Menu card?' the waiter repeats in broken English. 'No menoo card,' he said with the corresponding gestures. 'I menoo card,' he gestures to himself, to which Dhadhi nod her head authoritatively. Thus, he verbally listed all the dishes available for order. There was chicken biryani, lamb biryani, the usual curries, rice, roti, naan bread, and a selection of sweetmeats for dessert. Being all too aware of her taste, Dhadhi places the order on her behalf, speaking rather fluently in Sylheti.

As they wait for the order, her mind suddenly reverts to her parents. She had messaged her mother earlier of their safe arrival. There was no knowing how long this digital communication will be ongoing. Indeed, the net of mystery has captured them all, unknown to how each truth will unfold. She willed to make reconciliations here, but on the foundation of lying to her father. She found few moments' solace in praying. She knew she did nothing wrong, but prayed the Almighty should give her father the same understanding.

She has been studying her granddaughter's absent state intently. She appreciated Mayah's uneasiness. The sin of lying was difficult to disregard. Thus, she takes hold of Mayah's hand, and attempts to console her. A smiling nod was all that was required from Dhadhi to rest her tumultuous feelings.

A sudden roaring of voices distract their attention. The staff and some of the customers erupt into voices of cheers, upon seeing the entrance of a particular person. This entrant was a man, who was overly dressed for such an eatery. He wore a tuxedo suit, sported with a black bow tie, and a lapel. The blazer hung over his shoulder, hooked on his finger. Above his white shirt, he wore a black waistcoat, from which dangled a silver pocket watch. To complete his outfit, he wore a black fedora, and a pair of patented black and white laced shoes. He entered grandly, and lifting his fedora as if he was Cary Grant, returned the cheering.

'Ah, salaam Shahiraj bhai!' greets one of the staff says in visible delight. 'Very late today,' he remarks in the local dialect. 'A bigger crowd than usual?'

'No crowd is small in my presence,' the Shahiraj proudly replies.

'Shall I bring the usual?'

'Have I ever ordered the unusual?' the Shahiraj replies in apparent worry. 'Though I see something rather unusual here today,' he adds, noting two women sat at the far end. She did not understand one word he spoke, but his obvious glances in their direction proved she and Dhadhi were the subjects of his conversation. She quickly looks away before appearing to be prying.

The waiter shook his head in hopelessness at his friend's usual ways of reply, scurrying off to fetch the Shahiraj bhai's order.

He took his seat, which was rather close to them, and hung his blazer behind his chair, before taking off his hat and placing it on the table. She shares an unsettled glance with Dhadhi, who shrug at a loss. He sat somewhat restlessly at his table, tapping his fingers on the wooden surface, and whistling a tune outside her familiarity. Being in the close distance to him, she found opportunity to study his appearance. He had a stubbly mouth-hugging moustache, but the rest of his face seemed clean shaved. He had a distinguishable complexion, which seemed to have been marked by a tender sun. He looked to be in his mid to late twenties, tall and leanly built so to fit his suit comfortably. Perhaps he was an actor of some production company, possibly theatre.

At length, the waiter brings their order. It was a different waiter. It was a child. The boy scarcely looked twelve. He was clad poorly in a t-shirt and a pair of shorts, his frame thin and undeveloped. She looks at the time on her watch, and starts in shock. It was bad enough that the waiter was a child, but the child working at this late hour was most inappropriate. The owners of the eatery had no right to make a child work this late. How much does the child earn?

'Do you not have school tomorrow?' asked she with raised concern. Of course, Mayah realised all too belatedly that the boy perhaps does not understand English. 'No school?' she repeats, but with the support of gestures.

The boy perhaps would have answered had not the Shahiraj rose from his suddenly. His face seemed to carry a look of anger or perhaps anguish. She felt uneasy, lowering her gaze in order to avoid eye contact with him. Dhadhi also looked startled, though she had more courage to make eye contact with him, hoping his focus may divide from her granddaughter and upon her instead. But his focus upon Mayah not only remained intact, but he decided to approach her too. She struggled to keep brave, feeling increasingly intimidated by his dark eyes. The man stood beside their table, prompting Dhadhi to ask what matter brings him here, before advising him to return to his seat. She immediately attempted to calm Dhadhi, for she certainly did not want to create a scene. Many have already turned in their direction. For a short while, the man said nothing. He had a faint smile upon his face as his studying gaze went from Dhadhi to her.

Then, to their immense confusion, he broke into a smile. The rare sight of East and West sharing one table humoured him greatly. Sensing trouble, the child waiter makes haste to leave, but the Shahiraj quickly grasps the rascal.

'I will go,' the Shahiraj says in English, which threw her and Dhadhi into fresh surprise, 'but not before I give this kind girl her answer.' His gaze lowers at the boy, and asks him some questions of his own. 'Name?' he asks the wretched child in Sylheti, which thankfully she understood.

'Live Wire,' the boy answers somewhat fearfully.

'Tell me your full name,' the Shahiraj pressed on. 'Full name!' he repeats in English.

'Just Live Wire, Shahiraj bhai,' the boy stammers his answer, looking fretful. 'My name is only Rumon.'

'Understanding, Memsahib,' he addresses her, 'no second name,' he says with gestures. 'Only first name - and that too, because I gave it.'

Orphans do not have family names, and this orphan's case was even rarer of having no name. The unclaimed boy was one of many, who strayed into the helpless path of stealing to survive. Anyone and everyone became his target. The Shahiraj also fell to his target, noticing a handsome tucked in the rim of his fedora hat. It was equally fortunate that it was none other he targeted that day. The reputation of thieves was not beyond his knowledge. Scarcely did he remove his hat and set it aside, that the boy made his move to steal the money. The little wretch made his immediate attempt to escape, but he failed to appreciate the swiftness of the Shahiraj. He threatened to send him to the police, who will make no mistake to act on the demands of their highest bidder. The threats provoked fear in the child, the evidence of which he saw in the rascal's ample tears. The time has not become such that man should remain unaffected to one's tears. His grasp loosened, yet he made no mistake to let go of the wretched. Compassion impelled him to reconsider his harsh threats. "Your kinds are strange indeed," he said. "You don't fear the crime, but fearing the deserved punishment makes you cry." The boy said he has not eaten for two whole days.

He underwent a change of heart. He sat the boy down, handing him his handkerchief to wipe those tears. He asked his name. He had none. The boy said his mother died before he can remember, and never knew his father at all. The streets of Sylhet have been his mother and father since.

He was neither shocked nor startled. The story was similar to many here. Fate gives some too much and others not enough. Why can it not give all equally? The good only show up against the bad. Rectifying the wrongdoer is greater than reprimanding his actions. The police will hold the boy in custody for one night, give him a good beating, and then release him. Hunger will return the boy to stealing. Sometimes he will get away with it, and other times he may not, but not all those that catch him will be Shahiraj of Rajshahi. Thus, taking the money from the rim of his hat, he placed it into the boy's small hands. He gave the boy two choices. First was his authorisation to feed the stomach, and the second was to return it to the rightful owner's hands. Before the boy could make his decision, he reminded him that it is easy enough to feed the stomach, but hunger will always remain. How many times will he steal to kill the undying?

He took the boy under his care, giving him his name as the nickname of Live Wire. He has been working in this eatery for over a year.

There was a sudden quietness throughout the whole eatery, though not completely silence. The attention of the majority was unmistakably upon her and Dhadhi. Yet, she did not care for their glaring. Her attention was upon the boy, whom she studied in a changed perception. She felt incredibly ashamed of herself. Her thoughtless mention of his schooling clearly provoked the situation.

'Sorry,' she apologises to the boy, who shook his head awkwardly in acceptance.

'Sorry!' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi repeats, but with a reproachful laugh. 'Your kind of people make mistakes in the belief that a one word apology will deserve you the forgiveness.'

His bitter words hit her hard.

'Leave it Shahiraj bhai,' one of the eatery staff suggests, glancing uneasily from his friend to the girl. 'Your food is getting cold,' he attempts to pull the Shahiraj away.

A few others helpfully come to his aid, trying in failed efforts to calm the Shahiraj.

'It was not a deliberate mistake,' Dhadhi explained, speaking in Sylheti to make the Shahiraj aware of her granddaughter's non-English roots. 'Besides, my granddaughter apologised.'

'Well then,' the Shahiraj said in calmer tones, 'perhaps I should take this opportunity to school your naïve granddaughter so to prevent her committing the same mistake in the future.'

He added such emphasis to "school" that Mayah's efforts to maintain her calm was defeated. Indeed, so enraged she was by his sarcasm that her mind overflowed with numerous retorts, causing her mouth indecision to choose on the execution of the first one. Her incompetence instructed a silence, which the Shahiraj of Rajshahi seized to speak again. 'Good schools are not free here, Memsahib,' he said with vigorous gestures. 'The government does not fund parents to send their children to school!'

Then, to both Mayah and Dhadhi's surprise, he laughed hysterically, leaving them unknown to the cause of his humour. 'Government!' he said in between his laughs, placing a hand on his waiter friend's shoulder, as if the laugh required him further support.

'What government! There is no government for the working person. If one has money, then they have government. Welcome to Bangladesh, Empress Victoria! Land of no education, only vegetation! Farmers and fishmongers! We are all vegetables of the same field.'

He abruptly pauses, as if struck by a sudden thought. The harshness of his expression gradually softened, erasing all traces of humour and sarcasm. 'This is the country,' he says at length, sounding desolate, 'belonging to disloyal nationals, who on the hope of betterment elsewhere neglect the improvement of their own here.'

She noted the unmistakable anguish escaping with each word. 'Perhaps this orphan could go to school if education here held the slightest value. Degree certificate is merely a piece of paper. You need employers to give the educated a job - but these employers reside elsewhere. They make home elsewhere, and the homes here have not been reconstructed since.'

Nargis took a brief inspection of the stillness, finding a few amused glances fixed in their direction. The Shahiraj's gaze was of anger, perhaps regret too. His venomous words struck her, as if he became aware of her past and deliberately strived to pick at the subject so to belittle her. The words "disloyal" and "broken home" wounded her severely. She wanted to express her objections and justify her reasons, debase his beliefs, which he generalised to be true for all those, who seek betterment elsewhere. But her lips remained sealed. She felt powerless. Her defence held little strength. Unknowingly, she became one of those many culprits, whom the likes of Shahiraj of Rajshahi believe are disloyal. She did not seek prosperity or financial gain in her decision to divide from her country. The compulsion of the heart does not consider the integrity of their choices. She had no regrets, but neither can she disregard the compromises she made when she married her Englishman. She was not disloyal to her country or relations, but she cannot overlook the sacrifices she made either.

'Some,' she speaks into the silence, her gaze lost somewhere in the distance, 'are compelled to seek a home elsewhere. We do not all leave by choice. But it is a shame, that when we do return,' she looks steadfastly at him, 'we are never made to feel at home.'

She spoke gently, her words covered with sorrow. He would have understood it had other sentiment not taken dominance. He did not intend to speak harshly to those unrelated to his personal concerns. He said too much, perhaps unfairly, to those who have no right to bear the harshness of his thoughts. He belatedly realises the overstepping of his boundaries. The girl unknowingly raised a topic about which he was particularly sensitive. Her suggestion of schooling incensed him so profoundly that his repressed sentiments found reason to surface. He became ignorant to where or whom they were being disposed. He knew it was not the girl's intention to renew his anguish, yet the innocent mention of schools questioned his ability to provide the boy an education. 'Alom,' he calls his waiter friend without taking his gaze off the girl, 'make mine takeaway.'

Within a few minutes, his order was ready for takeaway. The Shahiraj detached his gaze from hers. His grasp around the boy, who arguably is responsible for this commotion, loosened. The boy did not walk away. The Shahiraj of Rajshai recomposes himself, turning away abruptly from them, collecting his suit jacket from the back of his chair, hanging it once again over his shoulder. Carrying his prepared takeaway, he turns around for the exit, simultaneously replacing his hat on his head. There was a faint smirk on his face as he stopped to give her and Dhadhi another glance, his eyes instilled with a strange humour.

Where her puzzlement grew regarding his fluctuating moods, his demeanour smoothly returned to carefreeness, walking pass their table idly, whistling the same tune with which he entered the dhaba. His whistling became fainter, as he walked further away from them, his pace steady but unhurried. The light exuding from the eatery, assisted briefly to define his lean silhouette, before gently diffusing with the dominating night.

'Please don't take offence,' the waiter friend, Alom, says in placating tones, speaking in Sylheti. 'My friend speaks harshly, but is a generous person from the heart. It's not always visible.'

She and Dhadhi kept their attention unmoved from that darkened direction, in which the Shahiraj of Rajshahi disappeared.

'Your food has probably become cold,' Alom says in concern. 'Let me reheat it,' but before he could, Mayah quickly places a firm hand on his arm to decline the kind gesture.

'Make that takeaway,' she says, her gaze still peering at the dark.

Chapter 13

The concealment of his arrival had many in eagerness to greet him. He has been receiving welcome visits from friends and neighbours since his return from the local mosque, where he did his morning prayers. These visits have been keeping his mother busy in the kitchen, fulfilling her role as an attentive host. She has also been distributing the sweetmeats he bought yesterday. Some, she gave through the immediate hands of visitors, whilst others through Shunara, the maid at their household. She was only sixteen, and endearingly called him Suto Baba, meaning little Master.

It has just passed three in the afternoon, and certain guests of importance have come to offer their greetings too. His connection with them was such that his mother added extra devotion towards their hospitality. These guests are his sister's in-laws.

'Oh, you have unnecessarily brought out so much,' Sabina's mother-in-law, Rabia, says jovially, glancing at the numerous plates of sweetmeats and savouries. 'There was no need for any of this,' she says politely. 'We just came to see Char. We have inconvenienced your mother greatly,' she says apologetically to him, who sat opposite her.

'It is of no inconvenience,' he replies. 'That's the least we can do. You are family after all.'

'Yes,' she agrees with a meaningful smile. 'We are.'

Rabia was not the only member from Sabina's in-laws, who has come to visit. Her husband, Nazrul, has also accompanied her. They have three sons. Her eldest son, Shabul, was engaged to Sabina. By custom, upon his engagement, the groom cannot enter his in-laws' house before the wedding.

As her brother converses with Sabina's father-in-law about politics, she helplessly sank into deep thoughts. She has concealed much about her daughter's marriage from Char's knowledge. She has lied and compromised in her desperate effort to ascertain this marriage. It was necessary, but her guilt was unrelenting.

Both her children have their father's complexion. It was a shade outside the general preference of society, who referred to it as "dirty complexion". On men, the complexion was acceptable, but upon the unfortunate female, the complexion could significantly reduce her chances of marriage. Suitors from good and educated backgrounds came to study her daughter's eligibility. Some demonstrated a genuine interest in her, but the single evident flaw discouraged them severely, and they sought some form of compensation should they accept her daughter for marriage. Rejections and objections amassed to a prolonged despair upon her family. Some of these rejections came from those suitors, whose complexion did not differ much from her daughter. She was uncertain whether to feel dejected or pleased that she gained a deep insight into the shallow thoughts of these suitors, thus saving her daughter from ruin.

She was constantly in distress. The numerous placations she prescribed her heart came to no effect. Her daughter's future became uncertain. Relatives and acquaintances did not hesitate to make bitter remarks either about her daughter's eligibility. Their taunts, which were cleverly implied through words of consolation, caused her great uneasiness. Yet, she maintained her silence to each comment, carefully acknowledging the value of relations. Her position became such that her ears neglected to hear anything when her mind was tending to disconcerting thoughts. It was improper to keep an unmarried girl at home, particularly when she was at a marriageable age. By Char's strict instruction, she did not consider Sabina's marriage at sixteen. Her son was adamant that she should defer Sabina's marriage until she was at least eighteen. She abided by his will. On Sabina turning eighteen, she announced her desire to get her daughter married. On few occasions, the suitor and his family accepted her daughter as a potential bride, but when talks furthered to wedding costs and finance, the subject of dowry quickly surfaced. They demanded a sum in exchange for making her daughter their daughter-in-law. Their argument was that, because they are accepting their daughter with her faults, they are entitled to compensation. Once, she even compelled herself to agree, but on learning the news from his aunt, Char made immediate travel home to rescue his sister from a querulous future. There will be no affections in the formation of such alliances.

It was to be from Boldhi, where Nazrul and Rabia Hussain live, that a proposal came for Sabina. They sought her daughter's hand for their eldest son, Shabul. He was a handsome man of twenty-four years, fair complexioned, with positive manners to indicate he was decently educated. He belonged to a respectable lineage of family. Shabul's paternal grandfather fought in the 1971 Liberation war, before becoming a board member of the Sylhet District Administration. His father was an officer in the same administration, before his hard work and dedication had him elected as one of the chief councillors of Khadim Nagar Union, one of the councils representing his neighbourhood, Boldhi. Both Khadim Nagar and Baraikandi are unions belonging to the Sylhet Sub District, Sylhet Sadar. They are good people. It is their job to better their town and thus improve the common person's quality of life. They do much for charity, and had a respectable social standing.

She has not been the recipient of good news for a long while that she found it quite hard to absorb the sudden success of a suitor agreeing her daughter as his bride. She had good reason to be doubtful.

The concerns on Shumi's face did not escape her understanding. Proposals for her son, Shabul, were not scarce, but in an environment where people treat marriage like the stock trade, she was determined to get the best price. She did not want a common native girl for her son.

The daughter of one of her neighbours' had the unexpected good fortunes to marry a man from London. The alliance had given the girl's parents a constant reason to boast. Their London bred son-in-law always brought expensive gifts on his visits to his in-laws. Her neighbour left no opportunity unused to display their foreign gifts. This girl, who was scarcely educated, makes deliberate conversation in English to belittle others whenever she makes her visit. She even had a driving license in London and drove her own car.

To nourish her jealousy further, the wretched girl and her imported husband arranged visas for her parents' to visit London last year. For three whole months, her parents were away from Bangladesh, enjoying the English air at the expense of their generous son-in-law. On their return, the wretched girl's mother flaunted her designer saris in a deliberate effort to make the whole neighbourhood jealous. The mother has found some excuse or other to enter her house to talk about her stay in London. She talks wildly of Tower Bridge, and suggests that she ought to see it in reality and not just in films. She talks of Buckingham Palace as if the Queen had personally invited her. When the old wretch talks, she adorns a pleasant smile, but suffers many wounds internally. As if the injuries were not enough, the old wretch inflicted another, when she said her exported daughter was considering moving her parents and two brothers permanently to England.

She was certain, that had she any daughters, then the offer of that imported suitor would have come to her, and it would have been she, who wore the designer saris and expensive jewelleries. But, as she had no daughters, and it was often the girls that are married to overseas suitors, she decided to make use of her son's eligibility. Her husband pointed out many proposals for Shabul, but to none she replied. None had any close connection to America or London.

A courtesy visit to a relatives' house in Baraikandi revealed that a certain someone was looking for a suitor for their daughter. Fate never fails to impress! Thus, learning the family's financial standing and most importantly their connection to London, she formed an advantageous plan. She was fully aware of Sabina's dirty complexion, knowing the fault to be the chief cause to her remaining unmarried. But Men are often compelled to make compromises in an effort to gain a greater benefit. She overlooked the girl's dirty complexion, and focused predominantly on the fact that the girl's brother lived in London. He was an architect.

It was apparent that the girl's mother was in a vulnerable position, desperately seeking to settle her daughter into a good family. Such positions gave an eager opportunist to take advantage. She made her proposal appear genuine. The truth of one's complexion is not beyond the fact that we are all creations of the Almighty. The Creator is just, and if he deprives a certain quality in one, then he justly compensates by giving it in another.

The joyous news spread wildly throughout the neighbourhood, and the two families exchanged gifts to seal their approval.

She allowed some weeks to pass by in this contentedness, to allow the inhabitants of Boldhi and Baraikandi to become aware of the marriage. It was an important tactic to affect her schemes. Then, one day, she and her husband arrived unexpectedly to Shumi's house. They apologised sincerely for their sudden arrival, but the matter was such that any further delay was becoming unbearable. Since they are now family, she and her husband wanted to place a small request. She began by highlighting the unpredictability of present times. It is futile to depend on another and one should make their own path in life. She belonged to a big family of fourteen members. In good times, they laugh and enjoy the merriment together, but in bad times, tongues easily turn bitter and sprout shameful comments. When in the encouragement of anger, our mouths reveal certain truths that our sensibility keeps repressed. One such bitter truth that she and her husband had the misfortunes to bear was her son's idleness. Although her son was of a good character, he holds no earning employment. There was never any need to do so. That is the chief drawback of being born into a financially gifted family. Children never learn to appreciate the need for independence. Knowingly or unknowingly, she had a share in her son's idleness. Until now, these small family disputes did not concern her much, but with an addition of another to the family, she did not want her daughter-in-law to suffer any embarrassment. Soon, her son and daughter-in-law will have a family of their own. She must consider their welfare too.

Job opportunity in this country is very scarce, and the little that was available, produced insufficient income. Perhaps by force, she can persuade Shabul to consider a position alongside his father, but application by force always nurtures a rebel. The scattered pieces will divide the family apart. Thus, bearing this likely eventuality, she comes here with great hope to relieve her tension.

Rabia's hope was to get Shabul a visa to London through Char's help. Shabul has expressed a desire to work in London. Unable to reach a decision, she sought her brother's advice.

Man's words should not be trusted when spoken, for the volatility of mouth gives it no seal. The in-laws' demand had placed him in an unfair predicament. The business of marriage was an affair that gave all a reason to speculate. The exchange provoked envy amongst the less fortunate, giving them opportunity to rejoice should there be the breaking of another's marital alliance. Nurul, Shumi's youngest and only surviving brother, considered this harsh truth, when he made the final decision. He considered Char and Sabina less his nephew and niece, and treated them no differently than his own children. He held their best interest at heart, sometimes placing their wishes before the need of his own children. With Char's departure to London, he took full support of his sister and niece, despite his sister's constant rebuttals. He held a fatherly protection over both, and thus was unwilling to compromise with their welfare. If it were up to his sister, then she would have agreed to the first suitor that came for Sabina. The perception of society would have had her sacrifice her integrity at the expense of her daughter's disadvantaged complexion. He was an intuitive man, often able to hear that from others, which they have not brought to their lips yet. The agenda behind Shabul's marriage to Sabina did not escape him either.

The foolish Man quests for perfection, and the wisest of them strives to improve. Sabina's in-laws and Shabul are not perfect. They had flaws, so did Sabina. He cannot remain ignorant of Sabina's age, and neither could he challenge the ancient custom of culture. He and Shumi will have to make a compromise. They cannot keep refusing suitors. This time, matters progressed too far. Half of Sylhet have come to learn of this alliance. Retraction will only expose them to humiliation. Besides, what harm is there if Sabina's husband earns a living in London under Char's supervision?

It is in their good fortune that Sabina's in-laws have disclosed these matters before the wedding. What selfish advantage can they achieve from this disclosure? Their son is handsome enough to choose any girl to marry, but Sabina's fortune is not such that any man will choose her.

Scarcely, did he console his heart that he and his sister welcomed one more decision to make. It regarded Char's marriage to a cousin sister of Shabul. For the sake of Sabina's happiness, they gave their consent.

Once Sabina is married, they will take Char into confidence. For now, they kept these proceedings unknown from most people, particularly from Char. He was overly sensitive when it came to matters involving his sister. They feared the worst to happen should he gain a whiff of the truth. Char would not consider society or customs to break his sister's alliance with a man, who had a selfish agenda in marrying her. He does not understand the compulsion of the parent of a daughter. She and her brother had decided to let the wedding take place first, and allow Sabina to settle into her new family. After that, they will be in a better position to address these matters civilly with Char.

Chapter 14

She has realised today that the rising Sun may not be evident, but Dawn's rising could seldom go unseen. When the hour for Fajr commenced, she was already awake. She could not sleep hence after either. Last night's drama at the eatery kept her awake all night.

She has had a happy upbringing. She was not ignorant to the hardship of others. She was merely inexperienced of it. Yet, the Shahiraj's words stung her deeply. How she wished life had a Ctrl+Z button. No one would ever have to bear a bad experience.

The taxi arrived promptly at the booked time. Today they visit Jameel Dhadha. He lives in Sreemangal, which is in the district of Moulvibazar. It was a two-hour journey. The alternative method of travel via train would have taken half the time. However, as they are not acquainted with the city, Dhahi thought taxi would be better.

It has been twenty minutes into this journey. Each minute took them further away from the hotel. The hustle and bustle of the sandy streets stalled their journey frequently. Pedestrians, being consisted chiefly of marketers and idle children, came fearlessly before their taxi. The driver hooted to warn and clear them, but they seemed to be walking in a trance. She cannot say for Dhadhi, but her ears are ringing with the sound of beeps and horns, which the driver used in abundance. She looked at Dhadhi beside her to check on her reaction, but she looked lost in thought, almost unaware of the driver's recklessness. There were drops of sweat gliding down Dhadhi's face and neck. She looked uneasy. Worried, she desperately enquires after her health. All of a sudden, Dhadhi looked pale and her breaths became heavy. She moves closer to Dhadhi, taking her into her arms, fanning her hand frantically before her to cool her, and orders the driver to stop. But he did not seem to have heard her. Her cries eventually had him look in the mirror. Noticing the elderly woman struggling to keep herself upright, he applies the breaks, the whole while keeping his attention upon them, causing the vehicle behind them to hit the bumper of their taxi.

Ignorant of the taxi, she took Dhadhi out of the taxi. Dhadhi struggled to stand, and she equally struggled to provide sufficient support in company of her anxiety. Thankfully, the taxi stopped at what seemed to be a main road, where the commotion attracted a crowd by their taxi. Help was not scarce. People enquired after her Dhadhi's health. Seeing her struggles, a man wearing a prayer hat, offered his assistance by holding Dhadhi by her arm. He advised to have her sat down somewhere, having just about understood him as he gestured towards a certain direction. She took up his offer immediately, pulling away from the scene of crowd and commotion.

From where he sat, Char could only see the back of those gathered spectators in the near distance. Agitated, he looked at the time on his watch yet again, and then with more impatience, looked outside the window beside him, wondering the cause of this traffic jam. He could hear the overwhelming noise of hooting, beeping, and yelling in this intensifying heat. The driver of his taxi also beeped the horn again, which had no effect on the vehicles and rickshaws before them. He has an appointment with the tailor in fifteen minutes. He bought the suit in London, but in view of taking five weeks annual leave, his heavy workload did not give him the freedom to make the necessary alterations to his clothes. There is a great deal of work pending at home regarding the wedding preparations. He has yet to send out the remaining invitations, finalising guests' accommodation, and gifts still need sorting out too. This cursed delay was not alleviating his stress. 'Brother,' he calls the driver in Sylheti, 'why don't you go and check what's happened there?'

'The last time,' the driver replies, looking blandly at him in the interior mirror, 'I left my taxi with the passenger still inside, the passenger fled without paying the fare and vandalised my meter too. I will not be making the same mistake again!'

Char could not resist smiling, shaking his head hopelessly at the driver's reply. At this rate, the progress of the country seemed highly unlikely. Irritation having reached its height, Char offered to investigate the matter himself, but the driver raised an objection to this initiative too, saying, 'The last time a passenger did this, he never returned, and never paid the fare either.'

Smiling, he draws out his wallet and settles the fare. The driver counted the notes as he leaves the taxi. 'Your change,' the driver yells through the half-open window, as he briskly walks pass.

He turns around, noticing the driver standing by the taxi, holding the change in his hands. He adorns a faint smirk as he retraces his steps towards the taxi, looking from the driver's hand to his naive face. The cause to the man's former misfortunes no longer remained a mystery. The features of honesty coincided too closely with the traits of a fool. 'Consider it an advance payment,' he informs the honest driver, whose face contorts into confusion. 'Stay ready, and look after my suit,' he nods towards his wrapped sherwani, sitting comfortably on the seat.

He walks away from the taxi, heading towards the group of spectators. The heat was unbearable and the air was humid, and both amidst this noise pollution. The sweat glued his vest to his chest, and he began to flap his shirt in an effort to cool himself. He asks a passer-by the cause of this crowd, and learns a small accident has happened between two cars. Worried, he made the immediate enquiry if anyone got hurt. Thankfully, no one did, but someone surely will if none resolved the matter between the two respective quarrelling drivers. The passer-by shook his head at the hopeless situation before walking away. Char was appreciated one more truth. No problem is unique, yet their solution is never apparent.

The kind man, who helped them, had brought them to his grocery outlet, situated in the bazaar not too far from the main road. Dhadhi had an asthma attack. Thankfully, the inhalers have regulated her breaths, but she feared a repeat attack, and advised Dhadhi to go back to their hotel, and possibly see a doctor. But Dhadhi obstinately refused. Dhadhi drank the water the man offered heartily, while she fanned her with a hand fan, known as "pankha". The paleness gently subsides from Dhadhi's face, her health returning to normal.

'If you take my advice,' their kind saviour suggests, adjusting his dialect to match Dhadhi's, 'then you should go home.' She nodded at his suggestion. 'He is right, Dhadhi. We should go back to the hotel,' she repeats, reverting to Bengali.

'No,' Dhadhi refuses in a weak voice, resolved on completing this journey. 'It's now or never. Besides, I'm fine now. I think it was the sudden change of air,' she says to the concerned man. 'The whole night we stayed in an air conditioned room. I haven't quite readjusted with the truth of the country's weather. As long as we keep all the windows of the taxi-' and at the mention of taxi, Dhadhi stops abruptly.

In all this commotion, they have completely forgotten about their booked taxi. 'Mayah,' Dhadhi says in panic, 'our taxi. Go and check on it!'

Mayah considered against following these orders, still adamant to go back to the hotel. However, she realised that whether they progress in this journey or reverse it, they will still require a taxi. She cannot overlook the valuable convenience of their transport. Thus, she heads immediately for the main road.

The driver of her taxi was quarrelling with the driver of the car behind, which crashed into the taxi before it. The crash had damaged the headlights of the car and the bumper was noticeably dent. Char had filtered through to the front of the crowd and watched the inconvenient, but entertaining scene. The car owner demanded the taxi driver to pay for the cost of the damage. The taxi driver refused to pay, claiming that he applied the emergency break due to his passenger taken ill. Few men from the crowd offer their assistance to resolve this matter, while others exclaim their curses. The drivers of the other vehicles caught up in the traffic jam continue to beep their car horns in irritation, yelling to clear the way.

He looked at his watch again, his stress levels struggling to keep him patient. There is only one solution to resolve their quarrel, hence he tears away from the crowd and joins those men who are in the direct scene. However, he struggled to get a word in over the taxi driver's yelling. 'Why should I pay?' he argued. 'The passenger will!'

'The passenger?' mocks the car owner. 'What passenger? Where is this passenger?'

The driver looked equally bewildered on the whereabouts of his passenger, fearing that they may have fled and abandoned him to incur the cost of the damage alone. His panic visible, he looks about the crowd with desperate hope of finding them.

'Stop making excuses,' the car owner says seeing the taxi driver looking ignorantly away.

'There!' he yells suddenly, seeing the familiar face in the near distance. 'There she is!'

The taxi driver was pointing at her. The crowd turns in her direction. She suddenly comes to realise the extent of the damage, taking in the views of broken headlights and dented metalwork, and of course, the trail of traffic jam behind it.

Like most of these spectators, he also turned his gaze upon the accused, not expecting to find a woman. She stood there, dressed in a blue tunic and a pair of black denims, and an appearance too distinct to consider her a local. He sensed a certain familiarity as he saw her face, but had difficulty locating the reason behind it.

At length, his confusion vanishes. The reason turned him pale. The likelihood of such coincidences was difficult to believe.

For a tempting moment, she considered withdrawing from the commotion, but her booked taxi was too precious an availability to abandon it. Thus, with a lowered gaze, hesitant steps and deep breaths, she nears closer to the scene, silently rehearsing her method of approach. She felt her cheeks burn as the spectators' eyeful daggers dug deep into her flesh. Finally, she reaches her accuser, cautiously lifting her shameful gaze to offer an explanation, when she met a familiar face.

It is harder to forget the strikes of an adversary than recall the favours of a friend.

'Taxi?' she says, for that is the name she has given our Char.

'Heavy-load?' he returns the favour of naming.

Her grey eyes flash in anger at the referral. She need not worry anymore or believe her to be the cause of this commotion, as wherever this man was, her taxi problems were bound to follow.

'Memsahib,' the taxi driver pleadingly addresses her, unintelligible to the two persons' shared words, 'tell this man,' he gestures to the car owner, 'that none of this is my fault. Tell him that your-'

'I don't care whose fault it is!' exclaimed the man. 'I just want my damages paid for.'

His dialect being a strong Sylheti, she did not entirely understand the man. Thus, she requests for a translation from her taxi driver, and in doing so, catches the dark disapproving glare of "Taxi". He seemed to be observing her carefully. She felt self-conscious, and though attempted to ignore him, she found her gaze irritatingly elevating towards his direction. Succeeding against her attempts, they fix themselves with his, not knowing to what purpose or indeed from what encouragement.

'Memsahib,' the driver redirects her attention, to which she startles, 'because of you, all this happened. You should settle the damages too. You know all too well that I am but a poor driver,' he explains, trying a different tact to escape this situation. 'Please, Memsahib, have mercy on me and my family.'

She has never been one to refuse a request. Her age has perhaps defined her in the visible features of a woman, but her awareness to the average person's sly schemes has not matured yet. She was not naïve, but had a tendency to surrender easily to compassion. The taxi driver's impoverished state was too open a truth to misjudge his quality of living. Besides, she is responsible for all this, in spite of the consolation that "Taxi" was the ultimate cause of it. She quickly withdraws her purse from her bag, and enquires after the cost of damage. The taxi driver was relieved upon seeing the girl's helpful gesture, yelling at the crowd to return to their respective employment, for there is no distribution of sweets here that they should amass.

A short while later, the crowd disperses. The drivers reclaim their vehicles, although cannot move until the two cars in front clear the way. Taxi also walks away, but he scarcely took two steps, when he stops again, hearing "Heavy-load" about her lack of funds to settle the damage.

Even after her taxi driver's successful attempt of lowering the original demand of payment, she was still short of money. The car owner seemed reluctant to negotiate any further. He demanded his payment now. She looks at her taxi driver, in hope that he may settle the remaining amount, but before she could say anything, she notices Taxi in their attendance again.

'How much?' he asks the car owner.

She helplessly felt a secret delight at the offer of his help. 'Happy?' Taxi asks the man, handing him the money. The man grumps and walks off towards his injured car without the slightest expression of gratitude.

Her taxi driver, having muttered curses at the grump, too makes a start to manoeuvre his car out of the way, leaving her and Taxi amidst the moving transport. She looks at him cautiously, as he studied her in visible humour.

'Thank you,' she says, but with a small sulk. It irritated her greatly to be indebted to his help.

He makes no acknowledgement, turning away slowly.

'If,' she hastily adds, before he could walk away, 'you give me your contact details, I can repay you.'

She believed it to be a kind gesture, but he seemed severely offended by it. For a long while, he regarded her in reproach.

'Okay,' he nods in serious agreement. 'But first tell me, what is the going rate for helping someone in need?'

The unanticipated question had silenced her. 'I didn't mean it in that way,' she explains, keeping her dignity.

'If you have that much pride in your wealth,' he advises, 'then you should travel with sufficient funds. I advised you to travel light, not empty.'

She stares at him in bewilderment, feeling her mouth completely disable to give her reply. She grew annoyed at her own incompetence. 'Your kinds are unaware to humility. Instead of expressing appreciation alone, your pride and false sense of superiority seeks to place a price on it.'

He spoke so bitterly and had such strong pre-determined belief of her character that she became uncertain on how to disclaim the accusations. None has ever spoken to her in this disregard. Her silence was sure to have Taxi believe he was correct.

The muted interval prolonged, with nothing more than angry glares between them. The loud hooting startles them both. It was his taxi driver, waiting to collect him. He returns his attention upon her. There was an expression of disapprove in his face. Saying nothing further, he idly walks towards his waiting transport, seating himself comfortably inside. As his taxi pulls away, she notices a smile on his face.

That was the second time, his taxi left before hers.

Chapter 15

She shared everything, save for that episode which passed between her and that arrogant man, whom she deservedly called Taxi. After that horrendous traffic jam experience and that incident with Taxi, their journey remarkably followed a smooth path. Thankfully, there has been no repeat incident either regarding Dhadhi's health.

It is almost two hours later that they arrive at the intended address of Sreemangal, although possibly not at the exact address. There were no visible names to roads and streets, and the driver had to make several stops to get directions, leading them here. The entrance to the house did not enable vehicle access, thus he parked his taxi quite a distance on the road. As they get out, she and Dhadhi generously inhale the pure air, in which the aroma of tea was apparent. The place is famous for its tea gardens. It even had its own Tea Museum, owned by the Bangladesh Tea Board.

The greenery of Sreemangal was most pleasing. It greatly deserves the name as the land of two leaves and a bud. The serenity seemed to have somehow eradicated her day's stress. There were hills everywhere, carpeted with lush emerald leaves, whilst trees were in abundance, sprouting from mother earth in all their fine form, all uniting in forming a scene of beauty. Far up on the hills, she could see tea pickers doing their job, with their baskets hanging behind their back and wearing strange triangular hats. It felt good to be away from the main town Sylhet. The driver, Ali bhai, talked proudly about the popularity of Sreemangal amongst tourists. He said, far up on the hills, there were the famous Manipuri and Khasias tribal villages. The sub district also has a river running alongside it, which Ali bhai advised that, should they have time, then they must take a trip in a "nauka", being a boat, at sunset. The river perfectly catches the reflection of a descending sun. He spoke so descriptively of the surrounding scenery that she forgot the purpose of this visit.

In between his many descriptions, he was also very interested to know whom they came to meet at this address, for tourists usually go to one the Tea Estate or resorts. His tireless mouth benefited them greatly. It was a long journey, and he provided a most educational company.

Houses were scattered sparsely amidst the greenery. It was not like a typical village. Some houses were like huts, which Ali bhai said were eco-cottages, whilst sturdier materials seemed to have built others. Yet, each one had their doors and windows open, as if the resident did not fear thieves. Most of the inhabitants work in the surrounding tea farms. Many people give them curious glances as they pass them. Children came close to them, smiling at them as if they were strange looking. She clutches her bag tighter, instinctively suspecting their intention. But they merely laughed and walked away.

When the driver comes back, he leads them into the address. The cemented path led to a pink bungalow, L-shaped, complete with a veranda and a thatched roof, immersed within overlooking tree. Green grass was on either side of the pathway. She felt a beat of apprehension. She has heard so much of Jameel Dhadha, but never met him. In her head, she had formed a very clear description of his face. She wondered if he would match up to her expectations. He has a family of his own too. Dadhi has never met his wife or children. How will they receive them?

As they climb the steps onto the veranda, she notices a loud yell coming from the corner, followed by a group of children, wildly running out, smiling and laughing. She and Dhadhi start in shock, feeling like intruders. As the yeller comes into their view, they realise it is a woman, her head loosely under the drape of her sari. 'Bugger off!' she yells at them in Sylheti. 'If I catch you in my garden again, I'll hand you to the police.'

Still giggling, the children scatter, running in various directions, while the woman watches in anger.

'What happened, Amma?' a man asks, coming out of a room.

'The same old,' the woman replies. 'The children are stealing fruits from the garden. I'm fed up with these buggers!'

She and Dhadhi watch the entertainment with a grin, which she quickly erases on seeing the woman turn around in their direction. Confused at their entrance, she and her son approach them cautiously, enquiring after their business.

'Who are you talking to, my Rasagullah?' another man says, coming from the corner of the veranda, and wiping his hand on on the towel hanging on the veranda.

He was elderly looking, wearing a traditional top and trousers, had a short greying beard, and around his neck hung his spectacles. At length, he looks up at them. Who are they?' he asks his wife, peering at the three individuals at his doorstep.

The elderly man replaces his spectacles back on his face, and proceeds in their direction. The faint curling of Dhadhi's lips indicated a positive sign, walking closer towards the familiar face. They stood an arm's length apart. It was difficult to understand Dhadhi's reaction, for she had her back to her, but Mayah could easily deduce the reaction of the person stood opposite her. His confused expression unfolds gradually. His dark eyes widen with disbelief, while his face turns pale.

When he mentions Dhadhi's name, Mayah breathes a sigh of relief. Jameel Dhadha looks exactly as she imagined him to be.

An aggressive pain stabs her, when she realises that she is here, but without her Englishman. She, Jameel, and the Englishman have always been in company together. This reunion felt incomplete without her Englishman.

The woman, who told the children to bugger off, was Jameel Dhadha's wife, Nehar. They were married since before they met Dhadhi. Nehar Dhadhi was a plump woman, and had scarcely any grey hair. She appeared the cuddly grandmother. They have two children, the eldest being a son, Shuhel, and the youngest being Shakila. Both are married. Since her marriage, Shakila has moved to another district of Moulvibazar.

Shuhel is married to Afsana. They were in their early fifties. By relation, she is to call them aunt and uncle, or Chacha and Chachi. Between them, they have three children. The eldest is a son, Iqbal, who is twenty-five years old. The younger two are his sisters, Rasheeda, and Yumna, aged twenty-three and twenty-two respectively. All three siblings are married. The two sisters have since moved to their in-laws residence, which were in some other parts of district. Each of them had a child. The two girls were about her age, and they were married and had children. For this day and age, she found this news rather overwhelming.

It is also very bizarre, that yesterday she scarcely had any relations, and today she has so many as to find it difficult remembering names. They have gathered about the dining table, where Nehar Dhadhi, Afsana Chachi, and Salma Bhabi, were serving everyone dinner.

'That's enough, my Rasagullah,' Jameel advises his dear wife, seeing her scoop more rice onto Mayah's plate, despite the girl's kind objections. 'How much are you going to feed the poor girl?' he asks in Bengali, which she understood. 'Look at her size!'

'You be quiet,' his wife returns with apparent anger. 'The girl is slim,' she says with a caring smile, 'that is why she needs to eat more. Besides, the poor thing had a trying journey.'

Normally, once her appetite was satisfied, she could not accept another morsel under any pretext. However, being in the merry company, her appetite became limitless. She has not had the privilege to be a member of an extended family, yet the experience was easy enough to adopt. She felt a tugging on her shirt, and when she looks around, she found it was Taheera. She was Iqbal and Salma's a one year daughter and only child.

Being an only child, she has never had the blessing to carry a baby in her arm. She found it quite daunting to be around the fragile creatures such as Taheera, and was not quite sure whether to let the child continue tugging her top or if the girl wanted her to carry her. Thankfully, she did not have to decide, as Salma bhabhi, who by relation is her sister-in-law, carries Taheera away, gently scolding the girl for disturbing her.

Nehar Dhadhi moves away, scooping another serving onto Shuhel Chacha's plate. His face turns into an expression, which she not long ago had. Watching the scene, Jameel Dhadha, draws his head closer her, and says in a whisper, 'I think she has plans to turn everyone into her size!'

They all started giggling, which attracted Nehar Dhadhi's disapprove. 'What is so funny?' Nehar Dhadhi asks in a severe tone.

'Nothing, my Rasagullah,' Jameel Dhadha quickly answers, exchanging meaningful glances with his confidante.

'Why do you call Nehar Dhadhi, Rasagullah?' she enquires interestedly. She heard the term several times this evening, but was unsure to its meaning. 'What is a Rasagullah?'

'Rasagullah,' Shuhel explains, his English as good as his father's, 'is a famous dessert of Bangladesh.'

. He looks meaningfully at his father, who in turn glances at his wife before daring on the due explanation. 'They are desserts, round and plump, just like your Nehar Dhadhi.'

Jameel Dhadha is exactly how Dhadhi described him to be. A man of good humour, as was apparent by the teasing he gave his wife, generous and most importantly welcoming. The quest for better employment had brought him to Sreemangal. Following a successful application for a tour guide, he and his family relocated to this part of Sylhet. He has been an inhabitant here for the last forty-six years. The tourism trade is more transparent here. Tea resort owners and tourists always required the use of one who could speak good English. His son and grandson have also joined the same trade, although, age has prompted his son to go part-time.

Mixing the curry and rice, she takes a mouthful from her spoon, feeling slightly awkward, for everyone else ate expertly with their hands, including Dhadhi.

He cannot describe his shock on seeing Nargis, but on receiving the girl in her company to be her grandchild, he was overjoyed. She had her grandfather's grey eyes, Nargis' hair. Her features were soft and gently developed. When quiet, the girl looked like the Nargis he first met when she returned Francis his camera, but when she spoke, there was the remarkable evidence that her grandfather was a political editor. She was the curious type, proved by her continuous enquiries of his family, about their current residence, and the surrounding tourist attractions. His wise eyes have witnessed and studied much to bring him to this age, and by that measure, he suspected her curiosity to lead to something rather interesting to unfold.

They will not be staying at the hotel anymore. Jameel Dhadha was insistent that they take up accommodation at his house instead. They will be sleeping in what used to be Rasheeda and Yumna's room. It has been unused since Yumna's wedding. Salma Bhabi has cleaned the room and unstrung the mosquito nets of the double bed. She was very tired, and the bed looked very inviting. She also gave her some clean clothes to wear. It was a traditional salwar kameez suit, which she was not accustomed to wearing, yet felt comfortable in it.

She and Dhadhi have inconvenienced them all very much, yet they did not once display their annoyance.

He places a brotherly hand on Nargis's shoulder. Her face has always been a clear reflection of her unspoken thoughts, and he has known her long enough to interpret them accurately. He wanted to reassure that she was not alone in feeling her Englishman's absence. He did not weep any less when he heard the unfortunate news. He held great desires to see his friend one more time, but consoled his heart with the ageless proverb that what is ordained to happen must come to pass. Besides, perhaps not Francis, but amongst them they have his legacy, and a true reflection of his existence the Englishman has left behind. Mayah did not only have her Granddad's eyes, but inherited his daringness too.

He has learnt everything, and was very impressed with the way Mayah designed their secret travel to Bangladesh. He was aware of Samsul's resentments, and to some extent, it was justified. No child would want to endanger his mother by placing her in the presence of adversaries. Of course, he worried of the consequence when Samsul will make the discovery. Strangely, Nargis was unaffected by the possibility of that occurrence, and it looked as if she wanted Samsul to make the discovery soon.

As Dhadhi and Jameel Dhadha descend into a silence, she waves her hand furiously in the air to keep the mosquitoes away. These bloodsuckers were in ample supply here in this part of Sylhet.

'We,' Jameel Dhadha speaks into the silence, 'will have to start from where we left off. Mukhtar's whereabouts will have to be traced from Dhaka police station.'

The search for her brother will be difficult. That day, after Nargis and Francis caught the train to Sylhet, he and Jonathan had to hand Mukhtar over to the police. He became uncontrollable. Jonathan was gone to England, but his safety was still at risk from Mukhtar. Before getting a job in Sreemangal, he moved his family to another location of Dhaka. He has not heard or seen Mukhtar hence after.

'Did the village ever get reconstructed?' Mayah asks with hope.

'Those that could afford it,' Jameel Dhadha answered. 'Mukhtar would not have been one of them, but it will be worth a try.'

'Then we must go to Dhaka,' Mayah suggests.

'No,' Shuhel Chacha objects, 'I will accompany Baba to Dhaka. With no fixed direction to follow, how many places will you and your Dhadhi visit?'

'Jameel Dhadha is no less free from my brother's anger,' Mayah fearfully points out.

Jameel Dhadha erupts into laughter, taking them by surprise. 'In my youth, when life was precious to me, I fled a riot. I escaped a blaze, kept the wellbeing of two English foreigners, encouraged a girl to refuse marriage, helped girl in her elopement with an English foreigner, saved her from her brother's capture, went against social approval by being witness to her marriage to a non-Muslim, and finally, survived the war of partition.'

The recital of his adventures impressed them all.

'If Man worships God, then he fears Death alone,' he explains. 'I took to danger willingly in my youth, when fear of death is at its greatest. Why should I fear it at this age, when I already have one foot in the grave?'

Now, that was a point indeed.

Chapter 16

The way of life here was very different than she had originally anticipated. Although she had no complaints, it will take time adjusting to their ways. Not all adjustments depended on her ability to cope, but on the mercy of others. The mosquitoes have been feasting on her blood endlessly the whole night, despite the protection of the mosquito nets. Dhadhi said one or two might have got in somehow. There were three swollen itchy spots on her arm. The fear of contracting malaria did cross her mind frequently, but Dhadhi would laugh it off, saying she was unnecessarily overreacting. In the end, Dhadhi reassured her that she is keeping close observation of her health. She will call for the physician at the slightest cause for concern. Salma also offered her words of comfort by saying she would drop the nets earlier in the evening.

Thankfully, not all adjustments depend on the vote of the third party. These ones depended solely on her ability to cope. The unavailability of a shower is one such example. There was a small bathroom, unattached to the house. She had to use a bucket and jug to take a shower! To get hot water, she had to switch on a geyser, which Dhadhi reminded her to switch it off when she is done, else it will add greatly to the electricity expense. It was a strange experience indeed. But, amongst the cautiousness of water usage, there was the surprising comfort of having a normal lavatory, not being of the squatting kind.

When she changes into fresh clothes, she rather vainly admires her dress in mirror. Salma gave her a new suit to wear. It was both comfortable and the most beautiful traditional suit she has worn. The trousers were not the usual shelwar, but were more fitting like a pair of leggings. As she leaves the bathroom, she walks into the sunny courtyard again. It was understandable why the children intruded into those grounds. There was a mini farm here.

She walks up to the washing line, where Salma was hanging clothes. Upon seeing her, Salma greets her with a warm smile, taking the wet towel off her hands and hanging it on the washing line.

'This weather is excellent for drying clothes,' she says in Bengali, for Salma understood little English. There was a gentle breeze in the air, which felt cooler when it brushed against her damp hair. 'In England, we mostly have to make do with a tumble dryer.'

The expression on Salma's face portrayed she never heard of a tumble dryer before.

'It's a machine for drying clothes,' she explains.

'You must get machines for everything in London,' Salma says with amazement, expertly hanging a sari on the line.

'We depend on it,' she reasons. 'When you're at work, it's difficult to take advantage of a good weather to dry clothes.'

On the mention of clothes, she heartily thanks Salma for giving her this suit to wear.

'It looks good on you,' Salma approves. 'It almost looks as if I had intended to make it for you.'

This surprised her greatly. 'You made this?'

'Yes,' Salma bashfully affirms. 'Whenever I have some free time, I sew.'

She peers wonderingly at her dress. She would never have suspected Salma to be the tailor.

'I have more suits,' Salma informs her. 'After breakfast, choose the ones you want. They can be my gift to you.'

'Do you sew for a hobby?'

'At first, I suppose,' Salma answers with a shrug, hanging the last item on the washing line.

Unwilling to end this conversation at the completion of the laundry, Mayah suggests they take a walk about the small farm. They stand below the shade of a tree, where Salma expands on her small hobby.

'I always liked to sew,' she admits with some hesitation. 'It all started on a particular occasion. In my maternal home, we used to have a family tailor. She would make the dresses and blouse of all the women at my household. She worked from her home. As a child, my mother would often send me to her house to collect the clothes. I was very interested in her sewing machine. I was fascinated at how she turned a shapeless yard of material into something so elaborate. One day, she sat me by her sewing machine and told me to have a go at stitching. After school, I would not go home. Instead, I would go tailor Sasi's house. Slowly, I learnt the trade. But it was only on my elder's sister's mehndi that I realised my true stitching and designing potential. In finding the tailor Sasi unwell one day, I took to the task of completing the mehndi suits for the bridal party. After that, the tailor Sasi would give me any spare material she had leftover for me to design and sew as I pleased. I wish I could have become a professional.'

'Why did you not?' she insists to understand. The clothes she was wearing was no less professionally finished. 'You should have pursued it as a career.'

'The custom of the country is such that a girl's dreams must shrink into mere imagination.'

'But the tailor was a woman,' she argues. 'If she could pursue the career, why can't you?'

'The tailor was a poor woman, and the wife of an even poorer husband. Men scarcely have opportunity to earn a decent living, what expectation is there for a woman? Besides, it is not the custom of the country to send daughters and wives to work. Daughters and wives of respectable families do not earn a living. If they do, then she risks exposing her family to taunts and scandal.'

'How so?' she seeks clarification.

'Society will assume that her family is struggling to such extent that they are reduced to use their wives and daughters to earn an income.'

'That is absurd!'

'That is Bangladesh,' she shrugs helplessly.

'Does the girl have no right to pursue a career?' she asks almost violently. 'Does she have no right to make a name for herself, and prove her talent?'

'No,' Salma confirms, her disappointment evident. 'Her every desire and hope is limited to her misfortunes of being a female. Then, her marriage extinguishes any remaining hope entirely. Her focus is upon her husband and in-laws. Cooking and cleaning takes up most of my day. I am also a mother. I have ample duties. Sewing in my free time is as far as I can come to accomplishing my dreams. Baba and Amma gave me the sewing machine as a gift. I know Baba would have wanted me to take my talent further, had social expectation not discouraged him.'

'The current prime minister is a female,' Mayah remarks. 'If, as a woman, she can govern the country, why can you not start a career as a designer?'

'The merit of political leaders is questionable in the country,' Salma says, a bitterness setting about her face. 'Besides, it is not only girls who sacrifice their ambitions. Ask a poor parent, what he wishes for his son, and he would answer, to send him to London or America, where he can earn a handsome living and feed his family here. Ask a poor parent, what he wishes for his daughter, and he would answer, to marry her to a Londoner so she may leave the struggles here. I have seen and heard many occurrences, where parents have taken drastic measures to send their child to another country. You cannot compare the likes of us to the prime minister, who is born of political lineage. Change is possible, but corruption is too raw to go unnoticed. They say the country is a republican, yet people's voices so often go unheard. The politicians share the bounty amongst themselves, and the people here either compromise with their fate or seek the drastic route of seeking betterment elsewhere. I have compromised with my fate. Jameel Dhadha has compromised with his. I count my blessing every day that I have not had the misfortune of bearing a separation from a family member.'

'But at this rate,' Mayah reasons, 'how can the country improve? The government is here to better the inhabitant's life, not surrender them to another country. Does the government not see the struggles of a poor man? Does it not fear losing its people?'

'They are not blind,' Salma states vehemently, her detest for the country's politicians at once becoming apparent. 'The more they lose, the more of the country they have to themselves. If they were properly educated, then perhaps they would have understood the measures for improvement. But each one is selected on family credit or financial merit. Money is power. The rest of us made to do with providence of our fate.'

This was a disturbing revelation. The credibility of politicians was always a debatable subject, yet it startled her greatly that the case could be so severe that the poor man should be tempted to leave the country to better his prospects. It nourishes the growth of immigration. Those who blame the immigrant must observe the reality. How little they acknowledge the truth! It is not the immigrant's choice to leave his family and friends. It is his compelling circumstances.

'Has no one been brave enough to challenge government?' she asks with curiosity. 'Have there been no protests to highlight the disgrace of corruption?'

'There has been a lot of anger,' Salma acknowledges, 'expressed through rallies, protests, and strikes. Nothing ever came out of it. It always ends up as two days of yell to no avail.'

'What do you think should be done to remove corruption?' she asks in concern.

Salma thought a long while about her reply. A small knowing smile appeared to her lips prior to her answer.

'We need someone who does not fear death.'

Her words were too cryptic, but she had no opportunity to seek an elaboration, for their attention drew towards someone, who called them from the distance. A woman, whom she never met, stood on the steps leading to the kitchen, informing them that breakfast is ready.

As they walked towards the kitchen, an inviting smell diffused the air, which won her stomach's approval. Soon, she was in a better view to give description to the woman's appearance. She was of a small frame, possibly in her late thirties and dark complexioned. She wore a poor looking sari, of which she placed the drape lightly over her head, allowing Mayah to notice the few strands of greying hair. Seeing her, the woman smiled broadly, revealing a set of orange stained teeth. The woman did not hide her excitement to see her. Salma greeted the woman pleasantly in the local dialect of Sylheti, enquiring after her health and family. 'This is Sultana,' Salma introduces the woman. 'She is our housemaid.'

Mayah was very impressed to learn Jameel Dhadha's household can afford such a living.

'She left early yesterday,' continued Salma. 'Her son was unwell.'

Not knowing whether Sultana will understand her dialect of Bengali, she immediately enquires after her son's health, and if he would be okay without his mother's supervision. Salma translated, and the woman confirmed he was better. 'Work must go on,' Sultana adds with a small smile. 'The stomach growls even when the eyes weep.'

She did not know what to make of that response. The party disperses, with her and Salma heading towards the kitchen, and Sultana towards the hand pump, where there was a stack of dirty dishes, pots and pans. The maid, Sultana, comfortably sits on a low stool within the perimeters of the hand pump, and single-handedly takes to the task of washing the dishes.

It was bewildering indeed, that a woman's desire to hold employment as a tailor will receive society's disapproval, but holding a position as a poor maid was acceptable.

Chapter 17

The less experienced in the affair of traditional weddings will now come to learn that the bride and groom are assigned the smallest, but the challenging yet, roles of merely turning up on the day of their wedding. Family members from both sides seize the associated chores, while the groom endures the wedding chaos in the single hope of gaining the delayed prize of his bride, and the bride is unable to voice her choices, unarguably agreeing to those her family makes. It was the custom of the country. It was inappropriate for a bride to show eagerness or excitement towards her marriage, and voicing her choices was a prominent sign of disobeying the customs. In this restriction and a heart heavy with thoughts of separation from her family, the bride would not pass on opinions about the arrangements of her wedding.

He also thought it wise to let his mother do as she pleased. To escape talks of weddings and exchanges of gifts, he stole away onto the grounds before his house.

He believed a late morning game of cricket was in order, despite football being his sport of preference. The broadcasters, consisting of his two cousin nieces and three nephews, aged between five and ten quickly spread the word of tournament throughout the neighbourhood. Children from local households quickly took up the invite of Shah bhai's tournament, expertly converting the front yard of his house into a cricket pitch.

He and his team of miniature punters return to their fielding position, as the next batsman comes forward. There was a mix of both sexes in each team. His ten-year-old cousin niece took up the Umpire position. She knew all the rules of cricket despite her sex, while one of the local boys employed the commentator's position.

There are merely nine runs left to decide if his team will win. If his team should lose, then his reputation will not only suffer before these youngsters, but also under the witness of that audience, who secretly watched from their homes. Many of these witnesses were his female admirers who, having conjured some excuse or other, were able to catch a glimpse of the London return hero, whose focus was so much on the game that he was unaware to the attraction he was unknowingly inciting amongst his selective viewers.

'And we seem to have ran into a problem,' the commentator informs. 'An unexpected call has deprived Team Bangladesh of its final player. Tension is mounting, with Team England suddenly gaining an upper hand. . . '

'Baba,' his Umpire niece calls him.

Brought up in a family that affectionately called him Baba, his nephew and nieces addressed him the same, although by relation, they ought to call him Shah Sasa.

He goes over to her to learn the cause of the rising tension. 'The two traitors, Soiful and his brother,' she informs, clarifying the name, 'have been called home by their mother. They were the remaining batsman, so the team has become short of a player. Shall I let the team use a dismissed player instead?'

The suggestion seemed sensible enough, and he would have agreed without hesitation had he not caught sight of a plausible substitute. This substitute has been watching the whole game from the side, cheering at the success of both teams, whenever it was due. Unlike the other children, the boy could not be a player. The neighbourhood knew him as Polo. His name is the pronounceable version of his condition. The boy had Polio, reducing him to seek the lifelong support of a crutch.

Fate had struck him unfairly. Those, who could afford it, took the vaccination against the illness. Unfortunately, Polo belonged to a poor family. His parents' illiteracy made them unaware to the fatalities of the illness. Perhaps unknowingly, but they sacrificed their son's future by not taking a simple means of prevention. The harm done, the boy's father then lamented over his foolishness, not because his son fell victim to the incurable disease, but he disabled his support of a most prized sex. Two years later, Polo had a sister. His father had reason to lament again. Thinking lowly of the inferior sex, he was negligent to take the necessary precaution to prevent repeating a similar misfortune. With the worse done to his son and his own fate, what purpose was there to his daughter's wellbeing. "Let her die," he would shamelessly declare. "It will save me from expenditure".

By good fortune, he was on one of his visits home, thus these accounts fell under his direct witness. The father's neglect had infuriated him severely. In possession of a brother's compassion, he took the initiative to have the child properly vaccinated.

It is unfortunate that not all complaints have remedies. Simple prescriptions can treat illnesses, but the expensive route of education alone can overcome one's infected thoughts. Polo's father continued to worry for his own future, wondering who will look after him throughout his old age. In his effort to secure a comfortable future, he became the father of two more daughters. He cursed his wife's inability to deliver him a son. Not a day passed without an audible argument coming from that particular household, disturbing the whole neighbourhood's peace. He took to drinking. It made him violent. The neighbours have given up hope to better him. His poor wife and children alone bear his aggression.

'Discussion,' the commentator announces, 'between the Umpire and our Captains seems to be finding no solution to the sudden unfolding of events. What will happen now? Will the Umpire adjourn the game or suspend it completely. They have two minutes to decide before the Umpire rules timed out. . . '

He looked carefully at Polo. He was not naïve to overlook the boy's yearning to play. The boy's smile and cheers of encouragement had a hidden but known sorrow.

'Baba?' his niece calls, waving her hand before him in the hope of retrieving her lost uncle. 'We'll offer Tanvir another turn,' she suggests. 'He only managed one run earlier. I'll call him,' but he stops her quickly. He picks up the bat, walks across the field to offer Polo the bat.

'Aha,' the commentator adds in delighted tones, 'there appears to be a solution. The game will continue, saved by . . . We have a new face. . .'

The boy rightly looked puzzled by Shah bhai's gesture, his eyes darting from the bat to Shah bhai. He fearfully shook his head, declining the offer, understanding too well of his inability to live up to the team's expectation. But Shah was resilient against the boy's refusal, obstinately nodding towards the bat. 'Shah bhai,' one of the boys from the batting team addresses him, 'how can we let him play! He can't run!'

He did not react to the child's insensitive remark, focusing more on encouraging the Polo to take the bat. 'Will Polo accept the challenge?' the commentator asks dramatically. 'Can he be the reason that Team Bangladesh walks away in triumph? Or will he be the reason to their defeat...'

Suddenly everyone's attention is upon him. Some looked at him encouragingly. Others looked at him as if they had lost game already. There is less than a minute before the Umpire declares timed out. He looked at Shah bhai's determined face. He could not disappoint his believer's faith.

'Polo accepts!' the commentator cheerfully announces.

A round of applause spreads around the pitch. With the support of his crutch, his heavy steps take him to the wicket line. He scanned the dusty grounds, absorbing the numerous faces glaring at him. Some peered at him uncertainly, and others in great hope that his disability will ascertain their victory. Either way, many relied on him. Furtively, he often practised batting, but the mounted pressure was almost threatening to disable his arm too. He struggled to find his balance, the offending crutch making his hold on the bat difficult. In irritation, he releases it completely, balancing his entire weight on his healthy leg alone.

'We have nothing to worry about,' he overhears an indiscreet comment passed between the two fielders behind him. 'He's lame. We might as well be declared the winners now!'

Remarks like this were common to his ears, especially when he bears the constant dose of it from his father. Yet, each time it renewed the realisation of his invalidity. He looks at Shah bhai, hoping he can communicate his desperation to retract from the game, but an encouraging nod from him was enough to recover his hopes. If there is defeat, then let it be the result of trying.

'A tense silence blankets the cricket ground,' the commentator says, being the only person talking. 'The bowler prepares to strike. It doesn't seem as if he will take compassion on the batter's visible state of health, or maybe he will,' he contradicts himself, realising the bowler slowing down earlier than necessary in his run-up. The bowler threw the ball, spinning perfectly on its axis as it cuts through the dusty humid air. Every person observes it in a trance. Polo kept his gaze fixed on it too, deliberately replaying the overheard sniggers in his thoughts so to encourage him. The ball comes closer and closer, and . . .

'And we have a hit!' the commentator blasts in disbelief.

Polo batted with such force that the ball stayed suspended in the air long enough so that the saying, "never underestimate your opponent" had perhaps no better opportunity to demonstrate its truth. The eyes of every disbelieved and aghast observer travels an elongated arc as the ball escapes the boundaries of the pitch, landing there in the far distance. The Umpire automatically assigns six points, while the fielders fall into a state of flurry to retrieve the ball. The members of the batting team cheer on, encouraging the runners to score quickly. But where his fellow runner quickly reached his end of the wicket crease, he did not manage to get far away from his. The fellow runner waited impatiently for him to reach the opposite wicket crease, but he found walking without his crutch almost impossible let alone run.

Shah watched apprehensively between the fielders and the invalid. Suddenly, forgetting whose team he was on, he leaps into the invalid's aid, carrying him in his arms and completes the runs on Polo's behalf. 'That's cheating,' one of the defence voices his objects.

'Play on,' the Umpire commands, secretly hoping the runners make the necessary runs.

'The fielders have retrieved the ball,' the commentator informs, his voice carrying every ounce of excitement. 'Four runs is all that is needed to decide on the winners . . . The final two remaining . . . Can our players make it . . .'

Breathless, the fielder watches the runners threateningly, striving to reach the wicket line with the ball firmly in his grasp. His struggles were close to fruiting . . .

'And score!' the commentator confirms as Polo touches the bat onto the crease merely seconds before the ball knocks the wicket out. The Umpire confirms the winners. The winners erupt into cheers, praising Polo the invalid, while the audience around them applause. Shah hoists Polo onto his shoulder so he stood the tallest.

This commotion had enticed Shumi to come out onto the veranda. She noticed nothing but muddy stains on her son's white shirt, which she only gave him this morning to wear. He was invited to lunch at Sabina's in-laws' house. The original invite was for the whole family, but with so much wedding arrangements to resolve, she had to decline.

'Look at this,' she remonstrates coming onto the porch, and tugging disapprovingly at his dirty shirt, while the punters wisely disperse. 'What will Sabina's in-laws think?'

'What will they think?' he says in apparent confusion. 'They will think I have taken my country's blessing before I seek theirs.'

'Well, before you do go to display this blessing, make sure you make a stop by the sweetmeat stop.'

'Why, are the gifts from London not enough that I should take them sweets as well?' he humours.

'We are from the girl's side,' his mother explains. 'The more we gift the groom and his family, the happier they will keep your sister. I've made a list of what sweets to buy.'

She makes a start to walk into the house, when another important thought stops her again. 'Oh, and make sure you change out of this blessing,' she gestures towards the sandy stains on his shirt.

It is of little worth here.

Chapter 18

Her breakfast consisted of the most unusual dishes. Some she was familiar with, having seen Dhadhi cook it at home, while others she was eager to try. Quite shamelessly, she did not keep any modesty at the table. In fact, with a satisfied appetite and a complaining stomach, she worried how she will manage to travel all the way to the hotel so she could formally checkout.

Opting for train travel was a wise decision, despite the journey not being to her particular comfort. She and Iqbal brother sat in an air-conditioned compartment of Parabat Express, the journey of which terminates at Dhaka. Not all travelled with a ticket. The few that could not afford a ticket or could not obtain one, took take their seat on the roof of the train. She only came to notice this when they got off at their stop. These daredevil commuters were mostly young men and children, perched dangerously on the roof of the train. The station officer, becoming aware of these unauthorised commuters, went around tapping the roof with a long bendy cane in the effort to scare them away. His efforts were to no avail. It only managed to deter the roof-commuters to another spot of the roof.

Where she was in such awe, Iqbal glanced at the shocking scenes rather indifferently. It was a common scene. There are no restrictions to stop passengers from getting onto the roof. They do it at their own risk. In fact, an average of five-hundred deaths occurs every year because of commuters' foolishness. 'You should see the trains during Eid,' Iqbal mentioned. 'What else could they do? With such poor service, the trains are very unlikely to have sufficient seats to accommodate everyone's travel.'

Seeing such disadvantaged infrastructure of the country, she recalled the comments that commuters in UK passed. Granted, the service was not appraisingly reliable, but at least it did not reduce any to sit on the roof.

To her surprising relief, they arrived safely at their stop, and better yet, there were no known injuries or fatalities of any whilst on board. She felt rather glad that she advised Dhadhi to stay in Sreemangal. The heat and hectic environment would have been beyond Dhadhi's endurance. As they walked along the platform, the Sylhet railway station introduced her to more startling sights. Amidst the crowds, there were children beggars, who approached passengers, holding their hands out, and asking for alms. Each traveller passed them with such ignorance that she wondered if the begging children were only visible to her eyes. Noticing her gaze fixed on them, two little girls, approach her. They looked hopefully at her, laying out their hands in a similar gesture. She could not ascertain if these children are genuinely poor or simply taking advantage of an unfamiliar face. Their appearance was such that her belief inclined to the former. They wore ragged clothes, and evidently suffered malnutrition, with dry mouths and skin texture giving an unmistakable proof to the overexposure to sun and heat, or perhaps lack of shelter. She found the sight distressing, and so reached into her satchel to withdraw enough funds that could assist them to eat at least two meals. Iqbal promptly halted the transfer, commanding the children to go away. She did not expect this behaviour from him, and having sought the enquiries to his objections, he said that begging was the trade of these children. 'They loot the money of passengers and spend the whole lot on gambling on the streets!'

The eldest girl fearfully shook her head to contradict Iqbal's claim. Mayah studied them carefully. To abate her own conscience, she gave the girls the money, prompting Iqbal to shake his head at her naivety. The eldest of the two girls said something, which Mayah presumed to be thanks. However, as they walk away, Iqbal translated their words. 'They prayed all your wishes come true. But don't expect them to come true,' he advised as an afterthought. 'If their prayers were of that strength then they would have been something else today.'

The list of inconveniences others were taking on her behalf was growing longer. She was both grateful and guilty. Hence, since she was in town, she decided to buy gifts for the whole family in a gesture of her appreciation. Iqbal objected, but becoming all too aware of her obstinacy, he agreed. Therefore, before going to the hotel to collect her luggage, they took a trip to Zindabazaar, which is Sylhest's most famous shopping district. So far, she has accumulated a sari each for the Nehar Dhahdi, Afsana Chachi and Salma Bhabahi, and toys for Taheera. For Jameel Dhadha she bought an unusual gift of an umbrella. It was upon Iqbal's advice, seeing as the monsoon was the next season on the calendar. Apparently, Jameel Dhadha has a rather notorious reputation associated with brollies. He always misplaces it. No single umbrella of his has gone from monsoon to the other.

Sauntering along the bazaar crowds, browsing randomly the many stalls, her eyes unexpectedly catch the words "Internet café" in the close distance, written in English. They have internet in Bangladesh. In fact, she was in such great disbelief that she double-checked with Iqbal that she was reading correctly.

'I suppose in the UK everyone has a computer in their house. Internet must be very staple availability in every household.'

'Can households here not get any internet connection?'

'The very wealthy can,' he informs. 'But people on my income are less able to do so.'

They walk in, instantly greeted by other users on the terminals. Mostly were males. She was the only girl. Feeling rather conscious, she looks away awkwardly, showing an apparent interest in the café's interior. There was nothing particular in the design. It was small, with a handful of terminals, which were of an outdated design. She hoped that the internet speed would outdo the impression she is tempted to gain from appearance. Iqbal directs her to a particular terminal, and takes charge of the bags from her hands.

The connection speed was tolerable. She and Dhadhi have been in Bangladesh for four days today, and in this interval, she only managed to send three text messages to her mother to confirm their wellbeing. Hence, to offer a more detailed account on their progress, she makes most of this opportunity. There was no time to draft, therefore, she wrote as she thought, keeping their general experience in positive notes.

'Done?' Iqbal enquires looking from the cubicle next to her.

Done.

As they stood on the busy bazaar streets for an available rickshaw to take them to the hotel, another familiar sight attracted her attention. It was a sweetmeat shop. Through the glass panes, she could distinguish the colourful rows of mishtis.

'Do you want to go in?' Iqbal smilingly suggests, having followed her fixed gaze. She felt deeply ashamed for adding another detour to their intended route, yet could not decline the offer, nodding an apologetic yes.

Highly humoured, Iqbal shook his head, and led the way into the sweetmeat shop. Being a tour guide by profession, he was accustomed to tourist's inconsistent changes in their journey.

Whether it was Eid or Christmas, these sweetmeats were a staple in her house. Her Granddad always bought these.

'Indeed, I did,' she hears her Granddad agree. 'When your Dhadhi was expecting your father, she had the wildest craving for something called a "jalebi". How the heavens was I to know what they were! She kept describing them as round and sticky. She refused to eat anything until I got these round and sticky things. I was not only in danger of becoming a widow, but having my expectations of becoming a father shattered. Thus, I frantically called all my contacts, and remember, in those days we did not have the convenience of the Internet. Finally, I located a store called Ambala in Brick Lane. I journeyed from the west to the East, brought her an entire box of jalebi, only to see her craving silenced by one measly piece!'

She heard the story before.

'The box of jalebis will be from me to your Dhadhi,' he happily orders, and she shook her head hopelessly at him.

Excitedly, she places her order. She had a particular weakness for these sweets, her favourite being pista barfi. She bought a box of those, a box of badam barfi and two boxes of rasagullah to tease Nehar Dhadhi, and two boxes of rasamallai. She asks Iqbal what was everyone's favourite sweet at home. He understood the intention behind the question, therefore advised her not to take this unnecessary inconvenience. But the girl was insistent, saying she will be deeply offended if he did not tell her. 'Balushahi,' he suggests. 'Everyone loves those at home'

He then withdrew his wallet to settle the bill, which she quickly stopped. Iqbal regarded her disapprovingly, but his smile quickly returned when she pleaded to let this be her treat.

She was determined to go straight to the hotel without any further detours. They have a train to catch in the afternoon. The quicker she checks out of the hotel, the quicker they can go home. The heat was growing intense too. Heavily occupied in these thoughts, she bumps into someone, instinctively apologising, before looking up to see a familiar face.

The possibility of such occurrences can only be the result of someone's deliberate doings.

'Taxi?' she exclaims at length.

'Heavy-load?' he returns in equal astonishment. Rather indiscreetly, he ran a bewildered gaze at her traditional attire, whereas hers fixes on a little girl beside him. The girl held onto his hand firmly, smiling at her as she regarded the girl confusingly. 'Baba,' another girl of about ten years old calls him. This girl stood by the counter, insisting on placing their order. The lividness vanished from her face instantly, and in its place came an unfamiliar strain of disbelief. The girl's referral of Baba could only mean that Taxi was a father. He was married, and had two children.

'Mayah?' Iqbal calls, visibly startling her. He realised rather belatedly that he walked out of the shop without her. Retracing his steps, he found her staring disbelievingly at some man. 'Are you okay?' he asks her, before cautiously looking at the man, who was well dressed and in unsuspicious company to assume him to have misbehaved with Mayah.

Shah experienced no different a reaction to Mayah's. Where she mistook one belief, Shah took to another. He presumed her to be in a relationship with the man in her company. It was not apparent if they were married, but she clearly made an effort to fit into his environment. It must be the classic tale of all modern love stories. The man's fluency in English indicates that he must have been a foreign exchange student studying in the UK. The girl most likely met him at University, where this man probably wooed her with the sole intention of gaining a permanent stay in the UK. The traditional suit she wore was perhaps a gift from her in-laws, whose approval she was most likely trying to win on her travel here. In spite of himself, he was very impressed with the girl's efforts, but also shook his head at her naivety on not knowing that she was merely a passport in this relationship.

There was that smirk on his face again. It irritated her greatly. Yet she maintained her silence. This was not the place to make a scene. Lifting her chin proudly in the air, she makes her way out, while he strides casually to the counter. A sudden helplessness seized her, stopping her by the door. Then, much to her irritation, she takes a glance at him over her shoulder.

Helplessness was on this side too. Despite his efforts, he took an apparently careless glance over his shoulder. Upon catching the sight of each other, they abruptly look away, commencing towards their respective tasks, apparently indifferent to the others presence.

Chapter 19

She has fully checked out of the hotel. The staff did not seem too impressed with her one night stay. Indeed, they enquired much to the reason she leaves the accommodation. She said the truth, which they did not appear to believe. The numerous bags in their keep meant that they had to get a taxi. They scarcely drove ten minutes, when they hit a traffic jam.

This was bound to happen. Whenever she encountered Taxi, she was embroiled in problems. Iqbal enquires to the reason of immobility, to which the driver says a crowd ahead is blocking the road. 'It looks like the show is about to start,' he adds, as a boy passes them, banging a spoon against a metal pot, yelling at every pedestrian and passenger to gather around for the show. The driver looks at them, and offers them to come along with him to see the show. He clearly appeared a fan of it. She could not resist the offer, and grew eager to see what show has such attraction as to form a huge crowd.

'You will enjoy this,' Iqbal says with a knowing smile, as they leave the taxi containing all her belongings.

Passing through each observant person of this crowd, they stand upon a spot, from where they could see the centre, which will stage the show. A man no taller than five foot, wearing a white vest and pair of khaki green trousers rolled up to his knees, was also banging the base of a metal pot with a spoon. Another man was also present, but she could not see his face. He had his back turned to that part of the crowd amongst whom she was standing. He was busy looking at a mirror, which hung on a string of the tree branch, fixing his appearance.

At length, he turns around, and as he does so, he places a hat on his head. His face finally comes into her view.

To say she was in shock will be an understatement. To say she turned pale is a better effort, but still short of the truth, and to say her mouth was wide open with such disbelief that a fly could enter, is nearer the truth yet, but still unjust to what she experienced.

'This is Shahiraj of Rajshahi,' Iqbal explains, 'a Street Entertainer.'

The Shahiraj of Rajshahi is the very man that she and Dhadhi met in the eatery, dressed in the usual tuxedo, hat, completed with a silver pocket-watch. She blinked repeatedly, suspecting the credibility of her eyes.

'Salaam to my brothers and sisters,' he yells, scanning the crowd. Instinctively, she nips behind Iqbal before the Shahiraj of Rajshahi could detect her.

'Friends and enemies,' he continues, keeping his language Sylheti, which Iqbal dutifully whispered a translation to her, 'the idle and the unemployed, gather around, gather around. Today's session has started. As usual, I see my regular loyal fans . . . and some unfamiliar faces too,' he remarks looking at a particular face in the crowd. 'What's wrong?' he asks in concern, approaching this particular person. 'Recently lost your job?'

The man reddens in embarrassment, while the crowd erupts in laughter.

'Don't worry,' the Shahiraj cajoles. 'We're all vegetables of the same field. Why else would we be here?' he asks the crowd fiercely, pulling away from the man, who was evidently relieved. 'Why else would adults like us be here, in the middle of the day? You are a sample evidence of this country's reality. But I must confess,' he says taking off his hat, and lowering his head apologetically, 'I am rather thankful at your unemployment status. Your idleness keeps my fire burning and my water running. I depend on the public to make my earning. I share my knowledge with you, and you pay me the due fee. I provide education. Talking about education,' he says, as if suddenly remembering something very important, wearing his hat again, 'there's a new scheme in town. A town somewhere in a wealthy western country has a famous shoe company, Slarck. They are running a thoughtful scheme for the benefit of third world countries. For every worn pair of shoes our western beneficiaries donate, a third world country somewhere will receive a free exercise book and a pencil for one child. Round of an applause,' he encourages everyone by initiating the gesture. The man with the metal bowl and spoon also starts to knock the two objects together to add effect to Shahiraj of Rajshahi's clapping. But realising the crowd is not following his enthusiasm, he stops clapping and looks reproachfully at the crowd. 'Aren't you impressed with the help we are getting from the developed countries? Are you not happy that your child can get a free exercise book and pencil for the one pair of worn shoes?'

He waited expectantly for an answer, but none in the crowd dared usher a word, carefully avoiding eye contact with the speaker lest he should approach them.

'Are you not grateful that the wealthy in the developed country will donate their worn shoes so Slarck can fund our children's education? Are you not happy that education is now worth only a pair of worn shoes? Are you not happy that the government does nothing to improve our future, but shamelessly depends on the worn shoes of the developed country?'

'No!' someone shouts from the crowd. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi follows the voice, and orders the man to come forward. 'You look like an intelligent man,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi says, putting a friendly arm around the man's shoulder. 'What are you doing here? Tell me, do you have any children?'

The man shook his head.

'Then why did you answer?' demands the Shahiraj of Rajshahi. 'Get back in the crowd!' and pushes the man into his rightful place. 'Now, where was I?'

'Education,' his assistant dutifully reminds, 'is worth only a pair of worn shoes.'

'No,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi contradicts fiercely. 'Education is not worth a pair of worn shoes. It is only worth what you learn from it. Reading five hundred pages of a book does not guarantee a five hundred-takka salary every month. I knew a man once, whose poor parents sacrificed everything for their son's education. He was a very talented boy. He learnt to read and write at a very young age. He could calculate large numbers in his head. The boy was in a form of a saviour for his poor parents. They did not let their poverty eclipse their son's talent. His parents made day and night one for his son's study. With some difficulty, he gained admission to a respectable school. He saw the difficulties his parents experienced and wanted to reach a position one day that could prove that their efforts and sacrifices has not gone to vain. The child sacrificed no less. Where children of his age were playing, this boy was inside, lost in books and studies. He spent his childhood and youth in this manner, topping school exams and ranks, ultimately gaining a place at one of the country's top universities to study engineering. Four years of devout study qualified him with first-class honours, and then. . . What?' he asks shrugging in loss. 'What happened?'

No one answered.

'He applied for many jobs,' continued the Shahiraj of Rajshahi. 'They asked him what experience he had. He had none. Others asked how deep he could fill their pockets. How could the poor boy fill the bribery demand?'

A noticeable mellowness suddenly set about his face, as if the story he narrated was not about a boy he merely knew.

'The boy's certificates wore away with rejection,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi said absently. 'In the end, he compromised with a job, which required no qualification at all. His parents passed away. He forever lost the blessing to make him the engineer before his parents.'

The Shahiraj of Rajshahi descended into a deep thought. His sealed mouth diffused a silence across the whole crowd.

'Education never truly did have any value,' he says, looking about the crowd carefully. 'Knowledge alone cannot progress anyone. In this country, where can the scholar apply his knowledge? They do not select the hopefuls. They choose the highest bidder. She also chose the highest bidder.'

Curious to learn who "she" was, she asks Iqbal to elaborate. He did not know. Immersed in great confusion, she looks curiously at the Street Entertainer. His assistant friend comes beside him, and places a friendly hand upon his shoulder. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi wallows in this silence for a while longer, before finally recomposing himself quickly. His solemnness vanishes at once, replaced with mischief in his dark eyes and humour in his voice.

'Education only reforms a person's character,' he announces. 'It enables one to justify their opinions and take commendable action. It does not ascertain a person's employment. It does not make the false promise that qualification will redeem the expenditure taken on the book. The improvement of the country does not depend on the quality of one's degree. The government will not take the necessary measures to improve the country,' he states. 'They are relying on the shoes of others so our children here can hold a pencil in their hands. Free primary education is an insufficient measure to produce opportunities for employment. They can treat corruption, but who will take to the costly task? The funds are available to better the country, but if they spend it for our benefit, how will they then fund their lifestyle? How will their children go to expensive English schools, while your children go to municipality school? Promises of improvement are broken on the very day they win their election. Whether it is Bangladesh or English-desh, politicians share a universal work protocol. Politics is no longer a professional embodiment, but a social club, in which we - the public - pay their membership fees!'

A brief silence elapsed, as the audience revels in the Shahiraj of Rajshahi's provoking speech. Each person was entranced, including her. Then, to her surprise, clapping hands radiates throughout the audience. The merriment was such that she also joined in. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi took off his hat, and bowed to express his appreciation.

'That's my session for today,' he acknowledges the crowd. 'Those of you, who know me well, will know that I don't go by timetables or schedules. So, for those of you who have become new members in this club today, my next session will take place sometime in the near future, and as usual, they will be somewhere along these streets. Now, I don't go around to collect my tuition fees, so if you enjoyed this session, could I kindly request you to support me through your charity. Donate as much as you like or give nothing at all. But whatever you give, don't rob your stomach of food.'

His assistant promptly takes the hat into his hands, patiently standing there to collect the crowd's generosity. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi turns away, and walks up to the tree to reclaim his mirror and jacket. Iqbal also gathers some funds from his wallet, making his way towards the collection point. She quietly follows him and withdraws some money from her purse too. With no takka in her purse, she tips a total of three pounds into the hat. She made the transfer quickly. She feared the Shahiraj of Rajshahi will place familiarity with her face, and have him recall the comments she made regarding those subjects, of which he clearly felt sensitive.

Where she turned away, the Shahiraj of Rajshahi came up to his assistant friend, holding a little stringed bag, conveniently named "Acc", into which this session's earnings will be deposited. He held the bag for his friend to make the transfer from the hat, but the familiar expression denoting his defeat with numbers, had him exchange the bag with the hat. He so began to unload the collection into the bag, counting each takka aloud as he does so. Quite unexpectedly, he stops counting.

He peers hard at the hexagonal coin in his hand, uncertain to the foreign currency's worth. 'Fifty pence,' he reads the inscription on the coin's edge. He turns it over in his finger, making the coin gleam under the strengthening rays, to find "Elizabeth II" clearly inscribed on the silver surface. Bewildered, his head shoots up at the disintegrating crowd, but none wore any attire or had any apparent feature as to assume them a foreigner.

'The Street Entertainer,' she says as she and Iqbal climb into the taxi, 'certainly has a strong objection to education.'

'The man is fighting a war with himself every day,' Iqbal says with a sigh. 'He lacks faith in the prospect of education, but he himself is not illiterate. Word on the street is that the Shahiraj of Rajshahi holds first class honours in Engineering from BUET – Bangladeshi University of Engineering and Technology.'

This news startled her greatly.

'He certainly cannot have any objection to education,' Iqbal shrugs, 'despite what you heard. After all, there is education in his name and place of birth.'

She did not understand.

'Rajshahi is a division of Bangladesh, like Sylhet,' Iqbal explains. 'The city is referred to as Education City.'

Her confusion complicates.

He would not have hesitated to share the story, which marked Shahiraj's transition, but the girl's innocence demanded him to withhold the information.

Her first trip to Bangladesh has exposed her to many reflections of life. Indeed, she was becoming ever more confused to understand the truth of the country.

Chapter 20

The peak time of the evening meant that the train station was busier than she had previously anticipated. The train to Sreemangal arrives in twenty minutes. She was eager to get home. She has had an exhausting day, filled with startling experiences and coincidental encounters. The heat did nothing to make her travel easier.

They walked along the platform briskly, filtering through growing number of passengers. Breathless, sweaty and fatigued, she struggled to keep up with Iqbal. Having reached that place on the platform, where there carriage will stop, Iqbal advises her to sit down on a bench. Seeing her dehydrated, he decides to stock up on water. While she sat and waited for Iqbal to return, her ears suddenly greet a rush of raised voices and yelling. Startled, her tired eyes follow the noise, finding a cluster of people gathered about something further along the platform. Her complaining fatigue advised against doing so, but her curiosity was such that it compelled her to investigate the cause of the attraction.

As she drew nearer, she realised the voices were not only raised, but also audibly violent, enough to convert her eagerness into distress. The density of the crowd was such that, despite her efforts, she could not excuse her way through to the front. She lifts her head as high as possible to see above the obstructing heads of others. She saw some men looking reproachfully at something. She could not establish the object of their reproach, for the crowd disabled her gaze to stretch that far. The expression on the men's face and the tone of their voice indicated that they were severely displeased at whatever they held between them.

Then, to her greater astonishment, she notices one of the men raise their hands, as if preparing strike. In her desperate effort to see the object that should be the recipient of this violent gesture, she tilted her head this way and that, but her efforts went to vain. To her greater shock yet, the man's hand struck with force, and immediately she heard an unmistakable outcry of pain.

She could only ascertain that the cry belonged to someone very young. She found her distress renewing upon noticing the man raise his hand again. She heard the cry again. The man yelled and struck his hand again. The cry became more audible. Each cry had a whimpering voice, through which no words were intelligible. At length, the repeated action established one fact.

The cry belonged to a child.

Upon the belated realisation, she fiercely pushes her way through the crowd. People reprimand her action, but she remained ignorant to each comment. In her struggles, she reaches the front, where she sees that the person they were cowardly beating was a child. The three men had detained the little boy between them, while one of them took to the duty of hitting him. The boy's face stained with tears, cries for his release, entreating for their mercy. He looked in a state of malnutrition. His clothes, which bore a torn vest and a pair of shorts, were enough to have even the inexperienced observer conclude him to be from an impoverished background.

The three men were so absorbed in their dutiful task that they failed to notice her, as she approaches them. They continued to beat the child, liberally yelling expletives. Mustering her full courage, she decides to aid the helpless.

Speaking confidently in the Bengali she could, she demands the men to release the boy. Her intention was firm, but her anger and distress had made her voice unsteady. They were ignorant of her presence, let alone hear her voice, proudly brandishing the acts of violence. She looked at the crowd, her eyes pleading for their assistance. They either remained equally ignorant of her silent pleas or shouted their support at the beating. They seemed to be obtaining great pleasure from the spectacle of misconduct. Incited, she pushes aside the beating man and safely shields the boy from further abuse.

'Leave him!' she demanded of the man.

The boy welcomingly hides behind his rescuer. So taken by surprise by this female interference, the man unknowingly terminates his violent actions.

A stunned silence was evident through each spectator. She regards them in growing disgust, not knowing what to say that could express her indignation at their behaviour.

'What's going on?' she hears an authoritative voice. 'What happened? Why is there a crowd?'

She was relieved to find one of the station officers at the scene. He looked rather intimidating with a baton in his hand. Yet, he was one of the security staff. She was obliged to trust him. 'That man was beating the child,' she complains to the officer, nodding at the abuser.

'This child was stealing from this woman's bag,' the man offers his defence, gesturing to the apparent victim.

The officer's gaze turns livid, as he regards the boy behind her.

'That still does not give you the right to beat the boy,' she brings to the man's attention, having understood his Sylheti.

'I'll fix him up,' the officer says.

Then, without warning, he tries to grab the boy. Startled, she shields the boy from the officer's attempts to detain him.

'What are you doing?' she questions the officer's behaviour. 'How do you know they are not mistaken?'

'Because,' the man defends his claims, 'I saw the boy put his hand into this lady's bag.'

'Then he is not your culprit,' she argues. 'Why should you punish the boy? If he did steal, then beating him publicly is not the proper way to deal with the matter.'

'Madam,' the officer addresses her, 'I know what to do. This one,' he nods towards the boy, 'is a persistent offender. This is not the first time he is stealing, and this is certainly not the first he is being caught. Until he does not get two hits from my baton, he will not learn. And you lot,' he yells at the crowd, 'don't you have a train to catch? Standing around watching free entertainment,' he mutters. 'Disperse for your ways, or else when you miss your train, the government is the first thing you'll curse.'

Upon their scattering, a worried Iqbal finally finds her. For a threatening moment, he began to fear the worst. However, his relief was brief, finding her in the company of a child beggar, a station officer, a middle-aged woman, and an angry looking man.

She was equally relieved to see Iqbal, to whom she related all that passed in his absence. She expressed her unwillingness to let the boy fall into the officer's hand, but the officer seemed intent to take the boy into custody.

'Mayah,' Iqbal makes his attempts to reconcile the situation, 'let the officer deal with this. It is not our problem. Besides, we'll miss our train, and everyone at home will worry.'

'What did he steal from you?' she asks the woman, ignoring Iqbal's advice.

The woman studies the contents in her handbag. Finding nothing missing, she then looks into her shopping bag, and again found everything in its place. She shrugs at a loss, giving her argument an advantage.

'Madam,' the officer says, 'I will do the necessary checks. Besides, I don't need proof. This boy is a persistent offender. This woman had luck on her side that this good man caught the boy before he could steal anything. Until he does not breathe the air of the lockup, he will not amend his ways! You two,' he says to the man and woman, 'head for your ways.'

The officer this time succeeded to grab the child, throwing her efforts to vain. The boy clung onto her arm, unwilling to land into the officer's authority. She tried to retrieve the crying child, but against the officer's firm hold, she could do little. He dragged the boy away, and she dragged behind him.

'Wait,' she says in a sudden inspiration. 'Bail,' she says in English, not knowing the Bengali equivalent. The officer stops immediately at the encouraging word, turning around with a hopeful look. Her experiences in the country have taught her many approaches to persuasion, including the vital notes she took from the Shahiraj of Rajshahi's seminar earlier on. She just did not anticipate applying the knowledge so soon.

She withdraws her purse, from which she handed the officer a generous fee for the boy's release.

'Not here,' he advises, fearing the danger of witnesses. With caution, he directs the party towards a quieter spot on the platform. Satisfied with the extra income, the officer finally releases the boy. 'This time I will let you go,' he says to the boy, 'but remember, this Madam will not always be around to help you.'

As soon as the officer walks away, two girls come running towards the little boy. They embrace him in visible relief, wiping his tears, and comforting him. She watches their union admiringly. For a moment, she believed to have understood their affection, of which she had no personal experience. However, her smile quickly found reason to vanish. The familiarity of the two girls' face gradually falls to her notice. They were the very same girls that she first met upon her arrival at the station. They were the very girls that sought alms from her.

The boy was their little brother. From nearby, they helplessly watched the man beat their little brother, enduring the officer's determination to imprison him. They knew too well that should they go to his aid, then the officer would confirm his belief that their brother was intending to steal. They were a familiar face to the officer, and knew his methods of admonishing beggars from the platform. To an impoverished orphan, the employment of stealing was their only approach to silence their stomach's complaint. Unfortunately, their young brother's innocence has not yet established him the rules of the profession. He was unaware to the difference between snatching and seeking.

The lack of a possession increases the appetite to obtain it more. The boy was guilty of such a crime. He has not eaten a contentious meal for two whole days. His appetite has not been satisfied with the little his sisters gathered and placed in his offer, despite giving him the bigger share. Thus, noticing fresh fruits in the woman's bag, he made his claim, accosting him into this trouble.

'Dhannobadh,' the girl thanks her, whom she recognised from their earlier meeting today. Iqbal instinctively offers to interpret, but she states the needlessness to do so. Even if she were not familiar to the word, she could define from the girl's manner of speaking. Her gaze drops onto the boy, whose gaze was upon one of the bags in her hands.

'We should get going,' Iqbal suggests, looking rather worryingly at his watch and then at the platform. With the train's arrival time fast approaching, passengers were gathering quickly. If there is any hope of getting a seat, then they really ought to be at the front of the crowd. He did not want any more drama from here on. He was content with the dose exposed to him already. The train will arrive in five minutes, and will wait no longer than three minutes to board its passengers. 'Come,' he says, making a start to walk away, hoping that Mayah will follow. However, he found her unmoved.

The boy was looking at the bag containing the sweetmeats and savouries. He could not read, but the brand was sufficiently intelligible for him to gather the contents inside. The boy must be hungry. But the sweetmeats are gifts for Jameel Dhadha and his family.

Save for one box.

Smiling, Iqbal shook his head disbelievingly at her. The girl possessed a heart, which had the consistency of wax. Firm when cold, but under warmth it became volatile. Her compassion had her sacrifice the box of pistachio barfi that she specifically bought for her own indulgence.

The boy makes an immediate claim for the sweetmeats, but his sister dutifully objected. The girl's dark eyes regard her embarrassingly, shaking her head politely against the kind offer, as if she did not have the heart to take advantage of her kindness. An encouraging nod later, the box was safely in his hands. A small smile appeared on the girl's lips, as she watched her brother take to the sweets avariciously. An expression came upon her face, as to mark her relief that he was eating something that they did not have the fortune to enjoy, as if it was not his hunger that the food banished, but more of hers. The girl looks at her appreciatively, and says something, which she could not interpret. She looks at Iqbal meaningfully, waiting patiently for him to take to his interpreter role, but to her surprise, he did not. The train pulling into the station directed his attention instead. The stationmaster whistles loudly to announce the train's entrance. The warning signals had urged Iqbal to board the train. The evident concern on his face advised her to take immediate heed. She bade her farewell to the children quickly, filtering through the chaotic crowd, eventually reaching their respective carriage. There were plenty of vacant seats remaining, and without being too choosy, they take the first seats they find. Iqbal accosts the bags onto the luggage rack overhead, while she looks through the bars of the window to check if the children are still on the platform. They were, smiling and waving at her as they see her. Soon, the train whistles its departure, making a jerky start to its journey. She waves back at the children, and continued doing so until the train leaves the station and she disappears from their sight.

Overly tired, she sinks into her seat, and casually asks Iqbal what the girl said before the train pulled in.

'She said,' he explains, 'last time she prayed for you from relief of hunger. This time she prays for you from relief of heart. Where her own took to abuse, a stranger came to their rescue.'

The turn of the wheels was gradual and the pace very comfortable. Yet, uneasiness erupted within her. The window beside her captures each passing shot of Sylhet, as if with the intention to keep afresh the startling incidence she encountered here. She aligns comfortably against her chair, the day's exhaustion finally settling in. Her heart was heavy, her mind occupied with the girl's last words, and her eyes were unwilling to erase the witnessed images of child abuse, or accept the morality of her decision to bribe. She was disturbed. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi's words replayed in her mind continuously. How quickly and unknowingly she proved his talk on corruption to be true. She feared to imagine what could have happened to the boy if she did not offer the officer the payment for his release. It was not the notion of bribery that startled here, but the transparency of it that shocked her. The officer quite openly accepted the amount she placed into his hand. Is that the general way of life here? Is it true that he, who has money, has the opportunity? If it is, then why has nobody done anything to rectify the injustice amongst the less fortunate?

Why has no one challenged those in authority?

Chapter 21

Jahanara is the only sister-in-law of Sabina's mother-in-law, Rabia, therefore being Shabul Miah's only paternal aunt. She also received Shah and his two cousin nieces at her maternal home, where Rabia invited him to lunch. She was eager to set a glimpse on her future son-in-law, Shah Abeel.

This was the first time she met him. The live picture did not disappoint. Her thorough inspection found him to be very agreeable. His appearance and positive manners reflected well that he kept a commendable lifestyle in London. He was tall, of lean built, an independent earner, and most importantly, a Londoner. He must be of a healthy income if he could gift them the expensive clothes and perfumes. She was rest assured with the decision she took for her daughter's goodwill. By marrying Tanni, to a Londoner, she will forever secure her daughter's future. The whole neighbourhood will be envious, when they come to learn that her daughter will also be Londoner. But the news must remain quiet until after Sabina and Shabul's wedding. Not even Shah knows that his mother had accepted Tanni as his wife.

The truth is that a poor Londoner will always outshine a wealthy Bangladeshi. The appeal of the western country is such. Despite belonging to a financially gifted family, who had a respectable position in society, she desired her daughter to marry a western bred Bengali. When she heard that her brother and sister-in-law had arranged their son's marriage with a girl, whose brother was a Londoner, she began to make her own enquiries. Imagine her excitement when she heard that Shah was yet a bachelor. Although her sister-in-law did not mention the reasons openly, she knew well of Rabia's intention in agreeing her son's marriage with a girl who was of no particular beauty. She played on this knowledge to her full advantage. The bride's mother had quite easily agreed to arrange for Shabul's work permit and residency in London, but the mouth has no fixed seal. Promises are so often easily broken. There was no guarantee that Shah will make the necessary arrangements for Shabul's hopes for London. They need to strengthen their ties with the groom's family, and most importantly with Shah Abeel. She convinced Rabia to forward another marriage proposal, and Rabia played her part well to convince Shah's mother to agree his marriage with Tanni. His mother has given her word. If she should retract from them, then they have the advantage of having Sabina as a daughter-in-law.

'Where's my food?' her aging mother moans from the next room. 'No one tends to me,' she whimpers. 'It's because I'm old. No one likes the old in these modern times!'

The doctor has put her mother on doctor's orders to refrain from eating oily food due to an on-going gall bladder complaint. The boiled and bland vegetable and rice was perhaps favouring her gall bladder, but the harsh treatment was provoking a mental insanity. The strict restrictions had reduced the patient to search for opportunities to indulge her taste buds. The appetising smell of spices and sweets enticed her to try her luck today. Of course, the family was too aware of her intentions to surrender to her demands.

Shah stifles a strong desire to laugh at her childish complaints. The old woman was disabled. A car accident in her childhood had snatched from her the use of her legs. It is very rare to find girls of disability married in the country, but her husband married her despite the immobility of her legs. He must have been an honest man to overlook the silly conceptions of the wider society that a disabled girl can never be a wife or a mother. This will be the sixth year since her husband has passed away. Between them, they had three children, two sons Nazrul and Azad, and a daughter, Jahanara. Each of them had children of their own. They lived contentedly in an extended family, giving him the much-needed reassurance that his sister will be amongst caring and affectionate people. Their hospitality towards him was but a mere reflection of their positive characters. He shook his head disbelievingly at himself. Of course, they would be attentive towards him. He is their guest. The careful examination of their characters was just another attempt to console his heart that this family will be his sister's new family. He was taking great pains to convince himself that his sister will fit in comfortably with them.

Lunch finished, Rabia served him, and the rest of the male party, tea and desserts next. Shabul's father being a councillor began a conversation about the political state of the country. Another railway workers' strike was becoming imminent. This will be second one in seven months. Every now and then, he offered his opinion, and only got some relief from the subject, when a telephone call had redirected the councillor's attention. Finding the opportunity most convenient, he gathers some sweetmeats on a saucer and smuggles it to the old woman's room. Her face lit up when she saw the goods he placed to her offer, appraisingly patting his shoulder for his thoughtful gesture.

He was aware of her health complaints. Therefore, he offered her just enough sweetmeats as not to endanger her health too much. The occasion was a joyous one for all. He could not leave the old woman out.

When Jahanara entered the living room with the betel nut tray, she could not find Shah. A sudden eruption of giggles requests her to seek the source. It was coming from her mother's quarter. Standing by the door, she took a quick glance into the room. She found Shah sat on a chair beside the bed, upon which her mother spends the majority of her day. To her greater surprise yet, she witnesses a startling exchange between him and her mother. The mischievous boy gave her mother a collection of sweetmeats. Shah desperately entreats her to contain her giggles lest someone should catch them and confiscate the sweets. Her mother sensibly follows his advice, and quietly devours the sweets, for another such opportunity seemed far away, not until Shabul's wedding at least. At length, Shah notices her by the door. He starts and reddens with guilt, but she merely shook her head smilingly at the boy and walks away.

It was an encouraging sight, and she felt at great ease. If there was any possibility of failing to persuade Shah to marry her daughter, then they have perished upon seeing the boy's sensitive side. By agreement, they will keep him unknown to these proceedings until after his sister's marriage. His anger will be a natural reaction, when he eventually comes to learn of it, but she realised today how effortless it will be to pacify the boy. He had a tender heart, filled with compassion. When he could demonstrate such compassion towards her mother, whom he never met before, then she can only imagine the affection he has for his little sister. The greater the affection, the more one is willing to sacrifice their own choices. His sister, Sabina, was a valuable commodity in her schemes. For no one else perhaps, but for the sake of his little sister, he will marry Tanni. Her daughter will have the fortunes to live in London.

As he expected, his mother was the only other person still awake, waiting for his return home. An expression of relief overcomes her upon seeing him. She takes from his hand the bags of sweetmeats, which Jahanara had gifted to his family, and efficiently puts them away in the fridge. As she does, she enquires after his verdict of Sabina's in-laws and their house. He replied positively, including the particular hospitality he received from Jahanara.

Shumi started at Jahanara's mention. She suspected the woman to have used black magic upon her son to brainwash him. Before he left, she ordered Shah to recite a special prayer before eating and drinking anything. Of course, not believing in any of this nonsense, Shah voiced the needlessness to do so.

These precautions will bring little effect now. She has already given her word. With or without back magic, the marriage between Shah and Tanni is a fixed agreement, from which retraction can result in ruining her own daughter's happiness.

'Amma?' Shah reaches for her attention.

Ever since his return from London, he has been noticing that his mother frequently sank into deep thoughts and silences. Some matter was clearly troubling her. She starts at his voice, her face almost mirroring her worrying thoughts.

'What's wrong?' he enquires, concernedly reading his mother's face.

In a desperate effort to conceal her thoughts from him, she looks away abruptly.

'Nothing,' she confirms, struggling to recompose herself. 'It's been a long day,' she says turning around and looking at him, 'and there is still so much work to do for the wedding. You should go to bed now.'

The reasons his mother gave were enough to remove his worry. The day certainly has been very hectic, and this chaos was unlikely to end until the wedding was over. Wishing his mother good night, he heads for his room, knowing that after a very long time, he can retire to bed tonight with a consoled heart.

There was no peace in her heart.

Nargis noticed Mayah's quiet uneasiness. Despite voicing no complains about muscle fatigue or of any unbearable aches, Mayah took to the needless task of massaging her legs. There was a pensive look about the girl's face, and her eyes have not blinked once since her hands have set to their current exercise.

The mosquito nets have been hanging all day today in the preventative measure to allow her a comfortable night's sleep. Yet, she anticipated her struggles to sleep tonight. Whenever she was anxious, she would suffer the same haunting dream. She would ascend flight after flight of stairs, endlessly journeying the increasing length of stairs. There was someone up there, calling her, teasing her, playing hide-and-seek. Who was it? Against this wild eagerness to discover this person, her pace neglected her to see anything. Everything was a blur. The person would teasingly call her again, and she would look up with hopeful eyes, but the caller would hide again, deliberately inciting her curiosity. Not seeing where she was going, she would lose her footing, and it would be at this point that she would wake up with a start.

The girl was disturbed. Nargis had first established that when Mayah arrived home. She suspected some incident must have occurred throughout Mayah's trip to displace her moods. Mayah's quietness was voice to her heavy heart. Where her granddaughter withheld from sharing, she approached Iqbal for an explanation. He recounted the unusual events they encountered today.

The massage she received was Mayah's customary approach to alleviate her unspoken distress. She did not encourage the girl either to disburden her heart and mind, knowing very well that Mayah will initiate the conversation, when she felt at ease.

They were merely guests in the country. The reality of its people need not concern them. She only prayed that Jameel locates her brother quickly. Once her heart is satisfied that her brother has forgiven her, she and Mayah can return to their own home, bidding the harsh reality of the country. Jameel and Shuhel will be leaving for Dhaka tomorrow. They will be staying at a relative's house for the duration of their visit. The reconciliation of a forty-seven year estranged relation between a brother and sister now depended upon the five-hour journey. She inclines her head against the headboard, her mind disappearing into distant thoughts.

Her heart and mind in slight ease, Mayah cuddles up to Dhadhi, resting her head comfortably on Dhadhi's chest, listening to the rhythmic beats of Dhadhi's heart, gently putting her to sleep.

Chapter 22

Jameel Dhadha and Shuhel Chacha have been gone to Dhaka for two days now. Their hopes depended on Jameel Dhadha now, and the success of his findings depended on His generosity. Since their departure, they have received only one phone call. They were at the early stages of their investigations, but it was a promising start. Indeed, Jameel Dhadha voiced a strong determination to stay in Dhaka until they do not at least find some solid clue about the whereabouts of Dhadhi's brother

In their absence, she has kept her idleness occupied by partaking in small activities whenever they presented themselves. Unpacking luggage, helping Salma in the common household chores, and spending time with Taheera and many of the locals helped pass her time greatly. The children call her English Didi, which is a title of respect for older sister. Those similar to her age call her Mayah boyn, which simply translates as Mayah sister.

Spending time with the locals was an educating experience and greatly helped to divert her mind from the experiences she suffered at the train station. She learnt a great deal about household chores too, and her Sylhetti language was improving progressively.

Most notably, she gained a remarkable insight to the daily routine of housewives. Afsana Chachi and Salma share the chores between them. Once they finish cooking and cleaning, Salma prepares the lunch table for Iqbal. He starts work early in the morning. The cool of the morning meant that tourists preferred having their tour at that hour. If it is not a scheduled tour, then he will report to a tea estate, whose owner requested his attendance. Many Brits owned one of the tea estates. Incompetent in the native language, they have employed him to be the communicator between them and the tea-pickers, due to the rarity of English speakers. His lunch break only lasts thirty minutes, and some days he is so busy that Salma sends one of the local boys to deliver his lunch to him.

One evening, she and Salma were exchanging talks on the tourist sights of England and Sreemangal. Salma spoke delightfully of a seaside called Jaflong, where rock collectors gather to make their earnings. She mentioned a famous river called Piyain, insisting that she must take a boat ride along it. She even confided a small secret with her. Apparently, Iqbal secretly took her for a boat ride along Piyain soon after their marriage. He had to keep the truth from his parents. It was not the custom of the country to talk openly of affectionate gestures between a husband and wife. They must show modesty. She listed more popular tourist spots, including the blessed Shrine of Hazrat Shah Jalal, and a rainforest called Lawacherra. She talked animatedly about the various plantations, and of the tribal villages on the hills. Indeed, Salma had described each place in such mesmerising detail, that she could not help but want to visit before she returns to England, in spite of knowing the purpose of her visit to the country. One evening, Iqbal and Dhadhi overheard their conversation, and so he offered her and Dhadhi to join him in his next tour.

Nargis could not neglect that her grandchild still had a right to enjoy the sights. It will be unfair to have Mayah sacrifice her unsaid wishes out of respect to unresolved family problems. Youth had a natural openness to freedom and a keenness to explore. She did not want to repress Mayah's freedom.

She has only seen that much of Sreemangal's famous tea estates as she did on passing it from the Parabat Express. For Iqbal, the period between March and December is the busiest time for him, for it is the tea season. His first tour was at eight in the morning. The tourist group were mostly American nationals, and were here for a two-day visit. Tomorrow they will be visiting Lawcharra Rainforest. Today's visit will primarily consist of exploring the tea gardens.

There are a total of hundred-and-fifty tea estates in Sreemangal. Even a brief guide of each one will unarguably have half-a-day exhausted, hence Iqbal advised the tourists to visit the popular ones. The British owned seventy-two tea estates. Wealthy Bangladeshis owned the remaining ones, save for a few that belonged to the Tea Boards for research and study. Once tourists taste the famous seven-layer tea at the roadside tea cabin, many tourists usually break-off to visit Lawacherra Rainforest, which is eight kilometres from Sreemangal. Some tourists decide to stay in the Main Tea Resort, depending on the approval of the estate owner. Iqbal often plays the mediator in such situations, bargaining a good price, which can benefit both the owner and tourist.

The air carried the distinctive scent of tea. It was inviting, and encouraged many to pass on their positive comments as they entered the thick green terrain. The leaves grew mostly on alluvial, flat lands, with some growing higher, on the hilly areas. Tea-pickers scattered the whole area, their bright clothing easily distinguishable against the vast greenery. Iqbal explained that the labourers, who are all females, are mostly Hindus. When the British first constructed the tea estates in this region in 1857, they were unwilling to invest in new labourers. Instead, they employed the skilled workers from Assam, Orissa and West Bengal. Since then, this part of Sreemangal has chiefly had Hindu inhabitants. Large cloth baskets hung behind them, into which they collect tealeaves, while large straw hats protected them from the Sun.

Only a handful of tea estates were easy to enter, having little or no security. Others, such as Hustley's and Dunlope's Tea Estates, were impossible to enter, fenced and gated carefully. Warning signboards at the gates made the restrictions more wilful, instructing tourists to go away. An angry guard stood at the entrance at all times, and gave them a disapproving look every time they passed him.

Contrarily, the tea pickers were very friendly. They were accustomed to having tourists around them and taking pictures with them. Perhaps Mayah and Dhadhi would have conversed in greater lengths with the tea-pickers, but learning that their earnings depended on the weight of the leaves collection, they refrained from becoming too much of a disturbance.

'And this one is Oleson's Tea Gardens,' Iqbal gestures towards another British owned estate. This one was located on the hilliest part of the gardens, with moderate security. There was a uniformed and stern looking guard sitting by the entrance gates. Iqbal goes over to him and acknowledges him of their appointment. The unfriendly looking guard stretches his gaze, as he silently counts the number of tourists. The number matching that of what Iqbal gave, the guard notes it down in his logbook before letting them all in.

It is a shame, and completely unsurprising, that managers are not as friendly as the labourers are. Of the eight estates, they have seen so far, not one manager smiled genuinely at them. Some of them did not even allow the tourists to take pictures. Their greeting was usually short but polite, and their smile was only on the surface. Once they made the cordial exchanges, the manager looked away abruptly and began yelling at the tea-pickers to increase their pace. Whenever a tourist tried to talk to one of the tea-pickers, the manager would stare disapprovingly, for the distraction was clearly not benefiting him. If the conversation between tourist and the labourer went on for long, then the manager would approach them and look into the tea-picker's collection sack with an unimpressed expression. Sometimes Mayah and Dhadhi felt as if the managers were venting out their anger, which the tourists caused, upon the innocent labourers.

Iqbal advised his group to keep distraction to a minimum, especially in these British owned estates, for the British are strict keepers of time. Other tour groups were also about, taking numerous pictures of the garden and tea-pickers. Many tea-pickers shied away from the camera, whilst others poised in great comfort. Upon Dhadhi's insistence, Mayah also takes pictures with her phone. She was in the middle of taking a picture of one of the tea-pickers, when the girl suddenly runs past her. Alarmed, she and Dhadhi look at the scene that directed the woman's attention. They notice a group of female and some tourists gathered about something. Iqbal and his tour group quickly reach the scene of commotion, finding an elderly woman lying unconscious on the ground.

'Amma,' the distraught girl, who they were taking pictures with, calls the elderly woman, indicating that she is the elderly woman's daughter, 'What happened?' she asks, desperately trying to get her mother into consciousness. 'Water,' she anxiously calls out. 'Bring some water.'

Many tourists helpfully offer the girl their bottle of water, which she picks at random. She tips some water into her hand, and sprinkles it onto her mother's face. A few desperate attempts later, the elderly woman regains consciousness.

A relief descends throughout the whole crowd. Fellow tea pickers help the woman to a sitting position, offering her some water to drink, while the others replaced the tealeaves into her sack, which scattered everywhere upon her fainting. Iqbal's concern was clearly visible, and he desperately enquires after her health.

'She's fine,' one of the estate supervisors says, glowering over the incident almost unaffectedly. 'It happens to her all the time. Iqbal, tell her to rest it out.'

Iqbal dutifully conveys the message, while the supervisor orders the other tea pickers to resume their task. The crowd disintegrates, leaving the daughter to her mother's care.

'You should not have come to work today,' Iqbal scolds her gently. 'Why didn't you stop her?' he tells the girl.

'I did, bhaiya,' the girl answers, 'but you know how adamant Amma is. Has she ever heeded to my advice?'

Iqbal offers to take her home, which the woman fearfully objects.

'No,' the unwell refuses decidedly, although her flailing voice did not match her determination. 'I can't go home. Your Sasa is not well. I have to make enough this week if the physician is to get your Sasa's medicine from town this Friday. Or else I will have to wait another whole week, before the physician goes into town again.'

Iqbal shakes his head hopelessly at her. 'Neelu is here,' he says, nodding towards her daughter. She will see to it. If there is a difference remaining, then I will settle it.'

'No,' the old woman fiercely declines. 'I already owe you so much. Besides, you have a family of your own. It will be unfair on them and more unfair on the other workers. If you keep showing partiality towards my family, then someone is bound to have a reason to dispute.'

Before giving Iqbal an opportunity to reply, the old woman quickly heads towards her duties, immersing herself within the tea leaves again. Her daughter frantically follows, pleading her mother to drop her obstinacy and return home for some rest. Her mother took no heed to the advices, resolutely attaching the basket to her back. Like the other tourists, she and Dhadhi also watch the frail woman in bewilderment. She took to her duty, foolishly ignorant of her health and her daughter's concerns. The girl, defeated before her mother's obstinacy, looks at Iqbal, her face depicting one who has lost all courage.

A helpless Iqbal could not do much either to convert the woman's obstinacy. He never could.

The time was perfect to take a break. He suggests everyone to take a break at the Tea Cabin, which was a short distance from this particular estate. The group, still recovering from the disturbing sights, welcomed the suggestion. He led the way, but found Mayah and Dhadhi still peering at the old tea picker in the distance. The two women were of a tender disposition, and experiences like this affected them quite easily. He seeks their attention and prompts them to follow him. He walked alongside them. They were in deep thought, and to better their moods, he initiates a conversation.

'Looking forward to the famous seven layer tea?' he tactfully asks.

Dhadhi nods in reply, while Mayah was unheard to the question.

'You know,' he continues brightly, 'the secret to the seven layer tea is closely guarded. Lal Sasa was even offered a job in a top hotel of Sylhet, but he refused, simply because he didn't want to share his secret. He earns little here -'

'But passion seeks no profit,' Mayah unknowingly finishes the sentence. Her comment incited Iqbal and Dhadhi to exchange an uneasy glance. 'How much does each tea picker earn?' she asks, speaking her mind without consideration to Iqbal's ability to answer.

So unexpected was the question that his smile briefly slips away. He was unwilling to answer, and began designing many tactics in his head to deter from doing so. However, Mayah's grey eyes observed him in such hope that he was unable to put design to practice.

'They make enough to earn a modest living,' he says with a light smile.

'What is considered a modest living here?'

Below, at the foot of the hill, Iqbal notices his group patiently waiting for the remainder of the party to join them. His smile disappears again, looking at Dhadhi somewhat entreatingly.

'Why should it matter to us?' Dhadhi says, having read Iqbal's hesitation.

'How much do they earn, Iqbal bhai?'

Dhadhi wished to get Mayah off the subject, but Iqbal quickly stops her. He regards Mayah carefully for some time, eventually giving her an answer.

'Let's talk it over some tea.'

Chapter 23

The tea cabin was essentially a small roadside house, serving, quite rightly, only tea. Given the popularity of tourism in the country, the cabin was expectantly quiet, but not of that emptiness whereby a conversation could resound in silence. Iqbal advised his tour group to take their seating on the roof terrace overlooking the vast tea gardens, while he, Mayah and Dhadhi will re-join them upon collection of their ordered beverages. The tea took about half-an-hour to arrive, and in this free interval, he replied to Mayah's questions.

His profession denied him to share information regarding the tea pickers' earnings. He was aware of the danger he was attracting to his employment by discussing the sensitive topic. If any should overhear, or get the faintest whiff, that he was disclosing guarded details about the tea estate to someone beyond the estate manager's authority, then he will lose his job. But Mayah and Dhadhi were outside his professional boundaries. They were family.

Seven years ago, the tea estates suffered much embarrassment due to an article in "Desh Bidesh", which revealed the tea pickers' deplorable income. Various governing boards and regulatory bodies did an investigation into the article's claims. Few months later, the matter naturally settled, though no major improvement resulted from the commotion. Since then, the tea estates have increased their security, employing every method possible to prevent leakages into the media. Many estate managers have barred tourists from entering, lest they should be an undercover reporter. Others keep a strict logbook and appointment only entrance.

The tea-picker's income depends on the total weight of the leaves they pick. An average picker can collect twenty kilograms a day. A very speedy picker can collect nearer to thirty kilograms. Each kilogram entitles them to earn approximately one-and-a-half taka. Mayah calculated the workers' daily income to be at the best thirty-three pence. Yet, it was not necessary that what may appear insufficient to those who are accustomed to the higher standards of living, will be deemed insufficient to those who appreciate the humbler earning. Thus, she enquired after the value of thirty-three pence in this country, highly expecting it to be the average income needed for a stable living.

'You see the leaves they pick,' he replies, nodding towards the distant gardens, 'it feeds many nations. But on their income, they cannot afford what their labour provides others.'

Recovering from this discovery, Mayah next enquires how the tea-pickers manage a living with their modest income.

They have no extra expenditure beyond these estate fences. When news of their true income was surfaced in the national newspaper, the estate owners and the local council, in their state of flurry, teamed together to bring about a solution and recover their reputation. The tea-pickers' salary was slightly increased at the bequest of councillors, amongst other changes implemented to display proof of their humanity. The generous estate owners have built their house within walking distance to the tea estate, and established free primary schooling for their children. The highest benefit yet was the free medical check-up, to which each labourer was entitled. There was a doctor within each village, who makes regular trips to main town Sylhet to restock his medical supplies. With the generous bestowing of such conveniences, the tea pickers could not raise complaints.

He should have stopped here and refrained from sharing any further details regarding the labourers' employment state. However, his suppressed anguish caught aflame from the encouragement this discussion ignited. Inadvertently, he brought more truth to Mayah's attention.

To what purpose did the free schooling serve, when quality of education was very poor and limited? The tea estate owners have established schools here, but you cannot forget that it was free schooling. The quality of teachers is questionable. In this country, teaching was a not a respectable profession. Although last year the government has made schooling free for all those under ten, the harsh fact remains that education is better at private institutions – a luxury the tea pickers cannot afford. Government sponsored schools are a disregarded charity, where pupils and parents are expected to enjoy what they are offered and make no legible complaints in return, for they will insult the generous sponsor. There was a general scarcity of qualified teachers in the field, and the few moderately qualified teachers that are financially enticed to take up a position here, stay no more than six months. The incentive was disproportionate to the amount they were sacrificing. They were each men of family. If not the care of their own wife and children, then the care of their parents and sisters depended on them. The estate owners, in conjunction with the local council, lured prospective teachers by a handsome first payment. Scarcely a month into their job, that the truth of their income became evident. Their wages was poor and insufficient to develop a career here. They earn enough in those six months to risk seeking employment elsewhere. Some of them leave unsaid, lest the estate owners weaken their intention by use of threat.

'Who suffers?' Iqbal fiercely asks after a short pause.

The schoolmasters will doubtless find better opportunity, but in their absence, the few hopeful children that do attend school suffer a loss to their rightful education. Their parents' income is not such that they can afford decent schooling. 'You must know the importance of education, Mayah,' he continued. One does not merely attend school for hope of financial return. It awakens ambition, encourages one to understand cause, and develops within them the ability to overcome problems. The tea-pickers are impoverished in all three aspects. The absence of education finds them feeding more mouths than their earnings can provide. When the compulsory period of attending school passes, sons take to the field to assist their fathers in farming, while daughters take to the home chores, attending their younger siblings, while their mothers fulfil their tea picking duties. Scarcely do girls reach their early teens that they follow similar suit as their mothers, taking to the tea estate to ease their household's financial burden. Finally, when they become of age, they are married to a boy within the same village, and the whole cycle begins again. Until the government does not realise the ineffectiveness of providing charity to its people, this country will not progress. The government will forever confine the tea pickers' descendants to these grounds. To improve young things, to instil betterment in the country, the government must invest accordingly into our future. But their greed comes before their duties. They take the share that they should distribute to us. Poverty obliges a parent to choose between education and employment. For parents, like these tea pickers, free schooling is only possible up to a certain age. After that, the institution is merely a venue, in which labour cannot guarantee its due return.

'Lemony,' one of the tourists of his group thoughtfully guesses the flavour of one of the seven layers of tea. 'No, it's gingery. I definitely taste strong citrus notes.'

Where others enjoyed the famous seven-layer tea, Mayah and Dhadhi's glass stood on the table untouched. They had re-joined the others some fifteen minutes ago. The group was naming and debating each layer of the tea, taking various pictures of the shaded tea glass. Occasionally, Dhadhi submitted to their conversation, offering her suggestions in naming a tea layer in her attempt to prevent any further enquiries from the tour group, who willed to know the reasons behind their long silences. But Mayah remained unheard and unaffected by their enquiries. She half regretted on her insistence to obtain an answer to the tea pickers' salary. The exposition came as a shock, despite the plight of the country being no secret. Every now and then, Iqbal looked at her, the regret of sharing the information also evident in his face.

'What do you think, Mayah?' he asks her, hoping to convert her lack of appetite.

'Yeah,' one of the American tourist remarks, having noticed her and Dhadhi's untouched glasses, 'you two haven't tasted a drop. I thought the English were rather keen on their tea!'

'The English part of me is,' she answers, her gaze fixed on the shaded glass, 'but my ethnic origins suddenly falter my hands.'

'Then,' Iqbal replies, 'consider an ethnic depending on your other part. Don't put their labours to complete vain.'

He said enough to have her and Dhadhi contemplate the meaning. Iqbal was right. The labourer and maker put much effort to the production of this tea. To leave it untouched and untasted will convey disregard, a charity. Payment is half the reward of labour. The other half is seeing another enjoying the fruit.

With this in mind, Mayah and Dhadhi put taste to their tea, tasting less the various flavours, and realising more the many hands that went into picking the leaves.

The tourist group eventually ended their visit for today, with Iqbal giving a tour of the famous tea resorts, in which tourists commonly accommodate. It was probably the quietest spot in the whole of Sreemangal, encouraging Mayah to reflect more on her former sights and thoughts. Where others made the pleasant comment about the resorts having an oasis feel, her heart yearned to learn of the elderly woman's health. She deeply regretted not stopping the woman from exhausting herself further. She should have done something.

Afsana Chachi was defeated before her insistence to clear the dinner table, despite her strong objections. She needed to do something to keep her mind off disconcerting thoughts. The days' proceeding has affected her more than she previously anticipated. She felt restless. She ate very little, and was beginning to feel homesick. Everything seemed out of place. Nothing felt right.

Nargis grew fearful of Mayah's health. The mouth that could not tire of speaking, was chiefly mute throughout supper. If this trend follows, then she will only have herself to blame. For her cause, Mayah came here, and in that cause, she met the distressing truth. Yet, she kept herself consoled knowing that Mayah is a sensible girl. Her heart was heavy, but she was certain Mayah would recover quickly.

She was in the middle of washing the ceramic dishes, when Iqbal hurriedly comes into the kitchen. He informs his mother that he will not be long. Mayah considered it mannerly to keep out of their private affairs, but noticing Afsana Chachi suddenly overcome with distress, she asks Iqbal where he was going.

'Sasi's house,' he informs her kindly. 'To the house of that woman,' he reiterates upon seeing her puzzled expression, 'who fainted today. Heaven knows if she collated the required sum for the medicines,' he says shaking his head, speaking more to himself than to those in the room. 'If she hasn't, then she'll just overwork herself again tomorrow and risk deteriorating her health further.'

'We thought it better to help her out,' joins in Afsana Chachi, to whom Iqbal related the concerning events in the Oleson's Tea Estate today.

Iqbal made a start towards the settling of this duty, when Mayah quickly stops him. 'I also want to go,' she volunteers. 'Please, take me with you.'

Unknown to a reply, he exchanges a worrying glance with his mother and Dhadhi.

Iqbal's expression portrayed a refusal to her request. She pleads him again, also seeking Dhadhi's support.

After today's experience, Nargis was unwilling to put the girl through further distress. But Mayah was insistent in her entreaties, desperately voicing her desire to see the elderly woman, and console her heart that the woman's health has returned to some stability. Appreciating her genuine concerns, Iqbal kindly suggests taking her in the morning, for she has had trying day and should consider relaxing.

'Dhadhi,' Mayah attempts again, 'I want to see her now that the opportunity has come. Please,' she says with a small whisper.

Her solid determination had forced Dhadhi to relent, and at length she gains her approval.

Apart from the fading full moon up there, which filtered in and out of clouds, and an oil lantern in each of their hands, there was no other light to their assistance. She and Iqbal carefully tread their way through the narrow lanes of the passing villages, crossing the unlit but empty roads of Sreemangal. 'You should see this place when the electricity goes out,' Iqbal points out.

'And how often does the electricity go out?' she asks interestedly.

'Oh, I'm certain you should experience it at least once before you leave.'

They briskly walk along. The elderly woman belonged to a group of housing alongside the Oleson's Tea Estate.

They pass the many hut-like houses, which the estate managers have probably built in response of that article's revelations. Given the hour, people were scarce about the streets. Few men walked passed, whom Iqbal cordially greeted. Tractors and other farming vehicles also drove passed them, ready to start on the fields tomorrow. The pulsating sounds of the crickets filled the oasis air as they lay secretly to rest. It was not entirely difficult to see, but her and Iqbal's lanterns attracted many creatures to acclimatise in their presence. Moths and other night flies surrounded the oil lanterns with ecstasy, following them devoutly in this meekness.

The path she walked along also caused her much fright. Every so often, she stepped on something. By the sound of the crackling, the unseen object was probably a twig, ruffles of leaves or scattered stones. She started at the sounds. Thankfully, the ordeal was short-lived, when at length Iqbal points to the house of their call, prompting within her a secret relief. She lifted her lantern towards the pointed direction, finding small houses neighbouring each other, overlooked by inclined trees, on which the weeping leaves wafted with the gentle night breeze. As they drew closer, Iqbal warns her to be careful as they step over a raised ground. Her footing safe again, she lifts her lantern higher to gain a better inspection of the houses. Some had tin roofs, others had rustic ones, but generally, all were of modest size and simple design.

It was so quiet that the only sound audible was that of the crickets.

Iqbal quietly knocks on the doors, lest he should cause disturbance to those sleeping. A girl, whom she saw earlier today at the tea garden, answers their call.

She was not surprised to receive Iqbal, although did seem startled to see another person in his company.

'Is your Mother asleep?' Iqbal cautiously whispers.

The girl nods her head in reply.

The whole house was dark, save for her room, into which she led her visitors. Mayah ran her gaze through the room. It was big enough to meet one occupant's needs. The girl's little brother was also in the room, sat awake on his bedstead.

'This is Mayah,' Iqbal introduces her to the girl, 'and this is Kolpona,' he introduced the girl to her. 'Mayah was concerned about your mother's health.'

'Amma is better,' Kolpona reassures with a declined gaze. 'But Baba is just the same. The doctor said we need to admit him in hospital.'

Her Baba needs a coronary artery bypass. This will be the fourth month he has been bedridden with the troubling chest pains. Medication has helped relieve the pain, but the root problem remains unresolved. Treatment is only available at specialist hospitals in Dhaka. These are not government hospitals. The treatment fee is beyond their capacity to meet. It takes three earners to keep the household running and cover the cost of her Baba's medicines. They do not have the funds to admit him into hospital. Doctors have refused her Baba's surgery without settling the initial deposit at least. Once they could at least save up for the deposit payment, then they could be in a position to hospitalise him.

It was in November, when the village doctor insisted to take her Baba to Dhaka for a consultation with another doctor. Further assessments and two weeks of restless waiting revealed that her Baba needs a bypass. It was an expensive operation. The tea pickers are out of employment between November and February, paralysing their ability to earn, and their hope of treating her father. The last four months have proved nothing less than a merciless ordeal. The whole family was entirely dependent on her eldest brother. His earning alone managed the household, including the cost of the medicines. With March's arrival, she and her mother are making every effort to increase their income, working to the point of exhaustion to gather at least the deposit payment. The last two months has seen her and her mother dedicate the majority of their time to the tea valleys in their effort to pick more leaves. Her brother too has been working twice as hard. If not working at the town's post office, then he would tend the rice fields instead. But where their age could adapt better to the demanding toil, her mother's was suffering greatly. She has neglected her own health in the desperate effort to increase her earning. She seldom takes a break, lest it should interfere with the weight of her basket. Her mother's fainting today was one of many she has suffered in the past two months. Standing in the merciless heat all day, and giving no regards to water or food, made her unconscious. She was not only in danger of losing one parent, but fate is seemingly designing ways to make her an orphan.

'Here,' Iqbal says, bringing fourth his hand, in which there was the money for the medicines. 'Settle the medicine bill first thing tomorrow.'

Mayah noticed the brief look of relief upon Kolpona's face as her gaze descended towards her saviour's hand, but her expression quickly converted to mark her hesitations. 'No,' she says, shaking her head vigorously. 'If Amma finds out then she'll scold me.'

'If she finds out,' Iqbal cajoles. 'For the meanwhile, tell her you got an advance from the manager.'

'Lie?' Kolpona distressfully says.

'What would you rather do?' asks Iqbal, trying every possibility to persuade the girl. 'Would you rather have your mother exhausted in the heat? Would you rather have both your parents unwell? Think of the little one at least,' he gestures towards her little brother. 'Take the money from me, and don't worry, when I ask for repayment I shall be adding double interest,' he humours, hoping to cheer the girl.

Kolpona still made no start towards the thoughtful gesture. Mayah began to fear the worse, convinced with the belief that Kolpona will keep firm on her refusal. Thus, she disburdened the money from Iqbal's hand, and transferred it into Kolpona's.

Her position became such that she could no longer decline. Greed had overcome her. She wanted to help her mother quickly. There was guilt at having betrayed her mother, but her need to secure her parents' health was greater.

Mayah was relieved on seeing Kolpona's acceptance. Tears slowly gathered along the rim of her dark eyes, as she thanked Iqbal with a wavering voice. In a brotherly gesture, he patted the girl on her arm, ordering her little brother to take care of his sister, and to stop wandering around the village like a vagabond. He managed to bring a smile on both their lips, before realising the late hour.

Mayah sincerely wished to console the tearful. Words of sympathy will be of little comfort, perhaps even an insult to her suffering. In the end, she bade her leave by wishing both her parents' quick recovery.

The girl nodded her head appreciatively in reply, though Mayah noticed how helplessly dependent the girl felt.

Chapter 24

Independence. To prove its very definition one must live alone, entirely dependent upon their selves alone.

Man will always be obliged to depend on something or someone. A child is dependent on its mother, even when it reaches the age where youth alone provides strength to confront struggles. Equally true, if Man is to progress into the wiser years and leave an evidence of his existence, then he depends on seeking a partner. Man will always be dependent upon man. Those that quest to make way for themselves, ask them how many support keeps them steady? To earn a living, the earner must depend on its employer, and he upon his customers.

He had a similar dependence. His upbringing was in a small family of differing backgrounds. His mother was Bengali, with a colourful past, and his father was an Englishman, with a past of his own. Somehow, between them, he formed a unique identity. Adolescence was not easy, and like every growing child, he enjoyed the worst and best of both it. He had the liberty of belonging to two very different countries. He did not know another world outside the three members of the Mohiddin-Young family. He did not have many relatives. His father was an only child, whose parents passed away very young. It was a lonely upbringing. Perhaps that is why, after losing his father, he became more protective about his mother's health. A father himself, he still felt like a child. He still needs his mother.

It has been almost two weeks since he last saw or spoke to either his mother or daughter. Mayah has been good enough to keep him regularly updated about their health through the convenience of text messages. However, regardless of the information he received, he yearned to see his mother and daughter, and receive the visible confirmation that they were both fine.

Mayah has not once answered or returned his calls. Only this afternoon, he tried calling Mayah to inform her of his arrival, but she did not answer. He tried calling the landline, and again, he received no answer. The worst thoughts ran through his mind at the lack of response. He began to sense something unsettling and helplessly feared the worst regarding his mother's health. He was aware of both women's recklessness, but not to the extent that they should cease verbal communication with him. He has been feeling restless for the last few days. Thus, after work on Friday, he travelled up to their country home in Hertfordshire. This was a sudden decision, which he did not share with Jill either. She often talked him out of making visitation to their Hertfordshire home, citing that he will unnecessarily disturb his mother. Two days ago, he suggested Jill that they should spend some time in Hertfordshire with the rest of the family. However, she was strongly against the idea, advising him not to intrude, and silenced him by saying his mother and Mayah will come home when they are ready. Each time, he agreed with her. This time, he did not seek any advice or permission.

An hour and a half later, the gravel winding paths of the family cottage greets his entrance. If stones could express emotion, then each one would have looked astounded upon seeing the familiar but unexpected face. If they could speak, then they would have most certainly enquired to his sudden arrival, or better yet, urged him to reverse his steps. Men have erected great walls have to discourage collision, yet there was a wall here that could not halt another's progression, despite being aware of the wrecking outcome.

'Sam!' the neighbour, Mrs Jacklin, delightedly calls him, stopping him immediately. 'What a stranger you have become!'

He returns a cordial greeting, enquiring after Mr Jacklin's health.

'Oh, he's fine, just a bit of a grump since retiring. Are you here alone?' she asks interestedly.

'Yes,' he answers. 'I did offer Jill, but she's busy with her new project.'

'How exciting!' Mrs Jacklin says equally excited. 'What about your mother? How is she?'

'Oh, she is fine,' he answers, before abruptly realising the question he answered.

Unable to speak, the stones watch the collision like spectators.

He repeats silently Mrs Jacklin's question, realising at length what he answered.

'And Mayah,' continued Mrs Jacklin with her enquiries. 'How is she? Did she find a job?'

She asked questions, and unknowingly provided answers to his confusion.

He was in a visible shock, to which a worried Mrs Jacklin made a start to enquire, when her husband required her inside. She made few attempts to ignore him, which strangely became easier after his retirement, but his persistence ultimately drew her inside.

Sam was scarcely able to move, frantically recalling Mrs Jacklin's every word. He paces towards the main doors, and frantically rings the bell.

There was no response.

Fumbling over the keys, he manages to find the right one and hastily lets himself in. 'Amma!' he calls into the stillness. 'Mayah!' he tries next.

There was no reply.

Mistrusting his ears, he entered each room of the house, but neither his mother nor his daughter comes into view. He could not ascertain which he felt more, angry or worried. Reaching for his phone, he calls his wife. Her voice eventually comes through, and he relays all that he has discovered.

She expected Sam to make the discovery soon. It was an inevitable eventuality. She was realistic on the effectiveness of her excuses to hinder her husband from learning the truth. Yet, how unprepared she was on a confrontation upon confession. In many ways, she was relieved. Overcome by compassion, she agreed her mother-in-law and daughter to travel to a country they knew little about. However, it soon became evident that her maternal yearning was unwilling to suffer anymore. Her growing concerns for her mother-in-law and daughter were beyond consolation now. The quick email Mayah sent was but a temporary remedy to her pains. More days have passed since, and she has received no further updates on their progress. The worst thoughts crossed her mind. With Sam having learnt the truth, she now had the liberty to contact her family abroad. She can cease all necessity to conspire.

'Such lies, Jill?' Sam says in disbelief again. 'Such deceit! To whom? To me, your husband?'

His anger is justified, and she was willing to bear it all, so long as he will contact Mayah.

'Do you realise what you have done? You've put my mother and daughter in danger.'

'They are my mother and daughter too,' she says, his words stinging her painfully.

'I know that!'

She did not quite know how to reply to that acknowledgement. In truth, he did not know either. Such was the turnout that it reduced the pair to reflect on their behaviour shamefacedly. This bewildering silence triggered a rather hysterical air to rise, making them laugh foolishly. It was not yet necessary to address the reasons behind their laughter, but the unsanctioned therapy was seemingly working wonders to alleviate their anger. The coming of better feelings had realised each that this was not the occasion to place accusations or surface faults in the other.

The hysterics gradually fading, he sits down, burying his heavy head into his shaking hands, as frantic thoughts flash through his mind. He did not know what to say or do.

'How are they?' he asks very calmly, his head still buried in his hands.

'They are doing well,' she answers, her confidence faltering slightly. 'They found Jameel Uncle.'

This update had Sam shoot a startled glance at her, his grey eyes observing her disbelievingly.

'They are staying with him and his family,' she continues. 'They have all been very helpful. They are doing everything to find your uncle –'

'I have no uncle,' he abruptly reminds her, grey eyes flashing indignantly at the mention of his mother's brother. She scarcely opened her mouth to reason, when Sam quickly stops her. He wished to be alone for some time.

Ask a man how is life with three female companions, each from a progressive generation, and none would be better equipped to answer than he will be.

When in want of some quiet contemplation, he will most definitely come here. A cemetery in East London, in a distance to a mosque from where he can hear the Friday azaan, rested his father. A Friday of every month, he would come here to pray beside his father's grave. His father was a strange person. He held no firm religion, yet when it came to decide the inevitable burial, he was determined for an Islamic ceremony. The decision resulted from one of those bizarre conversations that began as a general subject, but ended as a major reflection. He adopted the surname Mohiddin to agree with the Islamic Marriage Act. He did not disapprove of other religions, but believed each one tended to the same concept, conformed to similar guidelines of discipline Man, to enable him to differentiate the good from the evil. His father always said he held strong principles. He did not require any guidelines. Just as his writing carried the credibility of truth, for he wrote what he saw, he only did what his instincts advised. Marriage to a woman many years junior to his age and from a completely different background, was not an impulsive decision, but a helplessness of his heart, a realisation of love. Stuck between these two cultures was him, their only son and child.

He objected to neither cultures, and strangely adapted rather well to both. Neither did he have any personal objection to the country from where his mother originated. It was a world he knew little about, despite his mother sharing stories of her childhood there. At the coming of adolescence, his mother revealed the truth of her family, and the circumstances, which united his parents. His mother did not speak bitterly of her experience, and portrayed the events as not to infect his tender mind. There was no doubt that the country was beautiful, but the people are not the equal.

He detested his mother's brother. As far as he was concerned, he was unrelated to that part of the world. He had no other family apart from his parents, wife and daughter. He only belonged here. He was happy and comfortable with his small family. Where there are less people, there is less confusion.

'Where there is less confusion,' he hears his father interject, 'there is clarity. Yet, alone you sit here, seeking it.'

He gave me no response, his gaze fixed at his father's grave.

The boy was terrible at hiding the truth.

It was no secret that Sam would have wanted a big family, and spare Mayah the feeling of loneliness that he suffered throughout his upbringing. He had both of his parents' affection, but a child without siblings made the family picture appear incomplete. A child needs to quarrel with his sibling, and yet realise that despite the bitter exchange, affection between them remains unchanged. He did not realise this. He did not realise that his mother still had a brother, from whom she cannot sever her connections. He did not appreciate that whether it was a sibling's defeat or success, he will also garner the praises and consolations, for he will be termed the brother.

Had he been financially better, he would have given Sam a sibling. The decision to have no more children was a conscious one between him and Nargis. However, where lack of fortune discouraged him from expanding his family, Fate's cruelty prevented Sam from expanding his.

They met at university, and were in the same year. She was a member of the vegetarian society, and met Sam when she was carrying out one of her surveys. Love happened, and shortly after graduation, they married. To please her parents, Jill also married before a priest at her local church. After marriage, Sam began his career in investment banking, while Jill got a job as an underwriter at a publishing firm. She was also from a small family, having only one brother. The want of having children existed in both her and Sam. The poor girl suffered two miscarriages, before becoming pregnant with Mayah. During this time, she published a short novel. Her writing career consequently took off, overshadowing her inability to bear another child. Mayah and their busy careers suppressed their want of becoming parents again. But the desire of being part of a big family had never vanished. It is apparent from Jill's writing that she feels the injustice of her womb and her constant inability to overcome her husband's repressed wish. He never complained or made his desires visible. However, when he saw Mayah among those that did have siblings, he felt her yearning closely.

Fate's injustice is not without reason.

'What are you angrier at?' he enquires, his voice gentle as to invite Sam to open up to him. 'Is it their sudden leaving or that they did not seek your permission?'

'I'm not angry at anyone,' he admits. 'I am just worried. You know how Mayah is. She is obstinate and thoughtless, naïve and inexperienced. With these traits, she has gone to an unknown country, where most people are like Amma's brother. What if someone takes advantage of her innocence?'

He said nothing and allowed the boy to disburden his heart.

'Amma too has left no stone unturned to form my worries,' Sam continues. 'Why is she so adamant to reconcile? Why does she want to reunite with her brother? Why should she apologise? She did nothing wrong.'

'You're worried about the "whys",' he inputs cautiously, 'whereas I am worried about the "what".'

He smiles pleasingly at the success of receiving Samsul's perturbed reaction.

Mayah is an innocent, very naïve, girl. When she wants something she does not consider right or wrong, or any consequence of her action. She does what she feels is right. She is reckless, and that is evident in her courageous decision to go to Bangladesh without your consultation. She is out there, and has the single care of an old fragile woman. Two lonely women, impulsive and thoughtless, are staying in a country where the people will not hesitate to take advantage of their being tourists.

'Also,' he continues, 'you cannot forget that beast, your mother's brother,' he clarifies. 'He had no compassion for Nargis then, his very own blood sister. What can we expect of him now? What if seeing his estranged sister all of a sudden, with her mixed-caste grandchild, incites him, and matters takes a turn for the worse?'

He need not continue any further.

Sam began to reflect on the formidable consequence, eventually realising the likelihood of them occurring. Thus, he rises to his feet frantically, overtaken by the fear that his father provoked within him.

He smiles to himself delightfully, as he sees his son heading towards home. Old habits are hard to overcome because their effect never ages.

Chapter 25

This is the second week since Jameel Dhadha has taken leave for Dhaka. To further her uneasiness, it has been four days gone since she last heard anything from him. They were amidst the city's political unrest. She feared for their safety. Their last telephone conversation was short, giving her a brief consolation that all is well. They were not bereft of hope or safety. Jameel Dhadha has found a source that has provided some helpful information. Search is still underway. "No alley," he said with unwavering confidence, "will be left unexplored, and no door of Dhaka will be left unopened." There was so much encouragement in his voice that, she could not help but believe Jameel Dhadhi will soon discover Dhadhi's brother.

A sudden splash of water across her face interrupts her thoughts. She shields her face, but the splashes do not cease, neither does the incessant laughter in the background.

She looks away irritatingly from the boastful water nymphs, suppressing a growing inclination to enjoy the warm waters as they did. Be under no misconception that these water nymphs are mythical creatures. They are the local village girls, who regularly sneak to this part of Madhopur Lake in the afternoon for a quick swim, and demonstrate their athletics. Saira can swim to the opposite side of this snaking lake in two minutes, and Shomita here, can hold her breath under water for at least five minutes before coming to the surface and swimming as if she were a mermaid. Then there is Farhana, who can do various somersaults in the water. They were all under the impression that she had no similar talent. Swimming in a secure pool is different from swimming in open waters such as in this Madhopur Lake. Dhadhi said not to do it. If something unfortunate should happen, then she will put everyone in unnecessary inconvenience. Thus, she sat at a safe distance away from the edge of the water, sometimes looking resentfully and sometimes enviously at the display before her.

Yet, she would rather be in a state of envy than witness the disheartening truth of the village. She was not unaware or oblivious to hardship or poverty. She just did not expect to welcome so much of it so quickly, without any relief. If she did not see it, then she would read it in the news. If she did not see it or read it, then she suffered it, as she did three days ago, when a power cut cast the whole village in darkness. Having fallen asleep, she had no clue as to when it returned, but by morning, it certainly did.

She was confident enough to explore the village grounds without any supervision, despite Dhadhi's constant objections. It was the best way to experience a normal village life. Dhadhi often shared her experiences of growing up in Bangladesh. The story has not changed much. No single positive sight was without noticing something that gave her reason for concern. Most children do not attend schools. Upon reaching the age of ten, education for children is no longer free. The weight of fees inclines parents to terminate all association with schools. Girls certainly do not attend schools. They learn how to cook instead, and help their mothers do the laundry. When they become of age, they are married. If they are lucky, then they marry a Bengali from London, America or someone from town. They will then leave the country or village forever to settle away from their families. If they are unfortunate, then they marry a villager. The same story will repeat again for the next generation, confined to the local employment opportunity of farming. It was a profitable trade for the farm owners, but the labourer get does not reap the deserved reward. What will become of the country without proper encouragement for education? What will become of its people if they do not desire to develop a career?

She often consoled herself that this is the common way of life for a villager. However, news reports quickly contradicted her consolations. The country was suffering from political instability. By their government, those that are rich will only get richer, and those that are unfortunate are unlikely to find betterment. The constant struggles of a worker were too visible to go unacknowledged. It is unrealistic to assume political systems will agree with everyone. Man's opinions are not one, and where there is a figure of power, another will always seek to challenge it. But here the political system seemed shamefully corrupt. Iqbal said that a few months ago, there was an outcry of violence in Dhaka following the by-election of one of its district commissioners. Protesters claim that results are not credible, and have been deliberately miscalculated to favour the current ruling party. People of Dhaka took to various rallies to voice the unjustness of politics in the country. The protesters feel so strongly that they lit buses and cars on fire to demonstrate their anger. Members of one political party had targeted and killed supporters of other parties. The police did not hesitate to exercise the full use of their powers either. There were many deaths. What she found most shocking was the reasons for the protest. They fought for a fair government. They wanted democracy, a government that could provide them the simple needs of everyday living and held their best interest at heart. Issues such as clean water, solid roads, good education, employment, fair pay, affordable hospital treatment, and equal opportunity, are still areas open to development. But their cries left the politicians unaffected. There was anger, but none of it resulted in change. There was another rail strike looming. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi's words struck her often. Every day she saw and read something to give credibility to his resentments.

On a more positive experience, she found the simple life quite endearing. The lack of education deprives Man of the ability to think astutely. They do not consider themselves above another. They see things just as they are. They say exactly what they feel. If they are angry, they will share those reasons openly. If they are happy, then they will encourage everyone to join in. No bitter feelings brew in their heart. They do not leave any resentment unspoken for the mind to conspire revenge. It was easy to get along with everyone, and as a result, she has made many friends. Now that they know she is from London, the villagers were also eager to hear about the city. Surprisingly, they knew a great deal about Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, and the Queen.

When she was not exploring the village grounds, she would accompany Iqbal on his tours, through which she came to discover a church. She visited it quite often. The other day he took her to visit the villagers high up on the hills, where the Khasias tribe live. They were mainly labourers on the betel farm. She helped for a small while too, sorting through the betel leaf and the betel nut. That is all she should have done. However, having watched some of the women leisurely chew the betel leaf with the chopped betel nut embedded within it, she became ever so curious to try it, despite Iqbal's constant objections. He said she could not handle the taste. His lack of faith in her only incited her even more to try it.

Eventually Iqbal surrendered, knowing she will only learn the reasons of his objections once she suffers the experience of trying the betel.

The betel leaf and nut had stained her teeth orange, but it was not a taste to dislike. Scarcely, did she wish to prove her indifference to the betel products that the reasons to Iqbal's objections became apparent. Soon after consumption, she began to feel somewhat restless, that sort which coincides fear. Her pulse gradually increased. She felt hot, and had a sensation of light-headedness. Seeing her in this state, Iqbal became worried and immediately ordered for ice-cold water and some ice cream. Almost half-an-hour later, she felt slightly better. When she sought an explanation to the ordeal, Iqbal explained that she experienced an intoxication of the betel products. Ice cream is the best remedy to counter the effects, but she felt it so severely that recalling it alone puts her through it again. Indeed, the effects were so everlasting that she had to cancel her trip to Lawchara Rainforest, which formed the last part of Iqbal's tour that day.

'Mayah Didi!' a familiar voice calls from behind.

She looks around alert, noticing the caller to be one of the village boys.

'Come home!' he commands with the corresponding gesture.

She rose to her feet eagerly, feeling a strange awakening of hope. Finally, the wait is over. Yet, she did her best to suppress any high expectations. One can find the lost, but the found does not necessarily want to be reunited with its seeker.

She closes the sunset prayer, yet prolonged her seat upon the prayer mat, thanking the Almighty generously for returning Jameel Dhadha home safely. She looks at Dhadhi beside her. She also looked to be sharing the same supplication. 'Guide us towards the right path,' she adds mutely, staring into her raised palms.

At length, they get up. An unsettling silence ensues. They ignore it, looking busy by folding up bits of clothes that were left scattered earlier. Each was waiting for the other to speak first, but none knew where to start. Jameel Dhadha will be back from mosque soon. Their conversation will resume. They must come to some decision by then.

The whereabouts of Dhadhi's brother is still unknown. Jameel Dhadha and his brother-in-law searched all the obvious places of Dhaka for any intelligence that could lead them towards some answer. The nearest they came to it was a questionable source, who claims the person they look for could be of some political importance. This source was an old, senile man. The old man spoke quite accurately of the physical descriptions of her Dhahdi's brother, but everything else he described was hard to absorb. Apparently, her Dhadhi's brother married the daughter of some high political figure. The whole town was abuzz with the news of their wedding. No one thought anyone would marry the girl because she could not walk. When Jameel Dhadha pressed for the names, the senile man said he cannot remember, but he was certain that the marriage happened on his sister-in-law's sister's wedding. "I was invited," the senile man apparently quipped, "but for some reason, I couldn't attend."

Jameel Dhadha and Shuhel Chacha had no clue to where to go next, whose door to knock on, which road to cross, which path to tread. He was quite literally lost. They had to end their search. With the impending railway worker's strike, they had to return home. They have quite shamelessly outdone their stay as guests at their acquaintance's house.

'We have to go back to England,' Dhadhi says at last, her voice heavy.

'But we came so far,' she helplessly argues. 'Going back will mean starting all over again.'

Dhadhi's gaze declines as to mark disappointment in her decision. They came to Bangladesh with so much hope. She honestly thought she would find her brother again. But one's desire is seldom one with Fate's offer. She was helpless. How long are they going to stay here and take advantage of Jameel's hospitality? She did not have the decency to intrude his family's space any further. Jameel's family will not complain, but her own integrity can no longer justify her stay here. Where and how many places can she send Jameel to look for her brother? In her health and age, how many places can she travel to look for the lost? And what of Mayah? Can she knowingly put her granddaughter in more difficulty for her sake? She cannot sacrifice Mayah's future in chasing after those, who belonged in her past. Mayah had a life, and she was unwilling to let her granddaughter spend it in this uncertainty. Sam and Jill are also probably getting worried. She cannot put everyone in further distress for her sake. They must return home.

'We tried our best,' she affirms, lifting her gaze confidently at Mayah. 'Besides, we're not ending our search, are we? Your Jameel Dhadha will inform us regularly of any updates here. When we hear something new,' she adds, looking away from Mayah and folding and unfolding a shawl, 'we will come back to Bangladesh.'

She was not naïve. She can hear the disappointment in Dhadhi's voice. Those eyes that have looked away cannot hide those unshed tears. She puts a gentle hand on Dhadhi's arm, and at once, she stops fiddling with the shawl. Reluctantly, she meets her heartfelt gaze. The first tear of disappointment leaves her eyes, followed quickly by another. The despair was mutual. She embraces Dhadhi tightly, feeling her suffering too acutely to understand what to say or do to comfort Dhadhi. Their hopes and effort of coming here, the risks they took to prevent her father's suspicions, have gone to vain. She found no family.

'Home it is then?' she hears her Granddad ask.

His voice attracts her gaze towards the night sky, just about perceivable through the open window. She nods her answer above Dhadhi's shoulder.

'Wise girl,' he Granddad encourages. 'Home is best.'

She noted a teasing note in his voice. He knows something.

'What are you keeping secret?' she asks him, looking dubiously at the starry sky.

'Now, you know the rules, Mayah,' he reminds her gently. 'No secret sharing between here and there.'

She looks at the sky even more dubiously.

He hid his smile as best as he could, feeling a growing temptation to end the girl's confusion. But he was bound by rule. They willed to return to England.

But it is home that they agreed on.

Chapter 26

Jameel Dhadha objected firmly to their leaving for England. He held himself responsible for reducing them to take this drastic decision. They depended on him, expected him to come with better results, but his failure to do so has lost them of all hope.

They could not leave him and burdened with regret. It took a lot of convincing to pacify him and his family.

Jameel Dhadha, Shuhel Chacha and Iqbal dropped them off to the airport. It felt as if they only came here yesterday, full of anticipation to find Dhadhi's brother. But they leave as they came.

New world or third world, the queues at the airport is the same. Her mind was heavy with thoughts. She did not want to think. To distract her attention elsewhere, she decides to play a game on her phone, when she notices six miscalls from an unknown number. The last one was only two minutes ago. She has not checked any messages or calls since leaving Sreemangal. There was only person who had this number, yet she wondered why it showed up as unknown. Her mother is most likely worried at the message she sent last night. She kept the news of their return to England as delayed as possible from reaching her mother. She could have informed her four days ago, when they received confirmation for their tickets. Thoughts and questions are doubtless running through her mother's mind just as they were tormenting her and Dhadhi. As they move along the queue, she alerts Dhadhi to the numerous miscalls. She also suspected it was her mother. 'Call her,' Dhadhi advises. Number is unreachable.

They progress along the queue again, when her phone rings again. She answers the call immediately.

There was no answer. The call abruptly ends.

She waits impatiently to receive the call again, and tries dialling her mother on the contact number saved in her phone again, despite knowing the call came from an unknown number.

She receives the unknown call again, and frantically answers it. This time she heard something, but nothing was clear. The line was broken. Again, the call abruptly ends. 'Hello!' she yells down the phone, directing passengers' attention towards her. Lowering her voice, she tries again. 'Who is this?'

Someone taps her on the shoulder behind her, informing her that reception is poor here. She will have to go out. She does as advised, leaving the queue. Dhadhi also follows her, trolleying their luggage. They walk out into the sandy planes of the car park ground. They stood impatiently to receive the call again, which she does quite soon. The reception has improved slightly. She could hear someone. The caller's voice is crackly, but she could hear someone speaking. She moves about the ground, hoping to catch a better signal, with Dhadhi closely following her.

'Mayah,' she catches her name through the broken connection. 'It's me, Dad . . . can you hear me?'

'Dad?' she says in astonishment, looking at Dhadhi fearfully.

Nargis looks at Mayah equally astounded.

'Mayah,' the crackly voice comes through again. 'I'm here.'

'Here?' she says in confusion. 'Where?' she asks, looking alertly about the car park, as if she would see him somewhere amongst the crowd.

Then, to her great irritation, the line goes dead. Few seconds merely pass that she receives the call again.

'Where are you?' she asks down the phone. She heard no reply. Dhadhi takes the phone off her hands and tries instead. She also heard nothing.

'I think that was Dad,' she says disbelievingly.

'What did he mean by here?' Dhadhi asks fearfully.

'I don't know,' she admits.

'But we won't be here anymore,' Dhadhi states the obvious. 'We will be gone from here.'

At the mention of going, Dahdhi realises that she no longer held the trolley. 'Our bags!' she says.

Mayah also starts at the realisation, noticing her handbag is not on her either. She must have left it in the trolley. They look about the ground, but cannot find it. Suspecting the trolley is inside the airport, she searches there instead. They could not see it. Their nightmare was quickly becoming real. They leave the airport and look about the car park again. At length, they find a trolley, but it was empty. 'Where are our bags?' Mayah asks foolishly, preserving the denial of having become a victim of theft.

'It had all our bags,' Dhadhi says, her voice sounding strangled. 'Our money and our passports were in your handbag.'

Her pulse beats in dread, all too aware that their flight departure will be in less than half-hour. She approaches a security staff inside the airport, and desperately relays her circumstance. But detained under severe panic, she spoke too fast. Her words came out jumbled, and made no sense. She slows down and tries again. The security guard talks into his transceiver, alerting the other guards, and giving clear description of their suitcases. 'You will have to file a report at the police station,' he says in Sylheti, which she only just understood. She was not impressed with his answer.

'Our flight leaves soon,' she informs him, hoping to reach his sympathy. 'We don't have time to go to police station.'

'The guards are looking,' he tells her. 'If they can't find it, you will have to file a report at police station. No passport, no ticket, no checking,' he confirms.

Realising he will not be of any help, she looks around for Dhadhi. She was also doing her best to find help, frantically approaching one security staff to another. Neither finding any help, they regroup. 'What do we do?' Dhadhi asks in panic. Feeling slightly unsteady, she grabs Mayah's arm. Growing concerned, she asks after Dhadhi's health, looking for a seat nearby so Dhadhi could sit down.

'I'm fine,' Dhadhi reassures her. 'Don't worry about me. Call Jameel, he'll know what to do.'

She dials his number, but the lack of reception fails to connect her call. She could honestly cry. However, keeping positive, they leave the airport, into the heat of the afternoon. Panic made her hands so unsteady that she passes Jameel Dhadha's number twice. On finally reaching it the third time, she feels Dhadhi's hold loosen from her arm. Instinctively, she looks around and then to her grave shock, she finds Dhadhi falling to the ground, unconscious.

She screams in fright, unknowingly dropping her phone as she tries to catch Dhadhi.

A small crowd draws towards the scene. Cradling Dhadhi in her arms, she calls out to her, tapping her face gently in her effort to wake her. She looks at the spectators pleadingly, seeking their help, but she receives none. Suddenly, she cannot understand what to say or do.

'What's happening?' a voice says from the crowd.

'Dhadhi fainted,' she says without looking.

The person makes his way forward and kneels down beside her. He tells her to move, before carrying Dhadhi in his arm. At length, she looks at him.

She undergoes another shock.

It was the Street Entertainer, the Shahiraj of Rajshahi, dressed in his signature attire.

He also seemed to be in shock upon seeing her, but he said nothing to acknowledge their acquaintance. Their silent exchange was brief. Carrying Dhadhi securely in his arms, he makes his way through the crowd. A taxi stood by, loading two passenger's luggage into the boot. The Shahiraj of Rajshai approaches it, and claims it as their ride instead, positioning Dhadhi carefully in in the back seat. The driver comes round, demanding to know the meaning of the forceful entrance. 'Patient needs a doctor,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi simply says.

The driver refuses at once. 'This taxi is reserved for these passengers.'

The Shahiraj of Rajshahi wasted no time. Apologising to the two passengers, he unloads their luggage from the boot, and sits in the driver's seat. 'Collect it from Osmani Hospital.'

The driver stares speechlessly at the Shahiraj of Rajshahi, and continues to watch speechlessly as his taxi takes off.

Osmani Medical College Hospital is a non-government hospital. Therefore, treatment would be safe and reliable. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi reassured her that Dhadhi would get a thorough examination here. She did. High blood pressure caused Dhadhi to faint. The heat and exposure to the sun only added insult to the injury. Dhadhi always had blood pressure problems. For that reason, she was on medication. The medicines have gone missing together with the rest of their belongings.

This is all her fault. She encouraged Dhadhi to come here. She promised to help her, to become her full support, not reduce her to a sick bed. How careless did she become? Was it not enough that she lied to her father that she should endanger his mother's life? If something unfortunate were to happen today, then how would she have faced her father? What excuse could she have given him? She would have made her father an orphan. If the Shahiraj of Rajshahi did not come the right time, then she would never have forgiven herself. She was disgusted at her thoughtless. Her carelessness had lost them their belongings. She should have behaved more responsibly. They could have been heading home, but because of her doing, they have missed their flight. She could not find Dhadhi's brother, lost all their belongings, and is the reason why Dhadhi is in this hospital.

'The only plumbers I know unblock drains,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi says into the silence.

She looks at him confusedly. Walking over to the water cooler, he fills a plastic cup and offers it to her. 'This water in,' he points to the cup, 'and that water out,' he adds pointing to her eyes. 'I don't know any plumbers that can unblock tear ducts.'

There was a strange encouragement in his frankness, which led her to release those unshed tears in her eyes. She has been trying hard to not cry and look pathetic in front the Sahahiraj of Rajshahi. But she felt unusually good at feeling weak. She drinks the water, and cautiously lifts her teary gaze at the Shahiraj of Rajshahi.

He no longer wore his hat, leaning sideways against the wall, his back to her. 'Cry all you want,' he says over his shoulder. 'I'm not looking.'

She started at his accuracy of detecting her glance. In spite of herself, a smile rose to her lips. Finishing her water, she gets up and stands next to him.

'Thank you,' she says. 'If you weren't here today, then –'

'Then someone else would have helped you,' he adds.

'No one else did. Everyone just watched.'

'You created a scene, and people always want to see a free show.'

Feeling slightly at ease, she resumes her seat. Dhadhi still has not regained consciousness. Her condition is stable. Once she is awake and doctors can confirm her health is out of danger, they can discharge her.

At length, the nurse leaves Dhadhi's room. She gets up immediately and makes eager enquiries after her health. She is stable, but still unconscious. The nurse recommends her to wait outside so to not disturb the patient. 'Here are the fee papers,' the nurse says, handing her some A4 documents. 'You can pay it at the counter ahead.'

She took the papers as if she were in good supply of money. How was she going to settle the bill?

Before the Shahiraj of Rajsahi can detect the reasons to her hesitation, she heads for the reception desk. To her great relief, there is a queue of two people before her, giving her sufficient time to decide on how to explain her present financial situation. Perhaps she can negotiate something. The two people quickly settle their bills, and her turn came ever so soon. The receptionist reaches out her hands for the bill papers, and she unhesitatingly gives them to her. Having looked about her for priers, she lowers her voice, and explains her difficulty to settle the fee. The receptionist looks unaffected, and demands the fee settlement. She was conscious that everyone has become aware of her inability to pay.

She explains again, and again the receptionist was determined for the payment, this time threatening that the hospital will stop all treatment if she did not clear the payment.

'No, please don't,' she pleads the receptionist, seeking other alternatives to reach a settlement.

There was no other alternative. A queue has built up behind her. As she was considering the next feasible action, she finds the Shahiraj of Rajshahi whips the bill papers from her hands.

Having studied the total cost, he takes off his hat, withdraws some money held securely within the hatband, and settles the bill. She was embarrassed at her lack of funds, but grateful for his help. 'Receipt please,' he demands from the receptionist.

'When they ask for money,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi says, as they move away from the counter, 'they print it on A4. When they thank you for paying, they print it on this,' he gestures towards the small strip of paper.

'You have indebted me once more to your generosity,' she says awkwardly.

'My Amma always said,' he replies, 'never take the curses of the suffering. They always come true. I didn't do anything for you or me. I simply saved the poor receptionist's life from your curses.'

The Shahiraj of Rajshahi certainly did not like accepting compliments, despite deserving them. He was a strange man. She had a difficult time understanding him. She only met him twice, and in each meeting, she gained an impression that he had a personal grudge with the world and its inhabitants. Yet he helped her, with whom he once had an argument. She felt incredibly grateful and bad for disrupting his evening. Even when she said that she shan't be offended if he wished to leave, he stayed the whole while. Admittedly, she did not have the courage to release him either.

Upon reaching Dhadhi's room, she looks through the window of the door. Dhadhi was still asleep.

'Two lone women,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi says suddenly, as he leans comfortably against the wall beside her, 'no money, no bag, no belonging, and at the airport. Were you running away?'

She has not related to him of her ordeal at the airport. She did not wish to burden her troubles on him, but she strangely felt he had a right to know. It will be a long narration, so she reclaims her seat on the chair. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi keeps his position, watching her concernedly as she considers how to start. She will tell him everything. Thus, decides to start right from the beginning.

Chapter 27

For a long while, he said nothing. She wished to acknowledge him of her ordeal, but instead she comes to realise the extent of her situation.

'So you have no money,' he notes thoughtfully, reclining idly in his chair, 'no spare clothes, no passport, and no address?'

Her head lowered, she answers with a reluctant nod.

'Apart from some Jameel Dhadha, who lives in Sreemangal, and an estranged relative you've never met, you have no other contacts here?'

She nods again.

'Your father maybe in Bangladesh, but he doesn't know your whereabouts and you don't know his?'

She nods again, helplessly admitting one more fact. 'During the whole Dhadhi commotion,' she says, her head still lowered, 'I dropped my phone. I don't have it on me, and I don't know Jameel Dhadha's contact number of-by-heart.'

The Shahiraj of Rajshahi elapsed into another silence. Neither said anything.

The nurse leaves Dhadhi's room again, informing them that she is awake. She eagerly rises to her feet and enters the room. She hugs Dhadhi tightly, expressing her joy and relief at finding her well.

'I'm fine, dear,' Dhadhi reassures her, trying to calm her as she helplessly cries again.

Carrying a clipboard, the doctor comes in with a smile. 'The reports have come back normal,' he says in Bengali. 'I understand your Dhadhi is on medication for her blood pressure.'

Mayah affirms, explaining once again the reasons to why those medicines are not in their possession. He has prescribed them again and an inhaler. He hands her the prescription papers, and she takes them hesitantly. Apart from that collection, the doctor was happy to discharge Dhadhi.

The Shahiraj of Rajshai enters as soon as the doctor leaves. 'Assalamualaykum,' he greets Dhadhi.

Dhadhi returns his salaam immediately, while Mayah watches anxiously as Dhadhi's expression changes to mark her recognition of the Shahiraj of Rajshahi.

He understood the reasons behind Dhadhi's astonishment. The two women needed some time in each other's confidence. Thus, he offers to collect the medicines, taking the prescription slip out of her hands. As soon as he leaves, Mayah relates the development between here and the airport.

So much has happened in those six hours.

The Shahiraj of Rajshahi knocks and re-enters the room, carrying a small bag of medicines.

'You can thank me once we have vacated the room,' he says having read the two women's appreciative glances.

Dhadhi and Mayah exchange an unsettled glance on the mention of vacating the room. They have nowhere to go once they leave the hospital.

'There are many options,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi announces wisely, 'but of them only three are sensible.'

They eagerly wait to hear more.

'It's always three,' he adds quietly, but then adopting a serious voice, he continues. 'Option 1: British High Commission. You can knock on the doors of the government, tell them your story, and wait patiently for their help. They have an office in Sylhet, but their opening hours are from eight in the morning until half-three in the afternoon. The time is now,' he checks his silver pocket watch, 'coming to eight in the evening. During office closing hours, please call 88028823305. Having gone through one operator to the next, you will be advised to set up an appointment with one of their agents. Once they have confirmed your case is genuine, and you are not some terrorist or an escapee, they may give you a replacement passport. Only they know how long this will take, but I strongly advise you to consider your Dhadhi's health.'

In spite of herself, a small rose to her lips. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi gave this option, but in a way as to not have said anything negative about it, yet highlighted the flaws in accepting it.

'Option 2?' she asks interestedly.

'I take you to the train station, and personally deliver you to your relative, Jameel Dhadha. I can only recommend you to consider the time and length of your travel. It is dark out there and it will take us at least three hours to reach your Jameel Dhadha's house. Consider his reaction when he receives you, and your Dhadhi's health. Oh, and this is all dependent on if we can get tickets and whether there is an available train to Sreemangal at this hour.'

This option did not seem too appealing either, which leaves option 3.

'I share a flat,' he recites the final option, 'with two respectable men and an orphaned child, whom you have already met at the dhaba. It's been a very long day. You need rest, your Dhadhi needs rest, and I need rest. I can spare you a room, and we can let this night somehow pass. In the morning, we will have a fresh mind to decide on the next action. If you agree, then I promise to take full responsibility of your welfare.'

She and Dhadhi exchange another unsettled glance. It was tempting to not think about tomorrow, and yet put this disastrous day behind them. But she did not have the indecency to intrude in someone else's household like unexpected guests. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi has suffered enough inconveniences at her expense. She could not delve him into any further. Scarcely did she wish to decline this offer that the Shahiraj of Rajshahi speaks again.

'You have no reason to suspect my intentions,' he says.

'It is not that,' Dhadhi reassures him. 'We can't intrude your space. You have a life of your own and we don't wish to disturb you any further.'

'I have a living, not a life.'

He spoke in a way that struck Mayah with empathy. It's as if everything he said rose from a bitter experience. A strange mystery surrounded the Shahiraj the Rajshahi. She grew ever so curious to know. Besides, what other choice did they have?

Not their own, but towards a home they will go.

The Shahiraj of Rajshahi lives in Lamabazar, in a three bedroom flat of a three-storey building, which he shares with three other people. Each floor had a flat, and each flat had its own balcony. The middle floor belongs to him and his flatmates. Their landlord is native of Sylhet, but lives in America having gained citizenship twenty-two years ago. The landlord was a restaurateur, the income of which helped him construct this three storey building. This was not the only property under his name. Apparently, the landlord had several around Sylhet. 'I have only one confusion,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi admitted as they hopped off the rickshaw. 'I cannot seem to conclude whether his restaurant earning funds these constructions, or whether the rent he earns from these properties funds his business abroad. Don't stress your mind,' he advised her as soon as she set to resolve the confusion. 'I've been living here for four years, and the dilemma remains a dilemma.'

The landlord comes to Sylhet every three months to collect his rent. He had a family of his own. In fact, he married a girl from Sylhet, who also immigrated to the US.

It was very dark and the only sound was that of the crickets, pulsating through the humid night air. The poor street lighting made it difficult to gather the surrounding. She could only see similar looking buildings, some smaller, some bigger, with specks of overgrown trees growing between the concrete structures. Empty washing lines strung from one tree branch to the other, while others hooked from one building to another.

The Shahiraj of Rajshahi's flatmates were both workers, of similar age. Shoaib works at a garment factory, and Hassan works at one of the newly built shopping malls in Sylhet. The scarcity of jobs in their native villages attracted both men to seek employment opportunities in Sylhet. Shoaib has been in Sylhet for the last four years, and Hassan has been here for almost a year. They send money regularly to their families at home. None was married, and she gained the general impression that their struggles have not improved much. The only person that does not pay rent is the orphan boy, whom the Shahiraj of Rajshahi named Live Wire. When she enquired why he gave this name to the child, the Shahiraj of Rajsahi answered, "When I first saw him, he was as thin as a wire, yet very charged, running around here and here, thieving away".

Live Wire was still at work at the dhaba. When the dhaba closes at ten, someone often drops him home.

The two flatmates received the Shahiraj of Rajshahi with visible concern. All three usually meet at their local mosque for the sunset prayer, but their friend was absent today. When they wished to learn of the reason, the Shahiraj of Rajshahi introduced her and Dhadhi to them instead. Concerns turned into confusion, at which point the Shahiraj of Rajshahi requested his friends to refrain from asking anything until he accommodates their guests. Explaining nothing, he leads her and Dhadhi towards the room where they are to spend the night.

She and Dhadhi stole interested glimpses about the house as they walked along. The flat was not small, but spacious enough to fit four tenants. The furnishing was nothing to share, but for a house that had no female tenants this was hardly surprising. The most distinctive item of furnishing she noticed was the television. It was the conventional television, with the concave screen.

At length, they reach a bedroom. It was a small room, with two single beds at each corner. There was a glassless window besides one of the beds, its shutters safely closed, while a single wardrobe and a small chest of drawers stood in between the two beds, aligned against the green washed walls. 'This is my quarter,' he gestures to the room proudly. 'But it will be yours until further notice. Live Wire usually sleeps there.'

'Where will you and Live Wire sleep?' she asks, feeling ashamed that because of her stupidity she has deprived her well-wisher of his bed.

'I sleep wherever I find sleep,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi answers easily. 'Live Wire can sleep on the bedstead in the living room.'

She disapproved. It did not feel right to deprive a child of his bed space, especially after he comes back from a hard day's work.

'The comfort of a bed is beyond an orphan's expectation, when he is more than grateful to have a roof over his head,' he cajoles her. 'Why don't you and Dhadhi freshen up? The bathroom is in the next room. Turn the geyser on to get the hot water, and I should have some spare towels.'

He rummages through the wardrobe, into which Mayah stole discreet glances. He had similar clothes to his present attire of white shirts, dark blazers, hats, and black pants. He finds a spare towel, neatly folded, and hands it to Dhadhi. 'I only have one,' he admits. 'You will have to share.'

Mayah thanked him wholeheartedly for all his help. 'Mention not,' he replies somewhat distractedly, heading over to the bed, and declining to the ground, he retrieves something from underneath it.

An old trunk.

He looks at it carefully, almost melancholically, for some time. He looked torn, but eventually recovering, he gestures to it and says, "All yours."

Explaining nothing further, he reclaims some of his essential belongings, and takes his leave.

Her curiosity unable to contain itself, she unclasps the buckles of the trunk. Inside, there were many clothes, mainly saris, some plain and some fancy.

Nargis feels the material between her fingers. No one makes saris of this quality anymore. These saris must be of a time when the labourer was paid his full due to make it.

Mayah leafed through the clothes, finding nothing that she may feel comfortable wearing. When she reached the bottom of the pile, she noticed a package of some kind. It was a small envelope. She was conscious of her inappropriate temptation to pry. Dhadhi warned her against it, to which she did not argue, replacing the envelope at the bottom the pile. 'I don't wear saris,' she helplessly complains.

'These saris are not the ones you tried in London,' Dhadhi defends the material. 'Look at the quality of these saris,' she says appeased. 'These are handmade by hardworking labourers. Their earnings depended on the quality of their work. And even then they got paid poorly.'

She turns red with shame.

'I'll dress you in a way that your stomach doesn't show,' Dhadhi reassures her.

There was no other alternative. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi has been so kind to them that she could not risk offending him by refusing to wear these clothes. Dhadhi decides to freshen up first, while she flicks through the pile of clothes, undecided to which one she should wear. Immersed between the clothes, she notices something else again. It was a photograph – a coloured photograph of the Shahiraj of Rajshahi's graduation. A man in spectacles stood on one side of him and a sari-clad woman stood on the other side. Both were smiling proudly. They must be his parents. Where are they now?

She recalls something that Iqbal said to her some time ago. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi is fighting a war with himself every day. What war was this? What compelled this first-class degree holder to become a Street Entertainer? What are the reasons to his strong objections to education, when he himself is a graduate?

Who is this Shahiraj of Rajshahi?

He could be a chef.

For Dhadhi he cooked 'kisuri'. It was a simple rice dish, slowly boiled in water, with a flavouring of salt, ginger, methi seeds and bay leaf. During Ramadan, Dhadhi always prepares it for iftar. It was easy on the stomach. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi did not wish to take any risks with her health.

Being under no restriction, she ate her rice and curry welcomingly, despite the discomfort of wearing the sari. Everyone ate together. Her Sylheti is bound to improve the more she hears another talking it. During dinner, she learnt more about Shoaib and Hassan brother's jobs, and of their families. Shoaib's father used to work in the rice fields, but is now retired, and Hasssan's father passed away when he was a child. He does not remember how old he was, but it was before his little sister learned to walk. In return, she and Dhadhi talked of their family and life in the UK. Surprisingly, Shoaib and Hassan were very familiar with the famous places of London. They have seen Buckingham Palace, London Eye, Big Ben, and Tower Bridge many times in Bollywood movies. She never watched any Bollywood movies, so was quite shocked to learn this bit of news.

They shared something of their family, except the Shahiraj of Rajsahi. He said nothing about his family. At one point, she was tempted to ask him. But for some reason, she swallowed the question, leaving it unsaid. Live Wire soon joined their small group. He came home shortly after ten. When he saw her, he turned pale at the very sight of her, greeting her with the word "Mastorni". Dhadhi laughed at the referral he gave her. She later learnt that 'Mastorni' means teacher, a name the boy doubtless gave her after their last meeting.

She enquired after his day at work. It was a busy day at the dhaba. Customers came in their masses. He barely had more than two minutes between customer orders. Returning to his usual sense of humour, the Shahiraj of Rajshahi jokingly told the boy that he would be taking a contribution towards the rent this month. Thankfully, the boy does not start work until one in the afternoon, and more than that, he was happy to work at this age.

Chapter 28

Eating and talking coming to an end, everyone soon retired to bed. The Shahiraj of Rasjshahi made a bed for himself on the living room floor using some fresh sheets and a mat, which was made of thick jute. She felt bad for causing the inconvenience of having to displace two people out of their bedroom. She felt worse yet because she did not know how long she and Dhadhi would be causing the Shahiraj of Rasjshahi this inconvenience. Admittedly, she has not given tomorrow much thought. She wished it did not come, but the night was not everlasting. Its darkness may veil the problems, but Dawn's rising will force her to confront each problem all over again. Her struggle to sleep did not only arise from the uncertainty of tomorrow or from wearing a sari to bed. It rose from everything she has witnessed in her short trip to Bangladesh. Yes, the Shahiraj of Rajshahi rescued the orphan boy from his wrong ways, gave him a home, and an opportunity to earn a living so to keep him from going astray, but the truth is that Live Wire is only a child. No child should give up its childhood to earn an income. Yes, education does not guarantee a magical improvement to one's circumstance, but it widens the choices that person can choose to better themselves.

When she consoled her heart that the country has not quite reached the standard of the developed world, she recalls the landlord's improved situation. He has become a stranger to his motherland. To improve his life, he left the country and settled permanently somewhere else. He has achieved betterment, but the country has not. His children are relishing in an English education, but poverty forced children here to accept labour. If everyone leaves the country, then who will help this country? If men settle abroad, then for whom do they build houses here? Is this the general story of Bangladesh?

Amidst her thoughts, she hears a distant tune, coming from somewhere as to assume the instrument to be easily traceable. She sits on the bed, listening intently to the quiet, calm, almost solemn, notes. The captivating tune demanded her to investigate the source. She opens the window shutters beside her. The music did not sound as distant anymore. Intrigued, she stretches her gaze about the unlit grounds. There was no one there.

The tune fades to a stop. For some time, she heard nothing. Her attention turned towards Dhadhi, who shifts about in her bed. Worried that Dhadhi may awake, she closes the shutters again. Despite her hectic day, she was not tired at all. She had no ipad, no computer, no books, and no phone to pass her time either.

She hears the tune again. Overcome with curiosity, she leaves the bedroom, hoping to sneak through the windows of the living room instead, as it gave the front view of the building. Perhaps she could see the musician from there. Somehow managing to find her way through the dark, she reaches the living room. An oil lantern burned on the table beside the bedstead upon which Live Wire slept. Her gaze fell to the ground, where the Shahiraj of Rajshahi's laid his bed.

He was not there.

A sudden realisation struck her. Quietly, she walks over to the main door. It was shut, but unlocked, confirming her suspicions. Thus, she quietly opens it, and from the balcony peers at the ground below. Lying along the bench, with a dimmed oil lamp resting on the ground, staring idly at the sky, the Shahiraj of Rajshahi was the musician behind the tune. The instrument was a harmonica. He was so absorbed in the black sky that he does not notice her prying at him. She makes her way down. She cannot sleep anyway, and cannot go to sleep now without learning something about the mysterious Shahiraj of Rajshahi.

Although it was dark, he could feel someone's shadow fall on him. Abruptly, he stops playing the harmonica, noticing the girl. 'The tune usually puts people to sleep,' he says as he gets up to a sitting position.

'And where is your sleep?' she asks him, taking a seat on the bench.

'Still trying to find it,' he says looking at the sky again.

She has always seen the Shahiraj of Rajshahi dressed in a tuxedo suit. Presently, he was dressed casually in a t-shirt and a pair of tracks.

'Did you awake or were you never asleep?' he asks her through a sigh.

'Always awake,' she states, noticing a few moths flying around the oil lantern, entranced by the burning light. I'm not used to wearing a sari to bed.'

'I did consider taking something from one those washing lines,' he nods towards them, 'but the items were taken by their rightful owners. And they should be removed. If you leave clothes to dry overnight, some scavenger or wanderer is bound to take it. Don't worry, in the morning, you'll find something more comfortable.'

'I don't want the morning to come,' she confesses. 'Sometimes it feels like I'm in a nightmare, and anytime I will wake up, and not have to worry about any of this.'

'Then I wish you never wake up from that nightmare. The reality is much worse.'

He spoke frankly, but a solemn look came across his face. As if to cover it, he plays a tune on the harmonica. She let him play undisturbed, silently considering how to address her questions.

'I came to one of your shows,' she acknowledges him. 'You were talking about the virtues of education.'

He smoothly ends the tune, and says, 'You must have enjoyed it immensely to have tipped me with English currency.'

If someone else had made that accurate presumption, then she would have been amazed.

'It was thought-provoking,' she points out. 'You do not seem to believe in education. I understood your arguments, but it is wrong to say that education only improves one's character. It also gives one the opportunity to get a career, to improve their station.'

He did not want to argue with the girl. She was his guest and responsibility. She's had a difficult day and the last thing he wants is to lecture her. 'If any of the neighbours see us talking like this, then rumours will ablaze. We should go inside.'

He makes a start to get up, but quickly sits down again when the girl says she does not care for the rumours. 'Why fear what is not true?'

'Because a lie is difficult to disprove. It doesn't exist.'

'There is one truth that does exist and that you hide.'

'The truth that is discovered by another is not hidden. It is merely unspoken.'

He gets to his feet and heads towards the building, hoping the girl will follow him.

'Then own it,' she demands of him, rising to her feet.

He stops immediately.

'What objection can a first-class engineering graduate have against education?'

She was certain that she touched a nerve. Yet she did not consider her question beyond her right to ask. She was eager to learn the reasons of his resentments towards education.

He turns around slowly, and for a long while looks at her almost lividly. She felt slightly scared, yet was in a strange confidence that he will answer her question. She regretted being so abrupt, but was certain that this was the only tactic. At length, he walks up to her, his livid brown eyes fixed on her determinedly.

'What do you want to know?' he asks her, his voice suddenly thick. "Why this first-class engineer dresses like an Englishman, wanders the streets aimlessly, sharing his sad stories of education, of life, of unemployment?'

She said nothing.

'Because I am human,' he states as if she was unaware of it. 'I am hurt when I get hit.'

His voice thickens and his eyes turn red, as if with anger or perhaps anguish.

'Yes, I am an educated man,' he confesses. 'Even now, I secretly look through my study notes. When I see a big building, I wonder at it in amazement. I study the design, the build, and the dimensions. I wonder how many workers were on site to make it what it is. What machines did they use to put it together? When I enter a newly built shopping mall, I don't look at the shops or the offers. My mind wanders on the architecture, the size of the beams, the supporting structures, towards everything that puts a building together! But what you learn is not always what you practice. The poor can only tilt their head at those structures. The rich sitting up there will always look down on us.'

From a very young age, he showed an unusual talent in maths and science. Teachers were very impressed, and realised that state education will not do his talent justice. The government manages municipal schools very poorly. Education is below standard. These schools do not teach English because English teachers are expensive to hire. It was upon the recommendation of a teacher at his school that led his parents to continue his schooling, but in a private institution. His Baba was a labourer in a textile mill, earning enough to provide for his family, consisting of his wife and son, and his mother. His Baba was poorly educated, but the dearth of it made him value the benefits of education. He could not overlook the visible aptitude his son showed for maths and science. He could not condemn his only child to the same fate as his. As a result, his Baba worked overtime at the factory to fund his son's private education, believing that strong education will obtain his son a high earning job, which would redeem them from their poverty. He remembers many evenings, when his mother would look eagerly through the window, waiting for his Baba to come from work.

Suddenly, it was no longer just his education. It also held his parents' success. The realisation had him put greater effort towards his studies. He could not disappoint them, or insult the struggles they were meeting every day to keep him at school.

With age comes a certain understanding, and understanding grows feelings. He must have been nearing sixteen, when his gaze caught the particular attraction of Fowzia, his first love. She was one of the neighbours' daughters. They grew up together, but a friendship that progresses into youth is no longer just a friendship. "If you don't hurry up, then Amma will marry me to someone else."

She blushed and confirmed everything he believed to have misheard.

Love was not his priority at that age. Love cannot satiate an empty stomach, and to keep a stomach full he needed to earn a decent living. But he could not compromise with her future. He told her that if a suitor of good character and fortune proposed to her then she should accept it.

His top scoring grades had gained him admission into BUET through scholarship. Away from family and home, studies were not easy. Yet, he worked hard, made many friends, some who shared his own lack of fortune and others who were the sons and daughters of national figures of importance. For the latter, university was merely a social institution, fully funded by their wealthy parents. What astonished him even greater was that, despite their poor attendance at lectures and absence of taking notes, they somehow managed to pass their modules. However, he was not there to judge or complain. The completion of his graduation will be his first step towards improving his family's circumstance. There was also Fowzia, who also waited eagerly for his return, doubtless declining one prospective suitor to the other so she could marry him.

Three years later, he achieved first-class honours, scoring the second highest in his whole year. On the day of his graduation, he felt as if he won half the battle against his poverty. His parents stood beside him, and looked on proudly. When he returned home, he began submitting applications for training posts.

The truth of reality is only visible through the pains we receive from it. No firm was willing to hire him. Sometimes the excuse was that there were no openings, other times they simply stated that he had insufficient experience. It was difficult not to feel disheartened. Once he was so depressed that he sat at the steps of his local mosque, wondering how long he can keep his parents' hope alive. How long can he keep Fowzia under the false reassurance that he will soon find a job and be in a position to seek her parents' permission to marry her?

That day, finding him looking defeated, a wise old man stopped beside him and asked why he must lose faith at the footsteps of God. He related his situation to the old man, who laughed jovially at his narration. The Almighty is testing your faith. Verily with hardship, there is relief. In despair, cry, but blame none, for what is to come will be better than what has gone by.

The old man's words reignited his hope.

He watched silently as his parents absorb the neighbours' implicit comments and taunts. He listened attentively to their scathing remarks. One's jealousy becomes apparent upon the failures of their contender. He saw the true faces of many. Thus, he considered, until he finds employment of his choice, he will take up a small job somewhere. His Baba helped him to get a worker's position at the factory. It was at the factory that the true plight of the country's employment became apparent. It was difficult enough to get a job that sought no qualification. How easy was it going to be to get a job that sought experience and qualification?

His search for a position within the engineering industry was continuous. Two different firms called him for an interview. The interviewer looked very pleased with his grades and noticed his passion for furthering his career in engineering. Scarcely did he believe himself successful, that the interviewer said there was only one condition he must accept to get this training post. The interviewer tapped his shirt pocket meaningfully. He sought the settlement of bribery.

When he asked for the value of this settlement, the interviewer gave a sum as to assume that he did not come for a job or indeed need a job. Controlling his anger, he left the interview. His Baba did everything to keep him encouraged.

'Then one day, the Shahiraj of Rajshahi says gazing distantly at something, his voice slow and mellow, 'I lost that encouragement too.'

Chapter 29

His Baba left without seeing an engineer in his son. He did nothing to redeem his Baba from poverty. In poverty he was born, and in poverty he died.

Suddenly, he had the sole responsibility of his mother and grandmother.

Once, as he was heading for home, he bumped into a university friend, who was the son of an industrialist. The friend was smartly dressed, leaving a building in which he applied for a training position. After an initial difficulty in recalling his name, the friend finally recognised him. Each asked after the other's health, their conversation finally leading to employment.

His father got him a training position in that firm. The chief of the firm is a good friend of his father, who supplies the cement for this firm's projects.

He did not get this job on his merit. It was a business deal, and this boy was the negotiated price of his father's cement. They entrusted in this boy's hands the planning, the design, and the safety of a building.

When the friend asked after his own job status, he reddened in embarrassment, admitting to working in a garment factory. The friend looked shocked and amused, and questioned that was he not a topper in his year. His friend advised him not to lose heart. It is a bitter truth of the world. It matters not what one knows, but whom one knows. "This is why I never bothered with studying," his friend reasoned. He knew his father would get him a decent job somewhere. The other boys in his year did the same. Some of their parents were trustees of the university.

That day, many truths fell to his understanding, but meeting his friend proved to be of great benefit. The friend promised to arrange some position for him within the firm he worked. It was not his desired way to acquire a job, but it seemed as if this was the only way.

He never met the friend again. Once, he stood outside the firm, hoping to see him and get an update on the possibility of getting a posting. The watchman became suspicious, and demanded the reason to why he keeps this eager observation at the site. He explained, and becoming helpless, asked the watchman to bring some news of his friend's whereabouts. The watchman obliged, adding that the friend is no longer in Rajshahi. The firm had won a contract to build a five-star hotel in Sylhet. His friend was one of the engineers in the team.

He felt no shock or pain. Perhaps he was accustomed to hearing bad news. The only encouragement that kept his faith alive in humanity was the old man's wise words. He must verily with hardship.

Scarcely did he manage to gain a positive outlook on life that he received fresh insults to his injuries. Fowzia's parents had fixed her marriage. Her suitor was a British Bengali, who has come to Bangladesh at his parents' bequest to marry. He knew not what to feel or think anymore.

'She wanted to wait for me,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi says in a whisper. 'She did wait for me, but she is but a girl. She has little authority over her marriage. Her parents were overwhelmed that a British suitor had chosen her as his wife. He was a solicitor in London. He came from a good family and was of a gentle disposition. After marriage, he will take her to London, where she will spend the rest of her life as a Londoner. Her parents did not ask for her agreement. They had decided already.'

He stops speaking, as if he was reliving the pain of losing. The silence ensued for a long while as the recollection refreshed his wounds. A tear rolled down her cheeks, followed quickly by another.

He was a guest at her wedding. He saw what could have been his become someone else's. His heart took its time to mend. He took a break from sending out any new applications. The factory saw him work longer than usual hours. When his mother pressed for the reasons, he would give some excuse or other. Sometimes she believed him, other times she would just walk away, feeling equally dejected.

He had to bury the desire to develop a career beneath the need to keep the household running. The desire to become an engineer disappeared. Within two years, he lost his grandmother and his mother. 'That was bound to happen,' he says with a small laugh. How long was that mother going to survive, who saw her own child's funeral? How long was that mother going to survive, who saw her son bury his dreams and desires?

'The house became too quiet,' he says into the surreal quietness. 'Sometimes I would even hear echoes of my Baba laughing, or of the pots and pans that my Amma would use in the kitchen, or of the nutcracker that Dhadhi would use on her betel nuts. One day those noises would not stop. I kept hearing their voices. So I fled. I fled that empty house.'

He ran and ran aimlessly, not knowing where to stop or go. Then, there, not too far from him, he caught sight of the train station. His feet came to a sudden halt. He got on the first train departing Rajshahi. He had no clue or care to its destination. He just wanted to get out of Rajshahi.

Hours later, he learnt the terminus stop was Sylhet. The train's journey had ended, and his journey was only beginning. He was on his own, but he was not alone. He was quiet, but he was amongst noise. He was wandering, but he did not feel lost. He explored the city in a trance. He did not want to wake up. It was becoming darker, but he was not scared. Perhaps if he were, then his stomach would not have complained of hunger. He could not silence those complains. He had no money to satiate his hunger. When the azaan for the sunset prayers commenced, he followed the call to the nearest mosque. There, he surrendered his future to Him. He no longer had the will or strength to continue. Men finished their prayers and headed home. He had no home. He sat helplessly, leaning against a pillar of the mosque, when fellow attendee approached him. "Why do you look so defeated in a place where Man's prayers are answered?" the man asked almost cheerfully.

His prayers have not been answered.

"What do you seek in your prayers?"

A reason to live.

The man looked at him sceptically for some time. When he eventually spoke, he said, "Where there is no reason, there is freedom."

The man said little, but it had a profound effect on him. "Alom," the man introduced himself, having noticed the positive reaction of his words.

Freedom is that path bereft of fears and obligations. He found many good friends along that path. Alom was one such friend, and the owner of the dhaba.

'The dhaba,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi says somewhat absently, before falling into a silence. 'This flat,' he nods towards the building, 'is merely an address. My home is there, at the dhaba. My own left me, and strangers there made me one of their own. Sat there, in the dhaba, I came to many realisations. My job as a Street Entertainer is a result of one such realisation.'

The Shapla Hotel opposite the dhaba was a construction site five years ago. He was at the dhaba one afternoon, contemplating the direction in which he wished to take his life, when a car pulled up in front of the building site. A group of smartly dressed men came out, amongst them being a familiar face. It belonged to the friend who promised him a job at the firm he worked in. One of the construction workers distributed safety helmets amongst the group, and he realised at once that the Shapla Hotel must be the project that called the friend to Sylhet. He could not quite understand why, but shamelessly he made a hopeful approach towards the friend.

The friend was shocked to see him, said nothing, not even a greeting. Despite addressing the friend with his name, the friend looked at him as if he were a stranger. When other men of the group questioned his association with him, the friend shrugged at a loss. The group entered the site and he spent five years watching rubble and sand blossom into the five-star Shapla Hotel.

The Shahiraj of Rajshahi fell silent again. Perhaps he was trying to come to terms with the refreshed despair. She said nothing either, quietly wiping those tears that trickled down her cheeks every so often. It was doubtless easier to accept the death of a loved one than it was to become a stranger to a friend. He walks over to the oil lantern resting on the ground, and lifts it off the ground. The moths, still entranced by the light, follow the elevation, flying wildly around the glass enclosure. 'Men and moths,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi says studying the lantern intently, 'are the same. They are attracted to that which looks appealing. They become so foolish that they do not consider that there is no light without heat, and getting too close to heat can burn one. Like I have.'

Two moths have already been destined to death by flying into the heated glass.

'Maybe if I were the son of a rich man then I could have bought a job. Maybe if I were an Englishman, then Fowzia's parents would have married her to me. I have lost everything. My dreams, aspirations, desires, have become ashes,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi states, placing the lantern on the ground again. 'I no longer had a purpose to pursue a career. Who was I to make proud? I have failed against my circumstances. Like a coward, I have given up hope. I am human. I can endure so much. First, love left me. Then, family abandoned me, and then friends forgot me. Why,' he asks helplessly. 'Because I foolishly studied hard in a country where education is of no value? But I did learn something very useful,' he adds as an afterthought. 'In the end, I learnt that it is not what you know, but who you know that can help one to find betterment. I may be a first-class degree holder, but the grades are a few letters and numbers of no consequence. There is no dearth of talent in the country. There is a lack of discipline, of governance. Everything is about making more money, of obtaining power, of manipulating the weak so those born into wealth stay wealthy. The cement of Shapla Hotel carries the whiff of corruption. The rich become richer, and the poor abandon their homes to seek betterment elsewhere. The landlord of this building is one such man.'

He is the living evidence of defeat against this country's poverty. Education is only knowledge and knowledge is awareness. That is all. It is the truth of this country. If he were the only unfortunate man to have experienced this misfortune, then he would have made his peace. But he is one of many. A girl is married against her will because an Englishman has come from somewhere to offer her a better life. A son must leave his parents because someone somewhere said there is a big opportunity to make money in the West. All the opportunities are elsewhere. Everyone leaves the unimproved for betterment. Is there no one that can leave the improved to make things better here? Is there truly no hope here?

'Verily with hardship,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi repeats the wise man's advice. 'I have!' he suddenly yells into the night, looking at the black sky as if he were looking for the Unseen. She becomes worried at once, conscious of the disturbance his yelling will have on the neighbours. 'Where is my relief? When will better come?'

She looked about the flats and houses around her. None peeked or glanced at the commotion. Everyone seemed to have slept through the Shahiraj of Rajshahi's yells, as if they were aware to the reasons behind this disturbance. Finding no answer, he looks away from the sky, and turns around abruptly at her.

'Will it come?' he asks her innocently, his eyes bloodshot and tearful. 'Will they ever stop playing the blame game and fix the problems?'

She had no answer either.

'Will change ever come?' he asks her again. 'Will better ever come?'

She stood silent, watching him through her tears. He shook his head disappointingly at her silence. His gaze still on her, he retreats towards the flat, stumbling dangerously as he moves away.

She kept her position, helplessly watching the Shahiraj of Rajshahi until he disappears completely. Any reply she would have offered him would have sounded like a pitiful reassurance. She did not feel pity. The tears that left her eyes were not of pity. He has lost much and many. Yet, he was not alone in his despair. The struggles were not unique to him.

Beneath the night sky, she stood alone. How she wished to have confessed that better does not come, but betterment does.

Chapter 30

She was never asleep to wake up. It would be of no surprise if she were one of the first persons in Sylhet to have prayed Fajr today. When she finished, she retired to bed again, lying wide-awake, listening to Dhadhi's gentle breaths, wondering whether she should wake her up to read the morning prayers. In the end, she decided against it. Dhadhi needed rest. She also needed rest, but mind occupied with thoughts and heart filled with distress, her eyes struggled to close. Thus, she had decided to stay awake and apologise to the Shahiraj of Rajshahi the minute she heard him wake up.

But seldom do the intentions of Man coincide with their actions. Not only did she sleep, but she also overslept.

When she woke up, she noticed Dhadhi's bed was empty and the time was nearing ten. Angry at herself and growing concerned about Dhadhi's health, she leaves the room in a hurry, looking searchingly about the living room for the Shahiraj of Rajshahi.

'Eh, Mastorni,' the familiar voice of Live Wire calls her as she passes the kitchen. Standing on a small stool, he was busy washing the dishes. She retraces her steps towards the small kitchen, and asks the boy of everyone's whereabouts.

'Well, good morning to you too,' the boy teases her.

Hiding her embarrassment, she politely wishes the boy good morning. 'Now can you tell me where everyone is?'

'Everyone is at work,' he says easily, 'except Shahiraj bhai. He's at the police station . . . with Dhadhi.'

He expected nothing short of shock from the Mastorni.

'Police station?' she demands confirmation.

'Yes,' he confirms, jumping off the stool and wiping his hands on the towel hanging on his shoulder, 'at the Police station. They have gone to report your missing luggage. Dhadhi was really insistent,' the boy says almost fearfully. 'Shahiraj bhai could not even eat his breakfast.'

She had not anticipated that Dhadhi would take such a drastic step without seeking her consultation first. 'Why didn't anyone wake me up?' she asks, unable to hide her frustration.

'We did,' the boy states strolling out of the kitchen. 'But you just wouldn't wake up. How could you?' he asks, shaking his head hopelessly. 'If our voices could reach your ears above your snoring, then you could wake up.'

Snoring?

'I don't snore,' she corrects him.

"Oh really? Then what was that,' and he gives a rather vivid demo of her apparent snores.

She looks at him in severe reproof, wondering whether she does truly snore. Then, she hears Live Wire break into a sudden snort of laughter. He was teasing her.

'You little!' and runs after him to scold him for pulling her legs.

'The Mastorni snores!' the boy repeatedly yells, running wildly about the living room, climbing over tables and skipping over chairs to escape his capture. She chases him onto the balcony, where she meets such a startling sight that she forgets all mention of Dhadhi.

The neighbourhood looked completely transformed.

The stillness of the night had blossomed into a lively atmosphere. In the viewable distance, cars and rickshaws lined the streets, hooting and beeping to get the traffic moving. The washing lines strung below were full with sheets and saris, drying under the boishoki sun. Children were out, and no, the fact that they were not at school did not cross her mind. Women stood in clusters, some absorbed in deep conversation, others sifting through lentils and rice, picking and removing the intruding pebbles.

Amidst the noise and the liveliness, Dhadhi appears from a certain house, followed by a group of other women. Dhadhi seems to have made friends rather quickly. Live Wire, who had gone to call her, points towards the balcony, where she stood. Dhadhi looks up with a beaming smile. She gives an awkward smile in return, before disappearing into the flat again. She has learnt of Dhadhi's whereabouts, but there was no sighting of the Shahiraj of Rajshahi. Was he sulking?

'Sleep well?' she hears Dhadhi ask, startling her.

She nods in reply, feeling pleased at Dhadhi's visible improvement of health.

'What were you doing downstairs?' she asks with interest.

'I was just hanging our clothes on the washing line,' Dhadhi begins, before she stops her short, scolding her for washing anything in her current health. 'Sorry Dhadhi-Amma,' Dhadhi mockingly seeks her apology. 'As I was saying, I was hanging the clothes outside, when some women of the neighbourhood started talking to me. I lost track of all time since. A lovely woman even took me to her house! I felt quite at home.'

'It's not safe to wander around unaccompanied,' she helplessly scolds Dhadhi again. 'And if you really wanted those clothes to get washed, then you should have called me. I would have done it.'

'Baba re!' Dhadhi says shaking her head in disbelief. 'You're sounding just like your father!'

The comparison took her by a great surprise.

'Accha Baba,' Dhadhi concedes. 'Next time, I will be careful where I go. Now remove this sulk off your face, or else you'll look even more like your father!'

Dhadhi begins to laugh heartily, and she joins in despite her efforts. It has been a while since they laughed this openly.

'Get inside!' they hear a familiar voice.

It was Shahiraj of Rajshahi, coming into the flat with a little boy, whom he held by the ear. The boy was crying, pleading for his release. Concerned, she demands the Shahiraj of Rajshahi to let go off the child, seeking the reasons why he must behave so. When the Shahiraj of Rajshahi disobliges, she forcefully detaches his hold off the boy's ear. The boy, being grateful for her intervention, hides behind her, fearing a recapture.

To her great surprise, the Shahiraj of Rajshahi erupts into a sudden laughter. He removes his hat and places it on her head instead, and laughs even more at her as if she wore a joker's hat. She regards him in deep puzzlement, looking at Dhadhi to confirm she was not the only one struggling to understand his erratic behaviour.

'This is what you call entrusting your possessions to a thief,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi says, 'and then requesting them to keep a close eye on it!'

'Thief?' she and Dhadhi repeat together.

'Yes, thief,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi confirms. He grabs the boy the arm and brings him before her. 'This is the very thief who stole your bags yesterday at the airport.'

A fresh shock seizes her, and it was not due to discovering the child was the thief.

Despite her abrupt behaviour towards him, the Shahiraj of Rajshahi still sought her best interest, that the first thing he should do this morning is retrieve her belongings.

The Shahiraj of Rajshahi demands the boy to make the confession before his victims, but the boy shakes his head fearfully at him. It was only when the Shahiraj of Rajshahi raised his hand threateningly at him, that the boy confessed his crime.

'He is your culprit,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi says looking from her to Dhadhi. 'You decide how to punish him. Although, I would recommend you report him to the police. That's the only way he will learn.'

The boy tearfully objects to the merciless recommendation, pleading for her and Dhadhi's forgiveness. She reads the boy's fear well, recalling the incident that occurred at Sylhet train station. The police officers here have a very liberal way of dealing with crime. She cannot knowingly submit the child into the police's capture.

'I just want my belongings back,' she says, which Dhadhi also reinforces.

The Shahiraj of Rajshahi erupted into another burst of laughter. When she questioned the reason behind it, he shook his head disbelievingly, and ordered the boy to confess the remainder of his crime. The boy shook his head again, refusing to follow the orders, but when the Shahiraj of Rajshahi raises his hand threateningly again, the boy makes the final confession.

The silence prolonged for some time having heard the full account of the child's crime.

'Everything?' Dhadhi seeks for confirmation.

The boy's gaze lowered, he nods in reply.

Where Dhadhi looked astounded, she looked on impressively at the child.

'Clothes, shoes, bag, jewellery, he sold the lot,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi interjects. 'Save for these.'

He fans out two burgundy covered booklets, which immediately fall to her familiarity. 'Our passports!' she calls out in delight.

'Almost became someone else's passports,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi kindly informs. 'I caught the little thief on time, or else this morning he was giving these up to the highest bidder!'

She holds the passports tightly, as if fearing to lose them again.

'How many times,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi scolds the boy, 'have I told you not to steal from women and the elderly?'

'Income has been low,' the boy defends his action. 'Haven't eaten for days, and this madam was offering dessert too.'

She felt the gentle uprising of sympathy, which even the constant reminder of the inconvenience she suffered by the child's doing, could not suppress.

'See the ego in this child,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi points out disbelievingly. 'Forget apologising, he stands here instead, justifying his crime. You're going to the police station,' he acknowledges the boy. 'Two days' worth of beating will knock sense into you.'

She looks on in horror as he drags the boy out. The boy calls out to her and Dhadhi for help, looking pleadingly at them, crying for mercy, and promising desperately never to steal from the helpless again. But the Shahiraj of Rajshahi does not take heed, determined to deliver the boy to the police station.

'Leave him!' she finally commands the Shahiraj of Rajshahi, undoing his grasp from the boy, who immediately hides behind her again. 'What right do you have to send him to the police station?' she asks him.

He was bewildered at her question.

'Did he steal from you?' she asks him. 'Did you miss your flight?'

Her answers were clearly visible in his eyes.

'He is my culprit,' she points out. 'I will decide how to punish him. What's your name?' she asks the boy.

'Mizan.'

'Mizan, you can go,' she permits him.

The boy and Shahiraj look disbelievingly at her. She keeps ignorant of the Shahiraj of Rajshahi's questioning glare, and repeats her instruction, ordering the boy to leave before she reconsiders her decision. A slight hesitation later, he does as told. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi returns his gaze upon her, regarding in deep puzzlement.

'Is it not punishment enough,' she explains, seeking his understanding, 'that he must steal to eat?'

Where Dhadhi looked proudly' at her decision, the Shahiraj of Rajshahi still looked confusedly at her.

The girl had an unusual innocence. He was proud and worried for her forgiving heart. Where one sees a thief, she notices his helplessness. The world is all good and great in her eyes. Unfortunately, the girl was in a country that will test her faith in humanity.

'What?' she asks the Shahiraj of Rajshahi, as he observes her somewhat dubiously.

'You're a very strange girl,' he brings to admittance.

'No stranger than you,' she points out. 'You went out of your way to reclaim our belongings, in spite of my behaviour towards you last night.'

'Because I see you no differently than Live Wire,' he explains wisely. 'A child has a pure heart because it does not keep any feeling unshared. Unspoken thoughts can poison the mind, and you speak without fearing the consequence.'

He takes his hat off her head and puts it aside. For a moment, she truly did feel a like a child. As much as she did not wish to admit it, she depended on the Shahiraj of Rajshahi. Their acquaintance has been short, yet how easily she trusted him. She felt a strange reassurance around him, as if he were her guide. She had that much confidence in him to know that if anything should go wrong, the Shahiraj of Rajshahi will resolve it.

Struggling to comprehend the subject of their conversation, Dhadhi seeks an update, wondering what insolence her granddaughter committed outside her knowledge.

'What happened has gone,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi says, carefully shifting away from Dhadhi's question. 'What is yet to happen, is important. What now?' he asks suddenly, looking from her to Dhadhi questioningly. 'You've got your passport back. What next?'

'We'll have to rebook the tickets,' Dhadhi answers, looking at her for agreement, which she gives promptly.

'Sensible decision,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi agrees, 'even though, you did not use all your senses to make that decision. Sense and Sensibility,' he says, sitting down comfortably on a chair. 'I read the book twice, first, in English, and second in Bengali.'

She exchanges a startled glance with Dhadhi, not quite following the Shahiraj of Rajshahi's words.

'I'm a strong believer in Fate,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi admits. 'I believe everything happens for a reason, and reasons create opportunities.'

She and Dhadhi exchange another puzzled glance.

'Of all the people at the airport, the child thief steals your bags,' he recounts. 'Of all the people in Sylhet, it is you that I incidentally meet again and again. Have you ever wondered why of all people it is always you?'

She looked at Dhadhi for some answer, but Dhadhi looked just as speechless.

'Because you have unfinished business,' he points out, reclining comfortably in his chair.

Not quite following his words, Dhadhi wills him to elaborate.

Rather thoughtfully, the Shahiraj of Rajshahi looks from her to Dhadhi, and then again from Dhadhi to her.

'You came here to look for someone. Don't leave them unfound.'

'We did everything we could,' Dhadhi says in a renewed pain of failing to find her brother.

'You did everything by your understanding,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi claims. 'If you permit, then shall I try something by my understanding?'

Uncomprehending his proposal, Mayah seeks an explanation.

'You followed the books,' he dutifully explains, 'but you see, here, in this illiterate country, books are of no value. And before you sing virtues of education and books,' he knowingly adds just as she was about to object his comments, 'let me tell you that you will have to follow my directions if you want Dhadhi to find her brother.'

She looks at Dhadhi for advice. It was a tempting proposal, but it did not guarantee success, neither did it have a timescale. How long can they intrude another's space like this?

'I don't want to leave empty hand,' Dhadhi says, her hopes reignited. 'We risked a lot to come here. We should not let our efforts go to vain.'

She considered thoughtfully for a long while. Everything is all over the place. Her family is all over the place too, quite literally. 'What about Dad?' she asks Dhadhi, recalling her phone conversation at the airport. 'We don't know where he is. Staying here longer doesn't seem wise, especially after I messaged Mum saying that we are heading for home.'

The Shahiraj of Rajshahi breaks into a small laughter, shaking his head hopelessly at the family, of which he is growing rather fond. When she asks the reason behind his laughter, he easily gives his reply.

'Reflecting on my kismet,' he says, 'that I should find myself involved with such a family. You are looking for someone. Someone is looking for you . . . this game of hide-and-seek, is not a hereditary fault is it?'

The occasion did not call for it, yet she and Dhadhi laughed. It has been a while since they did so this openly. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi is right. Then again, everyone is always running after something or someone. The only peculiarity in her case is that she is both the sought and chaser. 'Let us see," she says to herself, 'who finds who first.'

'That,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi quips, picking up his hat, 'now depends on BanGool.'

They stare at him confusedly, unable to understand how a bangle can help. He keeps the mystery on going. Then, having worn his hat, a noticeable glint appears in his eyes. He smiles knowingly at them, before finally forwarding the overdue explanation.

'BanGool,' he says yet again, 'our very own Bangali Google.'

Chapter 31

What is common between an online search engine and a journalist? They are a wealth of information, sourced from various contacts, of which the credibility depends on the reader's judgement alone.

BanGool is the Shahiraj of Rajshahi's answer to Google in Bangladesh. He is an editorial writer of a reputable newspaper, and knows more than he is willing to share in his columns. So the Shahiraj of Rajshahi says. BanGool may be able to track down Dhadhi's brother. He has a network of contacts across the country. Businessman, lawyers, police officers, unions and members of parliament, none were beyond his point of reference. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi said that Jameel Dhadha has given them their first lead, that being the police station. The remainder is merely details that BanGool will resolve.

This time, she was careful against raising her hopes. She will not be making the same mistake again. She prayed for the best and prepared for the worst.

Sat at a coffee shop of Moon shopping mall, she waited anxiously to meet BanGool. The newspaper firm, in which BanGool was a political editor, was in the heart of Sylhet. This was the business district of the city, by the country's standard, milling with people, traffic, and pollution. Many construction plans seemed to be underway in this part of Sylhet. This mall was one of them two years ago. The newspaper firm was nearby too, along Hazrat Shahjalal Road, it being the main road. During his lunch break, BanGool always comes here for coffee. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi seemed very certain that BanGool would be here very soon.

Sitting here, she realised how well known the Shahiraj of Rajshahi is in Sylhet. He did not wear his hat, yet with or without it, many recognised him. They came up to greet him, asked after his health, whilst also giving her curious glances. One person even thought she was his wife. "And condemn myself to a lifetime lecture of the virtues of education!" was the Shahiraj of Rajshahi's immediate reply. She regarded him indignantly, whereas he laughed, and added that he had too much of a brotherly protection over her to see anything less than a sister in her. How easily he overcame her dearth of not having her brother.

Despite the urgency of meeting BanGool, she wished he took his time to come. The air-conditioned coffee shop was too comfortable to consider leaving it. She was glad to have refused Dhadhi to join her in meeting BanGool. Dhadhi only just got off the sick bed. This weather would have most definitely laid her upon it again. Besides, she has been running from one place to the other this morning, this included her visiting the internet café she once went with Iqbal. She has been trying to get in contact with her parents, and alert them of her change in plans. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi even bought her an international calling card so she could call home, despite the strong possibility that they may be in this country. But the landline is the only number she remembers off-by-heart. She cannot recall any other phone numbers. She has never had to remember it. The mobile phone did it for her. She seldom parted from her phone. The new SIM had only her mum's phone number saved in it. Three weeks of having no contact with her father and the constant adventure she has encountered here, has perished even the slightest possibility of recalling life before her visit to Bangladesh, let alone reciting phone numbers. Technology has no doubt improved our communication by making us dependent on it, but it has severely affected our memory. What better way to make money! The Shahiraj of Rajshahi advised her to email her parents instead. There is a strong chance that they were returning to England in response to the message she sent the night before. The email will reveal all soon enough.

'I heard,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi says, looking at the time on his pocket-watch again, 'girls are also given opportunity to engage in sports activities in England.'

This was a very random subject. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi does not speak without reason.

'That is correct,' she says looking at him dubiously.

'Were you much into sports?'

'I suppose I'm quite athletic,' she admits abashedly.

'Good,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi says, finishing the last of his tea. She did not quite like the way he said that.

'How were you at running?' he casually enquires next, lifting his gaze cautiously at something behind her.

'Why do you ask?' she asks, her confusion gaining momentum.

'Because we're going to be playing catch very soon,' he explains, his gaze fixed carefully at something behind her.

Unable to contain her curiosity anymore, she looks over her shoulder to gain an understanding on what has incited this discussion of sports. A man, rather plump and short, smartly dressed with a pair of braces strung over his shoulders, stood at the counter, his back to them, placing his order. She looked around at the Shahiraj of Rajshahi, curious to learn if that was BanGool, and if it were he, why did they not approach him. But the Shahiraj of Rajshahi says nothing, and keeps his gaze fixed on the man at the counter. There was a strange smile on his face, as if he were waiting for the man to identify him first. She looks around at the man again. At length, he turns around, his coffee cup in hand. He had an overgrown moustache, and a receding hairline. He looked friendly and approachable, yet she wondered why the Shahiraj of Rajshahi did not approach him. Perhaps he was not the subject of their interest. As the man scans the ground for a vacant table, he catches their singular attention upon him.

At once, his expression turns into one of dread. His eyes, wide with shock, peer at the Shahiraj of Rajshahi as if he were struggling to believe that it was truly him. Her confusion reduced her to seek some explanation from the Shahiraj of Rajshahi. Still smiling, he gets up from his chair. She also follows. After a slight hesitation, the man at the counter proceeds towards them. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi cordially gestures towards an empty seat at their table. The man looks increasingly doubtful at the offer, but he nods acceptingly. He places his coffee cup on the table, prompting her and the Shahiraj of Rajshahi to take their seats.

Scarcely did they sit down, that the man makes a run.

'Time to prove your athletics,' the Shahiraj of Rajsahi says wearing his hat, preparing for a chase.

She loses all opportunity to seek an understanding to this bizarre turnout, and does as told, running wildly through the shopping mall to catch the man, excusing their way through the shoppers. 'There he is!' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi yells, pointing at the lift at the far end of the mall. Before they could reach him, the man disappears into the lift. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi takes the stairs instead, and she follows, thanking first her fortunes that she changed out of the sari, and secondly thanking the good neighbour who lent her this salwar kameez suit. They climb stairs after stairs, stopping at each landing lest the man should come out from the lift. She was panting, trying to keep pace with the Shahiraj of Rajshahi. The last time she ran this fast was when she left the writer's conference in Solihull, and the only time she has ever ran this wildly up a stair was in her dreams. The coincidental occurrence of these events startled her greatly.

'Mayah!' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi calls her from the landing to which this staircase led. She quickly catches up with him, and head towards the final stop of the lift, by which they stand patiently for it to arrive, giving them opportunity to catch their breath. The doors gently slide to an open, and at last, they see the man.

'Okay, okay,' the man says with raised hands, as if he were a caught criminal.

'Made us run for no reason,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi breathless.

'Why did he run?' she enquires.

'Because every time I see him,' the man answers, 'I end up being in some danger or other. Only the heavens know how I saved my life last time,' he says fearfully as he recalls the incident.

'Relax,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi calms him. 'This time, I won't be staking your life for anything. Today, I am here for the girl.'

She smiles awkwardly at the man, who returns with a doubtful smile.

'She is looking for someone,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi elaborates. 'Do what you do best, and give us a full write-up about her family history.'

That much became clear that this man was BanGool. Suddenly, she did not care for his ability to find the lost. She became ever so curious to hear of that incident that almost staked his life.

She told BanGool everything she knew of Dhadhi's life in Bangladesh. BanGool made no promises. Instead, he reassured her that he is willing put his whole life into finding her Dhadhi's long lost brother, for this was the first time the Shahiraj of Rajshahi made a request, which did not endanger his family's wellbeing.

As his name rightly suggests, BanGool was in knowledge of many subjects. This made him a man of many secrets. Fear of losing his job and thus becoming the cause of his family's despair often prevents his hand from writing the truth. The newspaper firm, in which he was an employee, was a strong left wing supporter. He was not a supporter, yet he wrote his articles to favour the left wing party. His words please them, but in doing so, he helplessly deceives his profession. He knows many truths, from the funding of political parties to the credibility of votes. He was not the only one in knowledge. Every journalist is aware, but each one was powerless. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi has more than once incited him to share the truth. One time, he wrote about the funding of schools. He admitted that governing bodies were not expending funds justly on recruiting quality teachers and improving the curriculum, that they distribute the sum amongst themselves, as if it wore their due. These governing bodies are prominent members of the left wing party. The article never made it to publishing. He did not have the courage to pass it to his editor, knowing all too well of the consequence. Yet, six months ago, the Shahiraj of Rajshahi reawakened his honesty, and persuaded him to write another controversial article. The next general election is due to take place in eighteen months. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi encouraged him to expose the truth about vote collection. He wanted him to discuss the lengths parties have gone to in the past to claim their victory. He even submitted the article to his editor. It was a good piece, but the issues discussed in it were incredible. He had no evidence to justify his statements. His sources were unwilling to support him. Men of family have good reasons to remain anonymous. Publication of an article, from which a reader can extract many interpretations, can prove damaging to organisation. The editor warned him of the dangers he was exposing himself to by writing against those, whose generosity feeds his family. If he continued to write like this, then he must risk unemployment.

He surrendered before those threats, unwilling to have his children suffer the consequence of his honesty. Seeing the Shahiraj of Rajshahi all of a sudden today provoked the familiar fear of losing his job. The man had an indisputable talent to persuade others. He always fell for his words. For that reason alone, he ran away from the Shahiraj of Rajshahi, not trusting his own weakness. If it was not to reawaken his honesty, then it was to gain some fresh intelligence about politics. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi often incorporated these secrets into one of his street theatrics.

The man had good intentions, but it was not possible to execute it to reach the greater good. The powerful will find ways to rebuke those that challenged their rules. He was a journalist. His words in an article are insufficient to announce the truth and reveal those secrets that are outside the public's knowledge. The truth of an event will forever remain obscure. Everyone has a hidden agenda. They share their knowledge selectively. What the public hears is an edited version of facts. If a poll wins by two votes, then news reports have to make it appear as if it has won by many. If a school performs better than the previous year, the public applauds the government, and the government presumes this as the public's permission to tighten the funding towards the school. The facts filter through many mouths. They leave the scene so long after it occurred that by the time it reaches the paper, many have added their embellishments to it, some by force, and others by advice. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi was a good friend of his. The more that come to know of what he keeps unshared, the greater the risk he poses towards government, and the closer they will be to a revolution. Reports will be damaging, but those in their seats of authority will effortlessly regain public confidence. If a building collapses, they will reassure the victims that they will conduct a full investigation to determine the reason, but deafen their ears to compensate the victims justly.

Yet, the show must go on.

'Tuesday,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi announces proudly, as he places his hat on his head, addressing the crowd that has gathered about his presence. The size of the crowd upon a road of Sylhet gave good indication to the popularity of today's subject. She was just as eager to learn of it. '3P Tuesday,' he clarifies. 'People, Power, Politics. These are the three crucial Ps, which can determine the success of a leader. We will discuss a topic out of 3Ps, called Relpols. But first, who is the most famous Mughal Emperor?'

From below the shade of a tree, where the Shahiraj of Rajshahi kindly arranged for her seat, she looked about the crowd wonderingly. A stunned silence overcomes each person, as he considers an answer to the Shahiraj of Rajshahi's question.

'Shehenshah Abkar!' someone yells from the crowd. Impressed at the reply, the Shahiraj of Rajshahi urges the brave answerer to identify himself. A middle-aged man comes forward, prompting the Shahiraj of Rajshahi to approach him.

'Why is he the most famous?' he asks the nervous man.

'I don't know,' the man admits after a small hesitation. 'I watched the movie so many years ago. It had Aishwarya Rai in it,' he adds coyly.

The Shahiraj of Rajshahi laughs endearingly, and the man joins in soon after, enlightened by the humour. However, the abrupt stopping of Shahiraj of Rajshahi's laugh also prompts the man to stop laughing, whereupon he gestures the man to re-join the crowd, muttering curses at the man's illiteracy.

'Akbar the Great,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi says, 'was the greatest emperor of Hindustan. Why? Because he understood Relpols – Religion Politics.'

She quickly noted the term down on her paper. She has decided to take notes of his talks. She found them very interesting and educational. She was certain to revisit these in the future.

'He was a tolerant and liberal leader,' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi continued. 'He did not force religion on anyone, despite being himself very religious. He conquered, and ruled compassionately. He abolished the jizya, giving those outside his faith the chance to practice theirs. He understood the importance of choice. But many believe choice is conspiracy, or rather, make others believe it. If the vote is not in their favour, they tarnish the image of those, in whose favour the vote is becoming. Religion is such a topic that they easily manipulate to contaminate the mind of the voter. They accuse the other, make one believe that they will impose their faith upon another. If we show passion for religion, they claim we are extremists. If we do not make it apparent, then another fears that we are losing faith. I only ask them, who are you to judge the strength of my faith? Why must religion be a factor at all in politics? Why must some of us object to secularism?' he asks fiercely. 'Yes, the term is secularism,' he repeats, calmly. 'It does not deny one from practising his faith. It merely restricts a politician from restricting freedom. His concern should only be about governing the country. If Shehenshah Akbar put religion at the top of his agenda, then the grounds of India would not have seen the rise of the Taj Mahal. His concerns were always the governance of his country, and the life of its inhabitants. During famine, he adjusted the tax collection. Whereas now, whether the crops fruit or not, the farmer must pay his due to the government. Whether or not the poor gets his grain, the politician's plate must not be empty.'

He pauses and takes his hat off, as if to mark his respect for those that have passed away because of famine. To mark her respect, she rises from her seat.

'Man must run the country as a woman runs her household,' he continues. 'He must run it economically - not subjectively. Children born of the same parents are never alike. They must also realise that we are the children of this motherland and each one of her children is different. The Shehenshah realised this too,' he says, going up to that man, who answered his question previously. 'By allowing the Hindus to keep their faith did not mean that today there are no Muslims in India. That is why today we have many movies dedicated to his life. But the ruler of a nation gave the most notable proof of his liberality. Just as there should be no religion in politics, he did not let religion enter love. He married a woman outside his religion, and permitted her to practice hers.'

She thought hard about the relationship between politics and love. Love does not subject religion. Politics should not subject it either. If it did, then she would not have been here today.

Chapter 32

Man takes the form of water. Like water, they have no fixed form, and their circumstance alone determines it. He felt like the water of a waterfall, suspended in the air, waiting to land somewhere that could determine his form, or at least give him a direction.

"IN a country where an unmarried girl of marriageable age can only hold a relationship as someone's granddaughter, daughter, niece or sister, I share a room with her. We hold no legitimate relationship between us. The room is small. The only furnishings are two simple beds, a small wardrobe and a desk. A flickering kerosene lantern overlooks my paper as I write this article. The flame threatens to douse. But I ignore its warnings and continue my task. Occasionally, I look over my shoulder at the unmarried girl. Reassured that she is safe, my attention returns to the article.

She is an eloper, who revolted against the marriage her brother agreed for his financial benefit. I was the instigator behind this revolt. I outlined the reasons against her making the sacrifices of her hopes and expectations. Her suitor was an elderly man of four children. I refused her to lend herself to a man, who willed to revive his youth by marrying a girl who was closer to being a sister to his children than fill the void of their mother. Then, I believed I gave a voice to the girl's suppressed desires. Now, I find myself running around the country like a fugitive, desperately trying to protect her from her brother's clutches. I have had several addresses since. Life has been taking strange turns. My restless legs have travelled from Dhaka to Sylhet, from lodge rooms to this guesthouse. I am not alone. The girl travels with me. An Englishman and a Muslim girl are alone in each other's company. It was not a common sight to the average passer-by. She knew very well the speculation she was encouraging by being with me. She understood that her honour was at stake, and yet she endured their startled glances and disapproving looks. She did not feel the need to justify his company. The truth does not demand proof or reason.

A thousand questions must be on her mind. A thousand times more, she was unable to ask them, for she could not speak English, or I any Bengali. Yet, somehow between us we developed a trust, enough for this girl to share the same room with a foreign stranger."

The pen kept contact with the paper, but his hand came to a stop as his mind pondered on the next sentence. This was the first draft of his article. Much work still needed doing on it if he is to telegram it to his editor in London tomorrow morning. Though his friend John was witness to these events here, and trusted him equally well to relay it fully to his chief, he could not idly accept his salary. He felt ashamed of taking a salary without inputting any effort into his employment. He was a man of principle.

Life has reached a stalemate with their troubles. A whole week has gone since they left Dhaka. They have been living as husband and wife in this guesthouse to avert other's confusion. Until they do not hear from Jameel, they must remain in these characters. He has sent Jameel two telegrams to his home address, using the cover name of Ayub. He alerted him to their whereabouts, and desperately sought his help. He shamefully stated his financial constraints, despite being aware of Jameel's modest earning. He could do little else until he hears from Jameel. Yet, his situation was a little better than the girl's state. She was in an irredeemable complication. She had no home, no family and, given her sex, she did not have the prospect to earn a living. He did not know either how to overcome her complications, but ascertained that much that he will not leave her until he has not resolved her case.

He reread his article once again, making improvements here and there. His watch informs him of the late hour, quickly reaching two in the morning, yet he continued writing. Shortly, he came to a stop, not knowing how to begin his next sentence. Every time he made a start, he would revise it to find it not reaching his approval. He scribbled it out fiercely. This starting and restarting irritated him greatly. The exercise made him warmer, accentuated by the stale heat of the room, which the heat emitting from lantern only furthered. There was no convenience of a fan in this simple room. He flapped his vest with one hand to produce some cool air, while his other hand firmly held the pen upon the paper. The lantern beside him flickered violently, as if wanting to state its threats are not empty. He was finding it difficult to write, but now he was in danger of not being able to see what he willed to write.

His head still directed towards the paper, his eyes become alert to a sudden emergence of light. He follows it to the source, finding another lantern standing on his desk.

She could not sleep either. Though she lay with her back turned to him, she was able to conclude the Englishman's equal difficulty in sleeping. It was so quiet in the room that she could hear the distinctive sound of his pen as it travelled the surface of the paper. Everything else was so still that his shadow on the wall beside her flickered, compelling her to learn the cause. Therefore, instead of letting the lantern futilely burn beside her, she believed it better to let it assist the Englishman. 'Thank you,' he passes on his appreciation.

The impending deadline returned his attention upon the article. He briskly writes away, while her gaze stretches onto the paper before him, noticing the many pages of writing. She could not read a single word, but grew eager to know what he wrote that denied his eyes of sleep. Thus, she sat on his bed, and watched him curiously, as he wrote.

An unusual silence comes to his notice, eventually, appealing his attention. His gaze lands on the Nargis, who was sitting on his bed, peering at his work. He nodded his head questioningly at her, and in reply, she pointed at the paper before him and gestures as if to ask, "What are you writing?"

'Newspaper,' he answers, confident that the word was familiar to her understanding. 'I,' he says pointing to himself, 'write,' and enacts the respective word, 'newspaper,' he informs by lifting his article. She looked very impressed.

'This newspaper,' he nods towards the papers in his hands, 'is about me,' he gestures to himself, 'and you,' he points at her. These updates startled her. She felt increasingly uneasy to have her name and accounts become public news. 'Don't worry,' he laughs, reading her uneasiness accurately. 'No Nargis,' he says shaking his head. 'Only me, Francis. London read Francis in East Pakistan.'

Her tensions instantly vanish.

'You write?' he asks her with the corresponding gesture.

'Bengali,' she answers, wanting to add "but not much."

'Write name, your name, Nargis,' he instructs, offering her a pen and paper.

The flickering flame of his lantern finally announced its expiry. The light now depended on her lantern alone. He brought the pen and paper closer to her. His insistence ultimately compelled her to take pen to paper. 'Amar naam,' she says as she writes her name, 'Nargis.'

She wrote something else.

'Francis,' she reads, then pointed at him. 'Francis,' she repeats, taking a strong liking to the name. She never called the Englishman by his name before. He smiled, his name sounding very different from his mouth. In this merriment, an idea suddenly struck him. It was very likely that the girl and he will be in each other's company for some time without an interpreter. They must do something to overcome this communication barrier. He turns towards his desk and excitedly wrote the first seven letters of the English alphabet down on the paper, while she watched him in puzzlement. 'A,' he says slowly, pointing to the first letter.

She looked from the paper to the Englishman, her confusion deepening.

'A,' he instructs again.

She followed.

'B,' he said next, pointing to the second letter.

She repeated after him.

'C,' he reads the next letter, which she promptly repeated after him.

This lesson went on until they reached the letter G, after which he returned to A and revised the letters again.

She remembered A, B and C, but hesitated on D. He reminded her, and she tested herself by saying the letters from A again. Successful, she applies the same tactic to the remaining letters, going from A to G. He heard each pronunciation carefully, his lips unknowingly moving as she gives voice to each letter. He was impressed at her quick grasp of the alphabet, and he willed to teach her more of it, but the hour did not recommend it. Thus, he advised her to go to sleep, gesturing correspondingly. He makes a start to take the paper out of her hands, but she makes her claim on them stronger. Silently reciting the letters, she gets up from his bed. He also prepares to go to sleep. A small smile crops upon his lips, as he lay in his bed, watching the girl entranced, admiring her as she chanted the letters. Perhaps she felt his gaze on her, for she looked up from the paper and at him. He did not care for what she may perceive from his daring eyes, but he was unable to look away.

As she held her gaze with his, she was coming to a peculiar realisation. Questions rose and dropped from her mind. Her difficulties and the uncertainty of her future have not vanished. Yet, when he looked at her, she found herself in a strange reassurance. Beginning to fear the implicitness of her own eyes, she closes them tightly. It was a false reassurance. The Englishman was not here to stay. Soon, he will be gone. She knew this. Yet, why does it feel, as if she was only becoming aware of this eventuality? Why did the prospect of an uncertain future seem more appealing than a future without her Englishman?

A fear grasped her tightly, and she pacified her heart that it must bear the Englishman's inevitable return home. But the obstinate heart was unwilling to take heed. She struggled to understand the reason, or rather she feared to accept it.

Her brother was still in custody. He will remain there until someone does not bail him out. She felt a violent pang knowing that her brother was in the merciless condition of a prison. Her inability to help him tore her heart. How she wished he behaved justly with her, and spared her the regret of reducing him to a prison. How dearly she wished to have a brother.

Now she can only pray that his release is soon, and that he will reflect on his past actions and seek reformation. Until then, her brother will be a constant threat. Upon his release from custody, there was the strong possibility that he will seek out Jameel to obtain her whereabouts. To avert the possibility, Jameel and his family were staying at his wife's maternal home. Until matters do not settle down regarding her future, Jameel and his family will be staying in another district of Dhaka. Since moving, he has been visiting his abandoned house to collect the post. Amongst them, there were many telegrams from the Englishman, leading him to this guesthouse. Unknowingly, she has caused many a great inconvenience. But Jameel is here now. The two men can finally reach an ultimatum about her future.

'I can keep her as my sister,' he reasons, 'and take her far away as possible from her brother, but she will never be safe from this accusing society. Their prying and disapproving gaze will constantly follow her. People will form shameful conjectures about her living with me. You are all too aware of the vulnerability of her sex. I cannot keep her with me for long. It will be wise to have her married. She will have a fresh start. I shall begin a search for a worthy suitor. '

Astounded by Jameel's decision, he looks at Nargis in fresh fears.

Having heard Jameel's translation, a feeling of losing grasped her. Instead of lowering her gaze modestly, she looks at the Englishman appealingly. Her marriage was a sensible decision to make for her future security, then why does she suffer this hesitation? Why does she want to voice her objection to marriage yet again? Only this time, she did not find legitimate reasons to support her quiet objection.

'Marriage?' her Englishman asks in disbelief, struggling to recover from his shock. 'Does every solution here end with marriage!' he says in helpless frustration, rising to his feet, looking away from her, as if willing to hide something. His tone of voice and expression marked his disagreement with Jameel's decision. She looked gratefully at him, that he should speak that which she could only feel.

'Then what else do you propose?' Jameel enquires, defending his decision. 'What else shall we do with the girl? You are only a guest amongst us. You will go home to England, but she will become my responsibility. She has no other family to provide for her. How long can I keep her in my house unmarried? What answers am I to give to the interrogative society? And we cannot forget her lunatic brother. If he should get the slightest whiff that she is here, then he will attempt to harm her again. Where will I hide her then? Marriage is the only sensible solution. She will have her own home and family. I will choose a good man for her. I will choose wisely.'

'If the care of her responsibility is beyond your means to cope, then you need not have to worry.'

He was aware of the spite audible in his voice. He did not intend it, but such was his feeling towards the prospect of her marriage.

'That is not what I meant,' Jameel replies in anger.

The two men argue their respective points, while she watches helplessly, unable to understand their dialogue. Yet, their raised voices provided sufficient evidence to their conflicting opinions regarding her. She was the reason. Her brother was suffering the hardship of a prison because of her. The Englishman has been unable to return home because of her, and Jameel has had to relocate his family because of her. She has caused them to discard their homes and family. She is the misfortune, the curse upon their peace. She is responsible for their troubles. Had she anticipated that speaking her mind would lead to such outcomes, then she would have happily condemned her life to marriage with the old man. She would have made peace with her misfortunes, instead of having to bear the guilt of becoming the reason of other's hardships.

For the sake of marriage, their troubles began, and only by marriage, it will be undone.

Her hesitant steps took her before them. So engrossed they were in their arguments that she went unnoticed. She had to yell over their voices to gain their attention. 'I agree,' she says quietly again, the words sounding distant to her ears. 'Jameel bhai is right. I must marry.'

She carefully avoided her gaze from her Englishman. She feared his encouragement. She abhorred his help and the constant hope she gained from it. None of it is real. Her life was here. He was not part of it.

Her downcast eyes were evidence enough to the struggles she was undergoing on proclaiming a decision that objected with the truth. For some time, he said nothing. He looked at her expectantly, that she will look at him very soon, so he can read in her eyes that, which her mouth did not have the courage to admit. But not once did she look up. Neither could he remain silent.

'You are under no compulsion to marry,' he begins, and Jameel dutifully translates.

'I know,' she says in an unsteady voice. She felt her eyes smart, yet she restrained her tears, 'but I want to marry.'

The translation fell bitterly to his ears.

'It is my life,' she defends her decision, his disappointed look stinging her unbearably. 'Do I not have the right to decide? Why can I not marry? Why did you not let me marry? Who gave you the right to interfere? If you had not poisoned my mind against my suitor, then I would have had a family of my own today. Why did you think I would not be happy in that marriage? You ruined my life, made me subject to scandal because you wanted a story for your newspaper. I was just a story for your newspaper.'

Affronted by those claims, he shook his head at her. He wished to deny those claims, but he was too overwhelmed to find his voice.

'What was my crime?' she asks fiercely, cautiously avoiding the Englishman's gaze, lest they should weaken her desired intention. 'I am a girl, that is my crime,' she says, struck by the realisation. 'I do not have the right to choose. That is the reason my brother arranged my marriage without my consent. That is why, when a stranger told me to refuse marriage, I foolishly agreed. No one asked what I wanted. I must do what everyone else wants. Now, again, I am ordered. One tells me to do this and another tells to do that.'

Through her tear-stained eyes, she looks at them meaningfully. Jameel's gaze drops in shame, while the Englishman looks at her hurtfully. He looked torn between compassion and anger at her outburst.

'I will do what I feel is best for me,' she affirms again. 'I will marry whoever Jameel bhai chooses for me.'

'You can't,' her Englishman suddenly says, a dread overcoming his face.

'Why can't I?' she demands.

'Because I –' and there, he stopped short, not quite knowing the reasons himself. Why could he not let her marry? He objected previously because it was an unfitting match, but now, despite knowing that Jameel will choose wisely, why could he not let marry? How should he justify his objection?

'I wanted to get another story out of you,' he answers at length. 'But I was being selfish. Jameel is right. You should marry.'

What else was she waiting to hear that his answer should at once crush all her hopes?

He walks away. His pace and manner denoted that her bitter words had hurt him. She forced herself to bear the distance. It was the making of her doing. She should be happy that her action had met the desired outcome. Yet, she suffered an anguish that beat her relentlessly. Her Englishman would not leave her any other way. He was not hers to keep.

Chapter 33

She scans the ground carefully, not knowing whom to choose. There was a girl at the back of the class, who raised her hand, and waved it at her to prove her eagerness to answer the question. She pointed at her, prompting the girl to rise to her feet, whereupon she excitedly answers the Mastorni's question.

'I want to be a doctor when I grow up,' the girl says.

She was impressed, but equally confused.

'How do you become a doctor?' she asks the girl.

'By giving people medicines,' the girl answers.

She shook her head hopelessly at the creature, while Dhadhi, who sat nearby on a chair, puts a hand on her mouth to stop herself from laughing.

Her name was no longer Mayah. The whole neighbourhood, including the Shahiraj of Rajshahi, calls her Mastorni, and with good reason. She has set up her own little school here. The classroom was an area of ground on the sandy balcony, accosted between the overlooking flats. Her pupils are those children, who do not or cannot attend school, and sometimes, those adults and parents who desired to learn English. These children have attended municipality schools to complete their primary education. Primary schools do not teach English because the resources are too expensive for the government to supply. Thus, she filled the void by offering them tuition instead, not only to teach English, but also to offer guidance to parents, who overlook the importance of continuing their children's education. Their poor financial circumstance was often the cause, but she advised them at least to take full advantage of the free primary education. There was no penalty for being absent from school. Attendance was irregular, furthered by some parents' leniency to exert pressure on their child to regulate their attendance and punctuality.

The number of pupils in her class was a surprising turnout, evolving from a simple question. She was helping Dhadhi unhang some clothes from the washing line, when she noticed some parents bringing their children home from school. It was comforting to learn that there were parents here, who ensured their children do attend school. However, her relief was short-lived, when one of the mothers voiced her concerns of having to discontinue her daughter's education in a year's time. Her daughter was one of five children. Her husband cannot afford to fund all their higher education, and so, when he came to choose, he gave his sons preference to continue their schooling. A year ago, he terminated his eldest daughter's education upon her completion of primary school. Now she was eleven and destined to learning household chores. Many girls suffered the same fate, and it did not just stop at girls. Poverty struck both sexes, but it was the girls, who bore the brunt. Parents often gave them a promising start, but their ambition diminishes with the coming of age, which is more apparent on a girl.

This was not news to her ears, yet she could not offer any words of consolation or advice. She felt obliged to change the subject and departed them with a heavy heart. She wished to have done something to alleviate the mother's concerns, but what could she do. It bothered her a great deal, and became the prime topic of discussion at the dinner table. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi, and the flatmates, did not appear startled at her distress. They reasoned that there was more than one issue to overcome to bring about a positive change, and related from their own experience. Firstly, there was the issue of money. Parents of modest income do not have the courage to expend their earnings on education, however beneficial they may consider it. Those that are willing to invest, become selective, giving their sons preference. At least that way they will reap the reward of their investments, whereas daughters will eventually marry and settle down with their own families. What hope is there for her to have a career?

The issue of gender inequality is a difficult subject to address to the illiterate. To impart any understanding in them, she will have to remove the root of the problem – the absence of education itself. "The only way you can help," quipped Live Wire at the breakfast table the next morning, where she continued the discussion "is by making education free for all."

The look on each person's face at the table was worth capturing, as they realised the effect of Live Wire's advice upon her. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi became wary of her long silence, Live Wire watched in confusion, the flatmates smiled in humour, and Dhadhi drank her tea unable to fix on a reaction. None was accustomed to her silence, in particular the Shahiraj of Rajshahi, whose uneasiness was clearly visible. When he fearfully questioned the reasons behind her brightened expression, she merely said "blackboard".

She cannot make education free for all, but she will do as much as she can to avoid the children becoming education free. Since this was Live Wire's suggestion, she obliged him to help make it true. That very morning, the Shahiraj of Rajshahi brought her a blackboard, which she took down to the balcony. Live Wire was her only pupil. The English alphabet was the only subject. Curiosity attracted many children to wander towards her, and wonder at what she was teaching. Within two weeks, she had an entire class, of both sexes and many ages. Amongst English, she also taught Mathematics. Very soon, she will venture into other subjects too. But whatever subject she taught, she was under the consolation that each child came here at its own will. Where there was passion to learn, subjects were enjoyable to teach.

'That is what a doctor does,' she informs the girl. 'To become a doctor you must have really good academics. The field is such that you must have top grades in your sciences and speak English. For that, you must go to school. Not wander around the grounds playing or working,' she adds meaningfully to Live Wire, who was also a pupil.

At home, Live Wire would not spare an opportunity to tease her or pull her legs, but here, he was a well-behaved child. If another pupil should speak when she spoke, or laugh at one of her speeches of wisdom, Live Wire would quickly come to her defence. The children would always take heed to his action, even if it were a simple gesture of putting his finger to his lips to order silence. The other day, some children, not of this neighbourhood, stood on the side and giggled at her. Live Wire became so livid, that he approached them head on, and dared them to laugh again. Suspecting a commotion, she intervened, but it was not necessary. The children took off without causing any further scene. Such was the effect of being Shahiraj of Rajshahi's acquaintance.

'What about you?' she points next at a boy in the middle of the class. The children in the neighbourhood nicknamed him Hero for all the obvious reasons. He gets to his feet and answers.

'I want to be an actor,' he says, running his hand through his hair suavely. 'Amir Khan Style,' he adds, undoing and redoing the knot of his neckerchief.

He could very well be an actor. He certainly had the charms and confidence of a movie Hero.

'Whether an actor or a doctor,' she reasons, gesturing Hero to sit down, 'you will need to speak good English. This brings us onto our topic for today - pronunciation.'

She turns to the blackboard, and chalks down an example from her workbook. She never considered teaching as a profession, but her recent experience in it made her realise how enjoyable she found it. There was little else to do otherwise. It will be two weeks tomorrow since the Shahiraj of Rajshahi set BanGool on the task to find Dhadhi's brother. Whenever they seek updates from him, he says so little on the progress of his investigation that it was difficult to determine what he has discovered, if anything at all. "Work in silence," he often said. Until BanGool does not come back with results, she decided to do something worthwhile. Sometimes, she wondered how the women here pass their time just simply doing household chores. Talking to some of the women, she found that they are not entirely content with the monotonousness of their daily routine. Granted, the older generation had a different upbringing, but those similar to her age were not properly encouraged to pursue a career or indeed higher education. It is no wonder why many of them sat in her class to learn English.

When she was not teaching, she would accompany the Shahiraj of Rajshahi to his street talks. She noted each one down, and when she recited it to him in English, he would praise his own speech, adding that, his words transcribed in English, had him sound like a philosopher. She has met his network of friends and acquaintances, and as such, has become very fond of the staff at the dhaba. They have also come to learn of her and Dhadhi's purpose in Bangladesh. Whenever she visits the dhaba, they always made a big deal, referring to them as Shahiraj bhai's "specials". The flatmates were also getting used to having Dhadhi around the house. Before she and Dhadhi became unexpected guests, each flatmate would take his turn to cook. But Dhadhi has seemingly taken an authoritative position within the household, preparing meals for them, all ready to eat upon their return from work. They expressed their appreciation many times, and held Dhadhi in high esteem. They even commented that Dhadhi so easily voided the absence of their mothers.

She felt too much at comfort to worry about the agenda of her visit. She might as well enjoy her visit, for worrying and regret will not improve her situation. Admittedly, she was rather grateful at the way past events have shaped her present. If she had returned to England, then she may never have made this many new friends or witnessed this way of life.

But her parents were less understanding. As suspected, they were in Sylhet, staying at Shapla Hotel. However, in receipt of the message she sent, they have now returned to England. They were here for two nights, but the phone signal being very poor in Sreemangal, she could not receive their messages or calls to alert her of their arrival. They did not know Jameel Dhadha's address either, and only managed to contact her, when she was in main town Sylhet. This meant that they had received the text message, which she sent the night before she and Dhadhi were due to depart the country. Fearing that they will return home to find no one there, her parents took the next available flight to England. Of course, by then, she had no phone or address.

The other day, she spent an hour in the internet café. The email to her parents detailed the events between now and then. Some details she left out and others she embellished, or rather rewrote completely under Dhadhi's direction. Her parents were worried anyhow, and giving the update that Dhadhi was hospitalised, and that they were staying with three strangers in a random district of Sylhet, will only increase their blood pressure. Besides, they will learn the truth once they are here. She advised them to email her as soon as they have a date to revisit the country, for she lost her phone and was staying with Jameel Dhadha again. She had to lie. Dhadhi promised to call him once they returned home. He was too kind to overlook their missed call, giving rise to the strong possibility that he would call them instead, and so bring the truth to her parents' attention. Thus, they pretended to be calling from England. If they told Jameel Dhadha the truth, he would worry unnecessarily, and insist them to stay with him in Sreemangal until they do not resolve their situation. It would have been a sensible option to consider, but they could not overdo their rights as guests in his house anymore. Once her parents are here, she will take Jameel Dhadha into confidence.

The Shahiraj of Rajshahi has been kind enough to take her to the internet café every day to check her emails. Her parents have not booked any flights yet. She told them to book their accommodation at Shapla hotel again, and from there she will collect them. She has no clue to how she will confront them with the truth. But it was not a hurdle she must overcome presently.

She no longer knows who knows what, or what she knew about anything. Everything was all over the place. Dhadhi constantly reassured her that everything would fall into place eventually. Shockingly, she was enjoying every twist and turn of her adventure in the country. She has not found the lost, but has discovered many things previously unknown. Even the mosquitoes have left her alone.

As she writes the next sentence on the blackboard, she hears a clap of hands about her, and a familiar voice informing the children that school is finished for today due to unforeseen circumstances. The children do not disperse at the Shahiraj of Rajshahi's instruction, but upon her nod of approval she terminates the class for today. She regards the Shahiraj of Rajshahi sometimes in puzzlement and other times indignantly. That much she understood that he must have good reasons to cause this disturbance, but that much she did not like that he must terminate her class so abruptly. Dhadhi also comes over to gain an understanding. He does not explain immediately. Instead, he takes off his hat and places it on her head. He only does this when he has a plan up his sleeves.

Then, smiling knowingly, he gently flicks her nose, and merely says that they have found something. Or rather, they have found someone.

Chapter 34

The whole purpose of this trip depended on this moment. The moment she and Dhadhi have been waiting for could finally be here. As they cross the river to reach the south of Sylhet, a nervous anticipation grips her, which even the glinting river could not remedy. She looks at Dhadhi, who sat next to her, and whose expression established as if she was fighting a thousand questions in her mind. If anything, she would be feeling worse. It did not matter how intent Dhadhi may be with seeing the results, but a slight existence of regret and fear was natural. Fate has quite unfairly positioned them in a strange predicament. They want a positive consequence to this trip, yet they are scared to meet the result. Either way, they have exhausted the virtues of waiting and preserving hope.

The Shahiraj of Rajshahi sat at the front of the nauka, perched on the wooden ledge as if he were very calm and at ease with the whole journey. Yet she and Dhadhi knew that the results mattered to him as much as it did to them. When they had lost hope, he reignited it. He did not want them to be disappointed.

This is the second last match. BanGool could not determine the strength of the match, and they will have to decide it for themselves. A man, who goes by the name Mukhtar Ali Rahman, may possibly be Dhadhi's brother. If that is true, then Dhadhi's brother had served in the fourth Battalion of the East Bengal Regiment. He would have fought for the country's liberation.

BanGool's contact at the police station, where Dhadhi's brother was in custody forty-seven years ago, was unable to trace the names of the prisoners of that year. In times of political unrest, office clerks managed records very poorly. However, the contact was able to obtain staff records, and from that, he was able to get the details of those officers, who were in service at the police station in Dhaka forty-seven years ago. Many, including the officer in charge, have passed away since, or relocated elsewhere without a trail. But there was one officer, who held a junior position then, that gave the next lead. For a retired man, he had a sharp memory, accurately recalling those events in the years leading to the Liberation war. Inmates that had no relatives to bail them out had an alternative route to leave prison. They were encouraged to serve in the East Bengal Regiment. Dhadhi's brother would not have had any relatives to bail him out of prison. The army was gaining strong foothold in those times of civil unrest. It was entirely possible that Dhadhi's brother may have been allured to join the army, a career that could provide him both income and shelter.

By 1965, East Pakistan had military bases for five of its eight battalions. To determine if Dhadhi's brother was serving in one of them as an incentive to quit prison, BanGool exercised his press powers further, enlisting help of another contact, who was as an administrator in the army. The level of risk that the contact was undertaking for their behalf demanded a handsome compensation. BanGool obligingly settled the fee, and the contact began to search through legacy staff records to find a match on Mukhtar Mohiddin. There were numerous matches, but none was an exact match. Some had a match on forename, while others had a match on last name. BanGool's contact explored the most sensible matches, those that also accorded with the age of Dhadhi's brother and the date of his admission into the army. There were over hundred potentials. Preliminary investigations allowed the contact to establish how the matches joined the army. Where files kept no information on the individual prior to their joining service, the contact saw scope for further investigation. This process of elimination left him with half the matches. He sent those details to BanGool, and BanGool stretched his resources further to obtain their present whereabouts.

He made the search seem so easy. He so effortlessly obtained results. Jameel Dhadha had approached the same police station and placed the same request, but his voice went unheard. She wondered if he had offered a form of bribery, then would the officer have given her results. The ease at which BanGool surfaced information from the same source had her realise the strength of having beneficial connections and the power of money. It highlighted the serious issue of corruption in the country, how rife the act was, and how well it correlated with the topics, which the Shahiraj of Rajshahi talked of in his street shows.

However legitimate were her reasons and however pure are her intentions, she has become part of this corruption. Yet, the issue of corruption did not bother her as much as the ease at which one could carry out the act. It appeared as if they could leave the scene undetected of any misdoings. There was the consolation that BanGool was a good man, whom she trusted would use information correctly. But not all are his equal. In settling a payment for the service, these contacts so easily released personal information. There is nothing to say that they will not bow before another's request, and this other would not perhaps have good intentions. Knowledge is power after all. Power falling in the wrong hands can have detrimental effects. She recalls a particular lecture, which the Shahiraj of Rajsahi narrated not long ago. Greed and Hunger. The poor will always be hungry and the wealthy will always be greedy. There will never be enough. We will always want more, and that want becomes so great that we do not question the means of satisfying our demands. The man on the modest earning has the want of money greater than the importance to question the means of obtaining it. No fear or consequence will discourage him, and he will always validate his actions. Jobs pay so poorly here that the hunger is unlikely to diminish, but in doing so, he becomes accustomed to a satiable appetite. He fears hunger. Even he will not know when he became greedy. Sometimes she sympathised with their fear and struggles. She has witnessed their helplessness. There was limited opportunity for progression en route the honest lane. Work hard, earn good, but here one's labour does not return justly. It was no wonder that they aspire to leave the country all together. The government is breeding a nation of quitters. Those that must survive here must do so by being greedy. They have become corrupt. BanGool's contacts did the same. They were government employees on a salary that was insufficient to silence basic demands. To improve their circumstance, they often take advantage of their position. They will not pass an opportunity to earn extra.

Their acts are not justified. The allure of greed and fear of hunger is present in one by default. Man is not only helpless here in this country. He is struggling everywhere. Does one not struggle in London? People are struggling against their circumstances. Some are struggling to keep a home. Some are struggling to feed their families, while others are fighting for better health. But that did not mean that they fell victim to corruption. They were aware that punishment always followed crime. She wondered at the measures that the system should place here to prevent nourishing those vices, and punishing those, who commit to it. After much thought, she came to one conclusion. Systems can have all the intrusive auditing facilities to monitor users, but without properly educating one on the virtues of honesty, their character will always be subject to wicked manipulation.

As their boat ride ends, they board a baby-taxi after a short walk from the riverbank. The apprehension she has been suppressing suddenly gained strength. She clutched onto Dhadhi's arm, not knowing whether she willed to console or seek consolation. Having gone through a questionable route to come here, she only prayed to find the results that would no longer subject her to moral dilemmas.

BanGool was able to trace most matches to Dhaka and Chittagong, the two places where the East Bengal Regiment had its most prominent standing. However, the process of elimination has left them with two strong potential matches. One was in Dhaka and another being here in Sylhet. The unavailability photo identity meant that it was difficult to determine the strength of the match. If the match in Sylhet was wrong, then they will have to visit Dhaka to judge the last match. But if fortunes are in their favour, then forty-seven years later, Dhadhi will be reunited with her brother.

The apprehension within her gains tempo. Dhadhi's brother may not receive them at all. He may refuse to recognise Dhadhi. Perhaps he may even unleash forty-seven years of anguish upon seeing her suddenly. What would be his reaction to see the mixed race grandchild of his sister?

Suddenly, she recalls her father's arguments, which reasoned against their visit to the country. Was she making a mistake?

At length, the baby-taxi comes to a stop before a dusty entrance, leading to a sandy incline, which further led to a white-coloured property at the top. They will have to walk up the incline. She and Dhadhi exchanged an unsettled glance that sometimes portrayed excitement and sometimes nervousness. As she helps Dhadhi out of the baby-taxi, their gaze wander at the lush green surrounding, covering the handsome property atop the hill. Acres of green land stood beside her. The road was also quiet. Few cycle-rickshaws passed by, but pedestrians, in their lungi and saris were more frequent. If they do not leave this place dismayed, then there will be many questions to answer. How did Dhadhi's brother come to Sylhet? How did his fortunes change for the better?

The Shahiraj of Rajshahi helps Dhadhi climb the ascent, while she deliberately keeps her pace slow behind them. This appeared to be a very quiet and serene location, amidst clusters of tall palm-like-trees sprouting from the sandy grounds. The gentle breeze swayed the leaves on the tree canopies, making a sound as if to mislead one to believe it was raining. As she climbs higher, she notices a large round green pond to her left. Clusters of water hyacinths covered the far end of the pond, overlooked by more trees. Stone steps seemed to lead to the pond. The whole place looked very scenic and picturesque.

At last, they reach the top of the hill.

She expected to see a whole neighbourhood, but instead she notices two bungalows opposite each other, a maidan separating the two. She looks at Dhadhi, who looked equally taken aback by the discovery. Each bungalow was of sturdy built, long and wide. Steps led up to the veranda, which ran along the length of the bungalow, and from which sprouted pillars to support the roof. The four double doors of each bungalow were wide open. The curtains hanging before each door billowed against the breeze. The shutters of the windows were also open. She looked at the Shahiraj of Rajshahi, who looked rather impressed that the resident could afford such flourished living in Boldhi.

Scarcely did they wish to proceed that a woman came out onto the veranda, dusting what appeared to be a rug. When the woman notices them, she looked somewhat alert. After some careful thought, she approached them, the whole while wearing the confused look on her face. She regarded the intruders with a guarded expression, looking more precariously at her, who doubtless looked more distinctive amongst Dhadhi and the Shahiraj of Rajshahi. She returned the observation equally, but found it difficult to estimate the woman's age, for she has commonly found that people here always appear younger than their true age. The woman's dark hair and mature skin could very well be that of a fifty-year old person. Her head lightly draped under her sari, the woman enquires to their purpose at her address. 'Is this where Mukhtar Ali Hussain lives?' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi asks confidently.

'Used to live,' the woman answers, as she regards them with growing suspicion.

'Used to?' Dhadhi says in confusion. 'But this is his address?' she says looking from her to the Shahiraj of Rajshahi in defeat.

She was equally irritated at the update. They have waited so long and travelled so far only to learn that they are at the wrong address.

'Yes,' the woman clarifies. 'He passed away seven years ago.'

The shock of the news had Dhadhi lose her balance. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi quickly grabs hold of her.

'We must be at the wrong address,' Dhadhi says in a breathless voice, which had Mayah frantically root around her bag for Dhadhi's inhaler. She reads the first warning signs of Dhadhi's health, and offers her the inhaler. Dhadhi refused to take it.

'We are at the wrong address, Mayah,' Dhadhi says again. 'My brother is still alive. He can't die,' she says, shaking her head decidedly. 'I came all the way here to see him. I came all the way to make amends. He cannot punish me so severely that he should take away my right to see him again. No, we must be at the wrong address. My brother must be in Dhaka,' she says, her voice sounding distant. 'We must go there.'

Suddenly, Dhadhi's feet give away. Panicking, she and the Shahiraj of Rajshahi grab her quickly, trying hard to steady her. The woman also became worried, and offered them to come inside to sit Dhadhi down. They immediately take up the generous offer. Once indoors, she holds the inhaler to Dhadhi's mouth, pleading her to breathe through it. A few sips of water later, Dhadhi's health returns to some stability. When she looks up to thank the woman, she finds many other family members in her company. Two young men, a teenage boy and two women were present in the room, looking concernedly at the scene.

'Are you not the person, who lectures on the streets?' asks one of the men, having recognised the Shahiraj of Rajshahi.

The Shahiraj of Rajshahi glances at the questioner with some annoyance, before advising her that they should leave. They were at the wrong address.

'No,' clarifies the woman, whom they first met. 'This was his address, when he was alive. Now the house is under my husband's name, Nazrul Ali Hussain \- the eldest son of Mukhtar Ali Hussain.'

The clarification was startling. Dhadhi, she, and the Shahiraj of Rajshahi, glance at each other, not knowing what conclusion to draw from it. There was a quiet uprising of hope and despair at the same time.

'Is your father-in-law originally from Dhaka?' the Shahiraj of Rajshahi demands to know.

The woman answered to the positive, regarding the party in visible shock that they should know so much about her father in-law.

'How do you know him?' one of the young men asks, overcome with curiosity.

'Do you have any photos or any pictures of him?' Dhadhi asks.

The woman nodded, but insisted them to answer first her son's question.

They will explain, but first they must see be sure that they are talking of the same person. Thus, defeated before their persistence, the woman tells the boy to fetch the photo album from his Dhadhi's cabinet.

They wait anxiously for the evidence to arrive, torn between wanting to know the truth and preparing to accept the worst. Fate is doubtless finding a strange humour from their predicaments.

At last, the boy returns to the room, photo album in hand. He gives it to the woman, whom he addressed as Sasi, that being his Uncle's wife. After a slight hesitation, the woman passes it to Dhadhi.

She glanced at picture carefully, flicking through each leaf containing the black and white photos. Soon, she stopped flicking, observing a particular photo intently.

Mayah exchanges an unsettled glance with the Shahiraj of Rajshahi, as they watch Dhadhi's gaze fix on the particular photo. She said nothing for a long while, and neither had the courage to disturb her committed study.

Mayah stretches her gaze to see the picture that had fixed Dhadhi's attention. It was a family picture. The family consisted of three young children, and a husband and wife. The husband in the picture was Dhadhi's brother. The man with the moustache was her Dhadhi's deceased brother.

'My brother is dead,' Dhadhi says at length. Her face pale and hand shaking, she looks from her to the Shahiraj of Rajshahi in fear.

'He's gone, Mayah,' she brings to admittance. 'My brother is no more. I could not meet him one final time,' and there, Dhadhi dropped her head upon her shoulder, letting out the tears of anguish.

The Shahiraj of Rajshahi said a quiet prayer. She repeated after him, and said it one more time on Dhadhi's behalf. She helplessly watched Dhadhi's disappointed hopes wash away with her tears, not knowing how to console her own shattered expectations.

'Brother?' the woman asks, looking bewilderedly at them. 'You must be mistaken. My father-in-law had no family. They all died in a fire.'

Neither had the strength to explain or argue.

'Nargis?' a voice, low and frail sounding, calls Dhadhi by her name.

They look up in shock at the person, who addressed Dhadhi. It was an old woman, sat in a wheelchair, pushed by a young girl, who looked to be in her early teens. With gradual progression, the girl and old woman reach them. There was not a trace of familiarity in Dhadhi's face as she regarded the old woman. But there was a knowing expression in the old woman's face. Her eyes, eluding wisdom and warmth, proclaimed as if she was expecting to meet Dhadhi, as if years of waiting was for this moment alone, that she should finally meet her sister-in-law, Nargis.

Chapter 35

Sometimes Fate rewards us so unexpectedly that we wonder what good we may have unknowingly done in the past to deserve it. This whole while she was running after a Londoner, little knowing that a Londoner has travelled all the way from London, looking everywhere in Bangladesh for her long lost relatives. She, Rabia Ali Hussain, has become a close relative of a Londoner.

'Some unknown woman claims to be my father's sister,' her husband, Nazrul, vociferates, 'and you believed her?'

'Why would she lie?' she asks with a sigh, handing him a clean shirt.

'To malign my reputation,' he answers, closing the wardrobe doors angrily, finding the shirt he willed to wear in his wife's hands.

'Of course they are,' she agrees with a pleasant smile, although her voice carried sarcasm. 'Londoners are leaving Buckingham palaces to come here and ruin the reputation of a man, who is neither here nor there.'

He gives a disapproving grump and stubbornly refuses to change into the shirt she offered. He has only become aware of the unfolding of these bizarre events in his absence. If his wife had but called to inform him of unknown relatives turning up at his home, then he would have left work immediately to attend these matters instead.

'You will be a father-in-law soon,' she adopts humour to placate him. 'Behaving like a child will not suit you anymore.'

She smiles sweetly at him, but he merely looks at her incredulously that she should remain so unaffected. Meeting estranged relatives does not appear to have startled her at the slightest. She offers him the shirt again, and he snatches the offending object from her hands. He studies her humoured expression intently, yet had the hardest time comprehending her.

'Why are you so happy?' he asks her gently. 'How can you be so indifferent? How can you accept her in the family? The woman is a runaway. She married a non-Muslim. She returns so many years later with her mixed caste grandchild.'

Her smile remained firm upon her lips throughout his speech. She often heard that the first-borns lacked astuteness, but saw the proof in her husband today. It was through her expert advices that he attained a senior position within the Union, that their household could afford such living as to provoke envy amongst their neighbours. Or else, with his intellect, this house would have become a charity.

'That is why,' she answers at length, 'we must accept them.'

Her husband now appropriately dressed, they enter her mother-in-law's quarter. Amidst the cloudy yellow light, her husband's London-return Fufu sat on the bed next to her mother-in-law, conversing in great lengths, trying to annul forty-seven's of being strangers to each other. The mixed-caste girl, Mayah, and that nuisance of Sylhet, the Shahiraj of Rajshahi, who no longer wore his hat, sat nearby. Her husband's younger brother, Azad, and his wife and two children were already present in the room and introduced to Nargis Fufu. When they enter the room, her mother-in-law looks at them brightly. 'This is my eldest son, Nazrul,' her mother-in-law introduces him, 'and Shabul, Khalid and Rahim's father.'

Dhadhi looks wonderingly at her eldest nephew, who closely resembled her brother, broad shouldered and taller than average Bengali men. Seeing the living legacy of her deceased brother had vanquished her grief. She lost one, but received many. Mayah also greets her eldest Chacha in the customary way. She has never met Dhadhi's brother, but the physique of both his sons gave good proof to his fine form. They looked younger than their age could protest, which tends to be the common theme in the Asian content. Yesterday, she scarcely had two relations, and today she found herself struggling to remember the names of her extended family.

The meeting and greeting was very overwhelming, but equally agreeable. Neighbours have gone in and out the whole day to meet the Londoni guests, gawping at her as if she were a rare treasure descended from heaven or something. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi was particularly strict of who came close to her, and often advised the old women to keep their distance, using the pretext that she suffers heavily from asthma, waving Dhadhi's inhaler at them as if to prove his statement. In reply, the old women would often say the English are very weak. The quiet location of the house was a grave misconception. The "tilla bari", literally meaning hill house, belonged to a neighbourhood. Behind the second house, there was a dip in the ground, overlooking houses and its inhabitants. These houses were not as handsome as this one, and the sharp contrast startled her greatly. Dhadhi's brother inherited the property after his marriage to Fatima.

Fatima is Dhahdhi's sister-in-law. An infection in her left leg had her undergo an amputation, reducing her to the support of a wheelchair. Dhadhi's brother married her despite her disability, inclining her to believe that he had reformed for the better. Their love story was both remarkable and endearing. As was suspected, Dhadhi's brother had joined the forth Battalion, where his future father-in-law was the colonel. Chittagong based the fourth Battalion. The colonel and his family were native to Sylhet, but it was to be during one of their visits, when she first caught her future husband's special attention. She was over twenty years of age, whereas he was a year younger when they first met. Her father talked highly of his character, and would often entrust him to escort her family about the base. He was always very particular towards her care, tending carefully to her needs, ensuring the ground was fit for her wheelchair, and would converse with her without much reservation or fear of talking to the colonel's unmarried. He made her laugh and she would equally talk to him about her distresses. In his company, she never felt the disadvantage of her disability. Quite unknowingly, he made a special place within her heart. Her mother noticed their closeness. Soon, their friendship fell subject to speculation, whereupon her father asked him of his intentions with his daughter. Mukhtar answered by seeking her hand in marriage. Her father was only too pleased. He has been trying to find her a suitor for many years, but her disability often averted proposals.

Before their marriage, he declared that his family died in a fire. Years after their marriage, he confessed of having a sister, who had not died. He also confessed to his real name, that being Mukhtar Mohiuddin. He changed it when he began his career within the army. He wanted to start a new life. He made her promise to keep these truths a secret. She has not spoken a word of it since his sudden death seven years ago. He suffered a heart attack. He died very young, and she lost a dear friend and a most beloved husband.

Her joy was incalculable upon meeting her sister-in-law. Her husband always said she would come back to her mother country. How right he was. Meeting Nargis has given her the opportunity to reminisce of those by-gone days. Much has evolved over forty-seven years, but relations remain the same.

Upon leaving the army and having received the highest recognition, Dhadhi's brother entered the illustrious world of politics. He became a member of Sylhet's Regional Development Board. His peers highly recognised his input, the fame of which enabled his two sons to join Khadim Nagar Union. The younger brother, Azad, had two children. His son is Akram, scarcely twenty years of age, and his daughter – the only granddaughter of the family – is only fourteen. She was very quiet and shy, and like a dutiful girl, spent her afternoon in the kitchen, helping her mother and aunt in the kitchen prepare a fitting lunch for their "special guests" Little did they understand that hunger had no meaning today, when the heart was surpassed with joy.

They have met the whole except for Dhadhi's niece. Being a married woman, she does not live here, but Fatima Dhadhi has promised to enable a meeting very soon. The other two women are the daughter-in-laws of the family, and Chachis to her by relation. Her eldest Chachi is Rabia, who was the woman they first outside the house. She was a pretty-looking woman, and always smiling pleasantly as if nothing can ever discontent her. She has also come to notice that Rabia Chachi had a peculiar look about, as if she was always lost in some thought, even when she was smiling or indeed talking. She had three sons. Only the eldest looked like his father, but the younger had strong resemblance to their father. Shelina Chachi is the youngest daughter-in-law. Unlike Rabia Chachi, she had a darker complexion, but her features were very fine. She was very tending towards her and Dhadhi. Earlier, she made her husband fetch bottled water from the shops in fear of poisoning them with arsenic! Everyone was being very nice, adding to her regret of not bringing any gifts.

'You have found us at a very good time,' Rabia Chachi inputs brightly once all the greetings come to conclusion. 'The family is about to grow bigger. In three days' time, my son, Shabul gets married.'

One certainly becomes accustomed to the spontaneity of life in Bangladesh. In the space of a few hours, she has gone from being an imported stranger to becoming a blood relation to ten new family members, mourned the death of a person who has been dead for seven years gone, and now prepared to join the festivities of an upcoming wedding!

She yawns widely, quite ready to take a night's rest. She has not slept peacefully since her arrival to Bangladesh. Tonight will compensate all those nights, although she did not quite understand how she will manoeuvre this belly once she lies down. Kind and considerate Rabia Chachi fed her to suffocation, as if she has been an exile in a desert for many weeks. The attentive Shelina Chachi made her bed, and offered her some fresh clothes to change into, and the softly spoken Sadia was in her company until witnessing the first yawn break through her mouth, giving her the cue to let the new arrival sleep. She was alone once again. She has not had a room to herself since arriving to this country. It felt slightly odd going to sleep alone in a house she has known only for a few hours. But it must be done. She wanted to give Dhadhi and Fatima Dhadhi some more time to talk.

A knock at the door calls her attention towards it. It was the Shahiraj of Rajshahi, asking her first if she was decent and lastly seeking her permission to enter. Her face lights up upon seeing him, before breaking into snorts of laughter at what he wore as his pyjamas. It was a blue chequered lungi. He pats her head lightly in a manner to scold her childish humour. The household could only offer him this garment to serve as his pyjamas.

Despite being amongst family, she was not quite ready to let him go. She has quite unexpectedly confronted and accepted many changes. There was little time to adjust or absorb between each, and it made her feel uneasy. She did not have to request him to stay either, for he accurately read her unspoken pleas.

You make sure you lock the doors before you go to sleep,' he dutifully reminds her. 'If you have any problems, you wake me up immediately. I'm sleeping in Akram's room, which is two doors to your left. So when you leave this room facing this direction, it will be the door –'

She cuts him short, finding his directions both funny and endearing. 'I will be fine. Besides, who will enter my room so late at night?'

'For most people around here, you are just a visa application. There are plenty here, who want to get their papers stamped. I say, enough of your trip!' he suddenly exclaims, looking somewhat distraught. 'You've met who you came to meet, and you've done what you came to do. Time has come for Matorni to go home.'

'Why?' she asks him innocently, teasing him secretly. 'Have I become burdensome?'

'On my mind, yes you have,' he acknowledges her. 'Trouble follows you. I fear for your safety. This country is not for people of your innocence. It was okay when you stayed in my house, where I could always keep an eye on you. But I cannot stay here for long, and Dhadhi is likely to stay a little longer to acquaint with her brother's family. I don't feel comfortable leaving you and Dhadhi here with new people. I don't trust anyone here.'

'You forget, we were also strangers,' she corrects him, whilst admiring his concerns. 'On our second meeting, I moved into your house, which you shared with three other men. Every person was a stranger to me, but no one harmed me. If I can have faith in three male strangers, why can I not share a little in my own family?'

He had a reply, but the girl would not understand. Neither did he wish to ingrain beliefs in her head that could poison her against her own.

'Can you trust me?' she attempts another placation, having seen him unconvinced by her reasoning.

He studied her thoughtfully for some time. Defeated, he answers with a nod to her question. He bids her goodnight, striding to the door, by which he stops decisively. He turns around to look at her. 'Lock the doors behind me,' he commands her, albeit gently.

She merely shook her head hopelessly at him.

Chapter 36

She struggled to sleep over the noise of birds tweeting and what sounded like chickens. Bleary eyed, she gathers the time through the mosquito net, and found it to have passed seven in the morning. Sunrise happens so early these days that she finds it a struggle to wake up on time to pray. Rubbing sleep from her eyes, she escapes the netted prison, unlocks one of the two doors in the room, forgetting which door led where, and leaves the room, hoping she remembers her way to the bathroom. However, she found this door led her straight to the veranda. She would have retraced her steps to the other door had she not taken a fancy to the crisp early morning air. The courtyard was basking in bright sunlight, but the general air was deeply comforting. To her surprise, she found Azad Chacha also on the veranda. He sat at the far end, deeply absorbed in reading the newspaper. She considered against disturbing him, but eager to learn the headlines, she approaches him. When he noticed her, he gets up from his chair like a gentleman, asks after the quality of her sleep, before gesturing her to take a seat. After the Shahiraj of Rajshahi, Azad Chacha was the only other person she knew, who spoke such impeccable English.

'Breakfast will be served later than usual today,' he says jovially, also sitting down. 'Bhabhi – Rabia Chachi,' he clarifies, 'is making a special breakfast for you and your Dhadhi.'

She made a start to refute the unnecessary hospitality, but her kind Azad Chacha gestured her to sit down again. 'I woke up very early to buy the list of ingredients, which my wife slipped into my hands last night,' he says wittily. 'Please don't let my unfulfilled sleep go to vain. Besides,' he lowers his voice, 'it's not often that your two Chachis serve delicious breakfast. At least, by your arrival, I get to eat something nice!'

She laughed heartily at his joke.

'Where is Dhadhi?' she enquires, peering through the billowing curtains, as if Dhadhi stood there.

'In the kitchen,' he answers, 'with the rest of the female gang. She tried to check on you earlier, but you must have been in deep sleep to not have heard the door knocks.'

It was a good sleep.

'What's in the news today?' she asks with interest, glancing at the various Bengali newspapers laid out on the table.

'The usual,' he shrugs, taking off his glasses. 'Corrupt politicians, state of the country, ongoing arsenic issue, pollution, murders and lootings. All the usual stuff that sell papers.'

'Not much different than the English papers I guess.'

'That is because Man has been fighting for the same cause since his very existence, whether English or Bengali. How are you finding your first visit to the country?'

'Insightful,' she answers after a careful thought. 'It's very different than anywhere else I have been. The culture, the relaxed laws, the scenery, they are all very interesting.'

'No doubt made only more interesting by your friend, the Shahiraj of Rajshahi,' he says raising his dark brows. 'He has some interesting stories to share on the streets.'

'Do you always attend?'

'Not by choice,' he admits. 'I find myself joining the crowd quite helplessly on my way home from work.'

'You also work in the council with Nazrul Chacha?'

'No,' he answers promptly. 'I was never a politically astute man like my father or brother. I work in a private bank across the river, quite near to Zindabazaar.'

She was impressed, and enquired more about his job.

'I have been working there for almost twelve years now. That was when the bank first opened. I am the manager now. Although, we do not get half as many customers as a public bank does. That was where I used to work. Private Banks offer better pay. Do you work or are you still in education?'

'Graduated last summer,' she answers, suddenly realising how distant her life in England appeared. 'I studied English, but unsure what I should do for a career. I have been very confused.'

'I have a favourite pen at work,' he says randomly. 'Two weeks ago, I lost it somewhere. I looked for it everywhere, home and work, but did not find it. Then, some days later, I see it on my desk. When I asked the peon, "Who found it?" he said it was one of the cleaners, who found it in the washroom. Therefore, child, what we cannot find ourselves is probably not for us to discover. We just have to depend on others to bring it to us.'

He spoke so well that her distresses shrank at once.

As she pondered over the next subject of their discussion, Sadia suddenly comes out onto the veranda. She was a slender but shapely girl, whose figure did justice to her salwar kameez. She was of average height, her complexion warm, and she had a notable likeness to her father's facial features. The girl looks startled to see her, and at once asks her how long she has been awake. Learning it has been a while, she gently rebukes her father for not telling her earlier. 'Sorry, Baba,' he apologises, holding the lobe of his ear to seek her forgiveness. 'We got carried away in our conversation. Take Mayah to the washroom, dear,' he advises his daughter. 'Then, quickly get ready for college.'

'College?' Mayah asks excitedly, struck by the word.

'Sadia attends Sylhet Model School and College,' Azad Chacha elaborates. 'She's studying sciences. Why do you look so surprised?' he asks, reading her face.

'Because,' she replies promptly, 'Sadia is the only girl I know who attends college in Bangladesh.'

'It is uncommon,' he admits with an easy laugh, 'but improving. I had to fight, what you English would say, tooth and nail to continue Sadia's education. She's very good with her sciences. I believe I can see a doctor in her, despite her mother's objection.'

'Why would she object?' she asks confusedly.

'Because medicine is a long course,' he says shaking his head. 'Her mother worries that no man will want to marry an old woman, which Sadia will become after she qualifies. If it were up to her mother, then she would have terminated her education at ten, and got her married by now. But I want Sadia to progress and earn an independent living. Her mother disagrees. She says that no respectable in-law would permit their daughter-in-law to work outside however legitimate the job is.'

She recalls Dhadhi's insistance for her mother to attend abroad literature fairs and conferences, despite having a child scarcely two years old. Dhadhi never discouraged the progress of her mother's writing career.

A familiar voice suddenly interrupts her thoughts. It was Dhadhi also come out to the veranda. There was visible relief on her face as she saw her, before gently rebuking her for sitting here without brushing her teeth. 'Quickly wash and get ready,' she advises. 'We have much to do today.'

She, Azad Chacha, and Sadia wait for Dhadhi to elaborate. Smiling knowingly, Dhadhi answers at last.

'We're going to meet the bride.'

Marriage is the union of two families. To keep this union healthy, they have come to the bride's maternal home.

Dhadhi, Rabia Chachi, and Nazrul Chacha, sat in tense silence, as the mother and uncle of the bride regarded her dubiously. Rabia Chachi considered it wise to introduce the new family members to the bride's family. It was big news. Dhadhi's colourful history and her granddaughter's mixed race roots made this introduction appear like a confession. Rabia Chachi somewhat reluctantly gave the bride's family one last opportunity to retract from this alliance should they object to their connection with her and Dhadhi. The mother and uncle of the bride observe her carefully, taking in her distinctive mixed race appearance, before assessing Dhadhi. She felt conscious, despite wearing one of Sadia's best suits. She hoped she looks decent enough to pass for a sister-in-law. She can never forgive herself if this alliance breaks on her account. Knowingly or unknowingly, she will disappoint many.

The wedding is in three days, but the henna ceremony is in two. The sudden revelation of her and Dhadhi's connection to the groom's family has doubtless placed the mother of the bride in a difficult position. She has been here long enough to understand the importance of marriage. Cancelling the wedding so close to the date will subject both families to great humiliation and speculation. The fact that the groom's family is visiting the bride's family three days before the wedding is doubtless stirring up sufficient speculation amongst the neighbours. It was a close neighbourhood, and it appeared as if they knew who the unexpected arrival at the bride's house was. Neighbours peeked through the prison-like windows, and gazed at her as most Bangladeshis did when she passed by. She wished the Shahiraj of Rajshahi were here. Even a gentle nod from him would calm her nerves. Her gaze returns upon the mother of the bride, Shumi. She welcomed them warmly enough. Her manners were pleasing and her hospitality commendable. She looked very young to have a daughter old enough to marry. Her hair, lightly tucked under the drape of her sari, was still very dark. She had strong resemblance with her brother, whose hair was beginning to grey. Rabia Chachi said that Shumi Aunty became a widow at a very young age, leaving two children to her care, one of them being a girl of a few months. Her brother took on the care of his widowed sister, providing for her fatherless children. However, a conflict of interest had forced Shumi Aunty to separate from her son, whom she sent to England with a relative so he can grow up and provide for his family here. The separation has not gone to vain. The house was beautiful.

Her son's name is Shah, and he is the eldest of two siblings. He is not home presently. He left before they could meet him, at the late hours of the morning to collect some family members, who lived in a village in south Sylhet and are guests at the wedding. They must come upon a conclusion now to avoid undertaking any further travel activity and bring guests from far away locations to attend a wedding that may not possibly happen. Yet, one can easily overcome that disappointment. What would become of the bride's hopes? Sabina will be devastated.

'We have only one condition,' the maternal uncle of the bride demands gravely. Her body stiffens and she could sense Dhadhi was no different. The uncle keeps a mysterious pause, before relaying the remainder of his demands. 'The new members are to eat dinner here tonight.'

A relief and bursts of laughter later, they accept the offer. Shumi Aunty and her brother went onto explain that they have no objection to her mixed race. The offer of dinner was merely an excuse to detain them longer. After all, they still have to meet one more member of this family, and he just happens to be a fellow Londoner.

She has come to the general conclusion that a Bangladeshi hospitality consists of feeding their guests until they struggle to breathe. The kind-hearted Shumi Aunty constantly filled her plate with rice and curry, claiming a girl of her size should eat more. She could not refuse, especially after Shumi Aunty offered her a spoon, having learnt that she has not yet mastered the technique to eat with her hand. She was glad dinner was over, and even more glad when her host served her tea. The elders regained their position in the living room, conversing in great lengths and discussing the remaining preparations of the wedding. Not needing much persuasion from Shumi Aunty, she stole to Sabina's room. This is the first time she is meeting a Bangladeshi bride before her actual wedding. Sabina has stayed in her room the whole since they have been here, in order to project her demureness and honour the ancient old custom that a bride-to-be should not go before her in-laws. Funnily enough, when she questioned the reason, Sabina just shrugged, adding that she never asked. "It is what our mothers teach us."

Sabina did not appear to strike as the demure, quiet types. She was very talkative, and grilled her enthusiastically about the ways of London living. She answered as much as she can in the local dialect of Sylhet, before helplessly reverting to Bengali, which thankfully Sabina understood very well. Her brother also lives in London. He was an architect for some big firm. He does not come to Bangladesh often because he is always busy at work. For the wedding, he first came in March for one week to help with the invites and preparation, returning to London thereafter. He came back home last Saturday, just in time to settle in for the wedding.

'This time,' Sabina says brightly, 'Shah bhaiya will be staying for three whole weeks. He worries for my sake. He thinks I won't be happy in my in-laws' house.'

'Are you not happy with marriage?'

'I don't know,' Sabina admits, her face ejecting an unmistakable look of doubt. 'If I looked like you, then I definitely could be happy.'

She did not understand.

'You have light skin,' the girl explains dejectedly. 'I have dark skin. Husbands choose wife that have light skin.'

'But Shabul chose you,' she comforts the desolate bride, whose figure and features were finely formed. 'Colour of skin does not signify beauty. You are beautiful. That is why Shabul and his family chose you amongst all the other light-skin girls.'

'I think he chooses me because my brother is from London,' Sabina reasons.

She could not entirely dismiss the possibility. The Shahiraj of Rajshahi often lectured about the appeals of Western cities. The topic of their discussion being too serious, she tactfully changes the subject. She requested to see the wedding dress. At once, Sabina's face lights up and she hurries to the wardrobe to pull out her bridal attire. She was in awe as her gaze cast over the intricate gold embroidery against the maroon georgette. She picks it up to hold it against the bride-to-be, but found it somewhat of a struggle. 'I can barely hold this,' she says between short breaths, 'and you have to wear this?'

'The bride does nothing else on her wedding day,' Sabina helpfully clarifies. 'I just sit and look pretty. What are you wearing?' she asks, as the sudden thought strikes her.

It was a good point.

'I don't know,' she says, her own curiosity quickly rising. 'I didn't know that I will be attending a wedding, and that too the wedding of my own family.'

'Do you wear sari?' Sabina asks, frowning at her present attire of salwar kameez.

Her mind resurfaces a distant memory of her failed attempts to try on Dhadhi's sari. She shook her head decisively in reply.

'I teach you,' and at once, Sabina excitedly brings forth a collection of her prized saris, experimentally placing each one of varying colours against her mildly tanned skin, until she settles with the emerald with the gold border. Feeling somewhat conscious, she peels off her clothes, and slips into the petticoat and blouse. The latter fitted her quite comfortably. She stands patiently as Sabina wounds the endless yard of emerald around her, ending it by tucking the pleats just below her belly button. The drape carefully pinned above her shoulder, and her hair gently straightened with the GHD straighteners her brother brought with him from London a year ago, Sabina takes a step back and admires the result of her creation. 'You look like a shining Bengali girl.'

Scarcely did the words leave her mouth that darkness engulfs the room.

Chapter 37

The electricity has gone out again. Sabina said that this is the second time this week.

Her eyes struggled to adjust, and it was so eerily dark that she could not at least make out the silhouette of the furniture. To her relief, she hears Sabina scatter around the drawers, possibly looking for candles or maybe a torch. Finding nothing to assist their eyes, Sabina tells her to wait here, while she fetches a lantern from elsewhere. She hears the distinct sound of the locks and doors opening, and waits patiently for Sabina's return. When nobody returns or comes to her aid, thus garnering a feeling of neglect, she decides to venture out of the room instead. Frantically calling out everyone's name, she bumps into someone. She apologises, and asks whom she bumped into.

'Shah,' a strangely familiar deep voice filters through the darkness

'You must be Sabina's brother?' she asks, her language instinctively returning to the ease of English.

'Yes,' he agrees doubtfully. 'Who may you be?'

'Her sister-in-law-to-be,' she answers.

'Sadia?' he asks, torn between surprise and confusion at her suddenly strong English accent.

'No,' Mayah corrects him. 'I am Mayah, her new sister-in-law. Did Shumi Aunty not explain?'

'No, I just arrived home,' he explains with an uneasy laugh. 'You sound as if you are from the UK?'

'I am. It's a very long story. If we had some light then perhaps I could explain,' she adds ruefully.

She notices a faint absconding of light from the oil lantern in the distance, and brings it to his attention. He turns around quickly, denying her the opportunity to put a face to the bizarrely familiar voice. His back turned towards her, both brother and sister have a short conversation, in which Sabina dutifully explains her newfound sister-in-law, mentioning that she is also a Londoner.

'Small world,' her brother says in a light laugh, as he turns around at her again, whereupon he stops abruptly.

The sheer coincidence is far too haunting to admit the likelihood of its possibility.

'Taxi?' he says

'Heavy Load?'

'You are Sabina's brother?' she asks distastefully.

'You will be my sister's sister-in-law?' he asks, not liking the prospect much either. His disbelieved gaze drops to her sari. At once, he begins to form theories of how she was suddenly related to his sister. Heavy Load must have finally married the man he saw her with at the sweetmeat shop many weeks ago. Her husband must be a close relative to the groom's family. Immediately, he considers the way he addressed her, for whether or not he liked it, Heavy Load has become his sister's relation. He did not wish to ruin his sister's reputation by being the argumentative brother, who cannot speak to women politely.

'Sorry for my uncouth behaviour,' he apologises in a way as to render it insincere.

Her nose lifts proudly in the air at the overdue apology.

'I welcome you to my house,' he continues, smiling pleasantly. 'Does your husband also join us?'

Husband?

The lights come on dramatically. Sabina blows out the candle, and the fresh smell of wax accumulates between them. Dhadhi and the rest of the party soon join them. They all look very admiringly at her sari, and she blushes, much to her annoyance. Thankfully, their study was brief, when Dhadhi notices a new arrival amongst them. Shumi Aunty dutifully introduces her son, but Dhadhi seems oblivious. There was a strange look on her face as she studies Taxi. There was a strange look on Taxi's face as he studies Dhadhi. They have met before.

'Airport,' Taxi and Dhadhi say together.

She watches the exchange in puzzlement.

'Thief,' they say together again.

A small world this certainly is.

Until now, she was willing to believe that the six degrees of freedom is purely a myth, produced by a loner, who had no relation, and was eager to prove that someone or other, somehow or other, was related to him. How brutally Taxi disproved her belief! From the combined population of UK and Bangladesh, she, Mayah Mohuddin-Young is to become a close relation of Taxi, otherwise known as Shah Abeel and more commonly addressed as "Baba", which his mother and uncle referred to him. This also explains why she mistook him to be the father of those children he saw him with many weeks ago at the sweetmeat shop. Dhadhi and Taxi first met at the airport, on the very first day of their arrival to the country. He was the very person, who rescued Dhadhi from the thieves, who wanted to steal their luggage. She did not know whether to cry or wonder at the intricate design Fate. The other family members have also become aware of how they met. Everyone was in equal amazement.

Despite her efforts, she cannot seem to budge the feeling that she owes Taxi thanks. He did not have to help Dhadhi that day. He could have ignored those thieves. But he did not ignore. He did help. She must thank him.

The new relatives from South Sylhet have also joined them. As usual, all peered at her wondrously, asking after her marital status, and delicately highlighting the fact that someone they knew is looking for a wife. If Dhadhi permits, must they take a picture of her and show it to this unknown man to gain his approval of her being his legally wedded wife? Only she knows how hard she resisted from laughing, both at their request and of placing Dhadhi on the spot to answer. Thankfully, Shumi Aunty turned the whole conversation into a joke, thus retrieving Dhadhi from her stunned state.

'Where are you going, Mayah?' Rabia Chachi asks interestedly, as she gets up from the sofa.

'Washroom,' she lies with crossed fingers.

Rabia Chachi did not appear convinced, but it did not falter her determination to find Taxi. Therefore, leaving the elderly party, who were engaged in a lively discussion of politics, she searches room after room for Taxi. It was very late in the evening. Every time Nazrul Chahcha suggested they should leave, a new discussion diverted them from doing so. Needless to add, he was getting very annoyed.

As she walks along, she recalls snippets of her conversation with Sabina. The girl gave an extended narrative of her family's history. Quite often, she heard a sorrow in Sabina's voice, particularly when she spoke of her mother's anguish of bearing the distance from her son. The want of fortune and quest for betterment had compelled her mother to make a bitter decision. Her mother would not cry when she bade him leave at the airport, but upon coming home, she was inconsolable. Sabina also shared her own grief of seldom having her brother around. How many mothers and sisters must suffer the same anguish? Has Taxi suffered any less? He has also endured the absence of his mother.

She stops by Sabina's room, but for some peculiar reason, did not want to ask her of her brother's whereabouts, despite the purity of her intention. She scurries along, peering into each passing room. It may very well be that Taxi is not at home. No sooner said that she enters a room, where Taxi was undressing from his shirt. She did not know who was more embarrassed - her, who walked in without permission, or him, who almost lost his chastity by bearing his uncovered chest. Either way, he quickly pulls his shirt over him, while she hastily reverses her steps out of the room, before Taxi stops her. 'Have you no manners?' he reprimands her. 'Could you not knock before you enter?'

'The door was open,' she snappishly says over her shoulder, not knowing whether he was decently dressed to talk to his face. 'If you were getting changed, you should do so behind closed doors.'

'This is Bangladesh,' he reasons, 'men don't close doors to get changed. But I can understand why you were impelled to overlook that fact in this instance.'

'What do you mean?' she demands, infuriated by his implicative comments. She makes a half-turn to look at him, but he quickly discourages her by saying he was not decent. She did not know whether he was speaking the truth or pulling her legs. There was an audible presence of humour in his voice, which inclined her to believe the latter.

'I don't know about your honour,' he says cautiously, 'but if any should see you gazing at me while I'm indecently dressed, then my honour would surely be at stake.'

His mother has related to him all there is to know about Heavy Load and Dhadhi. He was impressed at her success of finding the unseen.

To prove his indecently dressed state would not affect her, she indignantly turns around at him. As suspected, he was decently dressed, sitting comfortably on a chair, with that smile which irritated her greatly.

'I knew you couldn't resist,' he teases her.

To think she ever wanted to thank him! To think she sympathised with his unfair childhood! But she must thank him, and free herself of that debt.

'Thank you,' she says the words forcefully.

'Because I'm irresistible?' he asks with mock innocence.

'For helping Dhadhi the other day,' she corrects him, ignoring his cheap flirting techniques.

'Don't mention it,' he says smoothly.

'I would not have had it not involved Dhadhi.'

She said what she came to say, and now she will leave.

'You still owe me,' he quickly says, stopping her immediately in her tracks. She turns around and looks confusingly at him. He gets up from his chair, and calmly approaches her.

'I paid the damages of the taxi in that traffic jam,' he reminds her. 'You have not paid me back.'

'What happened to your lecture about humility, or humanity, or whatever you lectured me about that day?'

'All still there, except that you are now my sister's sister-in-law. It is very important to keep family and money as separate as possible. Who knows, we may fallout someday, and I may be tempted to taunt you by reminding you that you are in debt to me.'

She wondered when they were ever friends to risk fallout.

'Very well,' she says curtly. 'I shall write you a cheque. Shall I make it payable to Taxi?'

'So long as you sign it Heavy Load,' he shrugs, smiling pleasantly.

She wanted to retort something, but her irritation was such that she could not order her words. Much to her appreciation, she hears Dhadhi call her. They were leaving. She took his leave as orderly as she can muster.

She walks away, and he escorts her, as if he were a true gentleman.

Rabia did not like what she saw.

Believing the girl was in the washroom, she went there to collect her. Instead, she incidentally notices the girl leave Shah's room. Such conduct was acceptable in English countries, but here it can give rise to grave speculation. A boy and girl of no superior connection must not be so intimate that an onlooker is compelled to form conjectures of their relationship. She must remind the girl of the etiquette of this country. Rife rumours can have detrimental effect on the prospect of her second son's visa application, and on Tanni's marriage to Shah. She must advice the girl to keep her distance from him.

As they sit in the car, he comes over to bid them another farewell. As he spoke, his gaze involuntarily seeks out Mayah. Rabia watched the exchange in great disturbance, which grew even greater when the girl said something in English.

'Please thank your sister again for gifting me the sari,' Mayah politely says. 'We shall meet at the wedding.'

'Maybe even sooner,' he warns her, 'if you're lucky.'

Now she can really enjoy Bangladesh.

287

