Black
Petticoat
by Iftekhar Sayeed
A saree is an elongated piece of garment, one corner tucked
into the petticoat below the navel, wrapped around, tucked into the
petticoat repeatedly, then the other end folded together, wrapped again,
passed over the left shoulder; the gathered garment below being then
folded together, and tucked in; the part over the shoulder then
straightened and left in one chest-revealing fold, or folded more
modestly several times.
These reflections were prompted by the descent of a black
petticoat as I had breakfast of parata and omelette in my ground-floor
verandah. I seized the fluttering garment in mid-air, my attention
abruptly diverted from the solitary cow grazing at the back of Hotel
Poshur, and the big black ants marching over the coping. The only sound
to reach me was the phut-phut-phut of an engine boat. The river can’t be
seen from the ground-floor verandah: only the tops of steamers and
ships and the buildings of Old Mongla. There were two water towers, one
advertising ORSALINE, oral rehydration salts. The mali was noiselessly
cutting grass before the southern wall. The same breeze that had brought
the petticoat fluttered my pyjama jacket.
I called reception, and inquired about a black dupatta rather than a black petticoat.
“Black, sir? That must belong to the lady in 201, right
above your room. She always wears black. I’ll send somebody round....”
I changed, and took up the petticoat myself.
A tall, fair woman in a black jamdanee saree opened the
door. I stood stupidly before her, petticoat in hand. The jamdanee had
been folded over her chest only once as described earlier, so her
plunging neckline in her halterneck revealed itself. Her features were
sharply defined, like a sculpture. And like a statue her pink lips were
pressed together as though they never parted. But the most arresting
aspect was her gaze – or, I should say, stare. For she seemed to look
past me, as if at the acacias in the open acres to the north.
“I believe this is yours?”
She took the petticoat, turned on her high, black heels and went in, leaving me the option of following her.
The room was air-conditioned, unlike mine, and it was a
remarkably hot and humid day. She flounced on the bed over the Royal
Bengal Tiger bedspread, lifting her saree up to her white thighs, and
resting a book on one raised knee. A pair of silver anklets shone. There
was an aroma of mangoes, for she kept popping a piece into her mouth
with a fork. Every time the black glass bangles on her forearms jangled.
A large fly, attracted by the odour, buzzed around. The verandah door
was open.
I stepped over to the verandah, and stood half in, half out, hot and cool.
The River Poshur flowed past, the morning sun lighting a million diamonds across her width.
“My name is Zafar Shah.”
There was only the hum of the air-conditioner, and from the
discman plugged into a pair of speakers by her bed, the tinkle of the
sitar, egoless music of the orient.
“What’s your name?”
“Laila,” came the automatic response. Her voice was velvet. A piece of mango disappeared. Bangles sang.
Her complexion was like the sun on the river at dawn –
golden. But the diamonds she had on her nose, ears, and fingers echoed
those on the river now.
“Laila, why do you wear black?”
“I’m a solipsist.”
I groaned. The title of the book she was reading was Anarchy And The Private Language
and the author was – me. A solipsist is someone who believes that she
is the only person who exists. A famous philosopher had argued that that
was impossible – for she would need a private language, and language
needs a public world. But I argued that private languages had occurred
repeatedly in history: Abraham had one during the anarchy in
Mesopotamia, the Buddha during the one in India....But I never expected
anyone to live my argument. For we were in a state of anarchy in
Bangladesh.
Before we could launch into a Platonic dialogue – if such
were possible with a solipsist – Shahidul Huq Lenin entered. It was not
so much his alias as his calling that inspired terror. Lenin was a
gunrunner, and no revolutionary. He was king of the south-west,
controlling the influx of guns up the river route from the Bay of
Bengal.
He was a tall, dark, man in his late thirties. He had
sleeked back hair and was quite good-looking. Downstairs, I had a
dossier on him. As a teenager, he had been recruited by a political
party. He terrorised the local businesses with his guns and goons,
collecting taxes, and assisting the party during hartals. His father was
a schoolteacher, who had had high hopes for his son. For Lenin had been
a brilliant student: despite his extramural activities, he was top of
the board in both school-leaving exams. He became a don when he went to
university. He rose up the party ranks, became an MP, and the head of
the local mafia. Even Special Branch didn’t know how many people he had
murdered. His father, heartbroken, died; his mother was still around,
poor soul.
“I came to return Laila’s petticoat. The wind dropped it into my verandah below.”
He removed the petticoat from the sofa, sat and said, “Thank you very much, Mr....?”
“Zafar Shah.”
“Lenin.”
Turning to Laila, who had not moved a muscle, he said, “Get me a shirt, Laila.”
Laila put the book upside down, open at the page she was
reading, and proceeded to the built-in cabinet. She was his moll.
“Excuse me, Mr. Shah, I’m a little wet. I’m afraid it’s been raining.”
Through the partly open door, I could see Lenin’s henchman pacing the floor outside.
“You must have been down to Koromjol.”
His eyes shot up. “How did you know?” He glared.
I looked out and pointed in the direction of Koromjol. “I
noticed that there was lightning in that direction. It’s dry everywhere
else.”
He relaxed. I guessed the ships were unloading at Koromjol, and he’d been supervising the deadly cargo.
Seven egrets flew in echelon towards the north.
Exhibiting his hirsute chest (local legend has it that a man
with a hairy chest is benevolent), he rose, shook my hand and said,
“Pintu will escort you downstairs, Mr. Shah.”
He hadn’t even asked me to sit, and now this unexpected burst of hospitality struck me as sinister.
“That’s all right...er...Lenin. I can find my way down.”
“I insist, Mr. Shah. It isn’t everyday that a stranger returns Laila’s petticoat.”
“You’re too kind.”
I looked in the direction of Laila. She was reading again.
Outside, I smiled at Pintu, who smiled back. He was a rangy
young man in a T-shirt, jeans and sneakers. He followed me to my room
down the stairs, padding noiselessly like a cat.
When I had unlocked the door, he let me have it: a
well-directed blow to the solar plexus that sent me hurtling inside. The
door closed, and I was bent double on the floor.
The intercom rang away furiously, but it was some time before I heard it.
“Yes?” I gasped.
“Mr. Shah? Mr. Shah?” It was the hotel manager.
“Yes.”
“Are you alive? Thank God!”
I waited, my chest heaving.
“Forgive us for not coming to your room. You understand. We
can’t be seen to be helping you.” He was speaking in a whisper. “But
please visit Hotel Poshur again.”
“I will.”
“We can help you after the sahib and memsahib leave for Bagerhat this afternoon.”
“I’m all right.”
“But please visit Hotel Poshur again.”
I hung up, and proceeded to take the .22 rifle out of its
case. As a teenager, I had won a shooting contest, and it had been years
since I had fired the thing. I admit it was a lousy substitute for an
automatic pistol, but it was all I had.
Dripping with perspiration, I turned on the fan, locked and bolted the doors, and lay back.
I must have dozed off, for I was woken by the intercom again. It was the manager, but more frantic this time.
“Mr. Shah, Mr. Shah, they’re kidnapping the memsahib!”
Rifle ready, I raced out of the front door. Two men were
forcing Laila into a white Toyota under the porch. One of them had a
pistol. They must have realised that Lenin had left Laila behind: every
mafia don has enemies.
One of them got behind the wheel, and opened the rear door. I
knelt, rested the barrel on the railing, and fired. The second chap let
go of his gun, and clutched his shoulder-blade. Laila broke away, and
he scrambled into the back, and, with a screech of rubber against
tarmac, the Toyota tore out of the compound.
Laila ran in, and began to take the stairs at a run. I ran to her.
“Don’t come now,” she whispered fiercely. “In the evening.”
She stood in black stockings, garters and garter belt. Her
hair scorched the gold of her flesh. She stood facing me, halfway to the
door to the verandah. Her left hand rested, shoulder-high, on one of
the posters for the mosquito net.
We made love, or did we make war? We were as violent as the
world outside, in as desperate a hurry, with the same sense of time
sinking rapidly: we were impatient with our clothes, with our bodies,
with the rhythm of nature. We struggled like enemies, now myself atop,
now her, the head dangling over the edge of the bed or pushed against
the pillow, pelvis thrusting as though in anger.
“Reality is never wonderful. Is this moment real? I wish it would last forever. Reality is ugly.”
We lay in one another’s arms, the mosquito net suspended above us. An
engine boat punctuated the silence, and the drone of crickets and the
air-conditioner. Her skin was cool. The taste of ecstasy lingered in my
mouth. Her hair smelled of eternity.
The desire for eternity – eternal pleasure and eternal
torment – has arisen time and again under anarchy. The most interesting
questions have always been asked during anarchy, not stability: is the
world illusion, maya? Is there a reality beyond the apparently real? A
confident ‘yes’ to these questions have been given by Plato,
Descartes....The first had lived through the Peloponnesian War, the
second had been a soldier at La Rochelle during the Thirty Years’ War;
the phenomenal world was redeemed by Aristotle under Alexander, and John
Locke in a more stable country.
After the probing kiss, she had swallowed me as though
searching for my existence; her orgasm confirmed it. Our ascent to
confirmation had necessarily been bellicose: every swing of the hip
hinted without telling, mere whispers that grew louder in our heads,
till the screams came, followed by silence. He must have satisfied
himself countless times without revealing himself: he came, he went.
This, to her, was real, we were real: not a devil’s fantasy.
“I never take him in my mouth. And I never come.”
The doorknob rattled, like doubts.
“Open up, Laila!” It was Lenin.
I grabbed my clothes and hurried into the verandah. A
gibbous moon rose in the east, silvering the waves. Across the river,
the lights of Old Mongla glimmered. The night was muggy. I sweated with
fear and heat. My mouth was dry. Fireflies swam around me. Frogs
announced rain. To the south, the lights of a ship burned like those of
a large city. I dressed quietly, ready to jump. Unfortunately, the
compound was illuminated.
“We’re going to Khulna. Pack. I heard that fellow saved you
today. We’ll kill him in the morning when we pass by on the steamer.
What do you think, Pintu?”
“Let’s kill him now.”
“No, I’m late for the conference.”
The door opened. It was Laila. A bar of light lit up the verandah.
“P.S. Ostrich. Cabin 4.”
I gave them fifteen minutes to leave, and then I took a bus
to Khulna. I only stopped at a kitchenware store. The orange paddle
steamer was anchored at the ghat, crew and staff asleep. Coolies in
lungis and vests loaded sacks of rice, crossing and recrossing the
gangway in the feeble light of an overhanging bulb. They paid me no
attention.
I climbed the companionway up to the first-class deck. I sat
on a leatherette chair in the darkness. I remembered the legend above
me.
P.S.OSTRICH
YEAR OF (sic) BUILT 1929 BY GARDEN REACH WORKSHOP, CALCUTTA
RENOVATED AND DIESELISED
It seemed appropriate that on this funereal night I was on a
British-period relic. The river was a graveyard – both natural and
man-made, made by Lenin. How many bodies had he dumped into the Rupsha?
In my stress, I seemed to see into the past – the ghosts of
English men and women, drinks in hand, joked and lounged in the
lightless deck. I was with the dead.
And the mosquitoes.
Around 3:00, I heard Laila’s bangles in the saloon. I
tiptoed up the narrow path between the cabins and the railing on the
right. The frogs at the Poshur had been right. The moon was now obscured
by dense clouds.
The steamer started, with two melancholy blasts of the horn.
The engine hummed. Laila, I was sure, would make no move before we were
out of Khulna and on the River Poshur.
The cabin door opened, lighting the narrow passage beside
the railing. Glass bangles clinked above the swish of the waves. Laila
stepped out and closed the door. She turned to make sure I was there,
before cabin 6. The strong breeze dragged at her hair. She opened the
door again and made a beckoning motion, smiling.
“What? Are you getting romantic, Laila? I’m dog-tired after
my meeting with those gun dealers – they strike a hard bargain.
Bastards! Ok! Ok!”
He stepped out. The door closed. He heard me, and turned. I
plunged the knife – as deep as it would go – into his belly. It was the
knife from the back, bangles screaming, that surprised him. The whites
of his eyes enlarged abruptly, then diminished, then disappeared. We
hauled him over the railing after I pulled out my knife.
The waves appeared menacing in the light from the lower deck
that illuminated them. An immense vastness surrounded one. The elements
seemed to be hostile towards man and his creation.
We entered the cabin. It was lined with wood and painted
white; there were two berths side by side with a table between them; a
basin and a mirror stood at the other end. I washed the knife in the
basin. Laila took off her bangles and her heels.
We stepped into the saloon. The staff, most of them naked to
the waist in lungis, slept on the carpet under the revolving fans. The
rattan chairs were upside down on the bare tables. Only a bulb burned
before the pantry between the first and third classes. We stepped over
the sleeping figures and made our way to the third class. Here
passengers slept on the floor. We stepped over an old man, mouth agape,
cheeks hollowed, eyes closed in their bony sockets; a young woman in
burqua had fallen asleep with a baby at her breast. We entered the
second class.
The light was on in Pintu’s cabin still. Laila knocked and he stepped out.
“Does Lenin sahib want me?”
Laila shifted to the railing. I plunged the knife in, and shoved him overboard.
I was surprised that there was no blood on me, except for a
slight stain at the wrist on the right arm. But I got the shakes. As
soon as we were back in the cabin, and I had washed my hands, I began
shivering uncontrollably. I lay down; it was useless.
Laila was calm: it was eerie to see her so self-composed.
She poured mouthfuls of whisky down my throat. I must have drunk half a
bottle before sleep came.
When I came to – there’s no other expression – I felt bitter
in my mouth and in my mind. Laila bent over me: she had changed into a
black, chundri skirt and black, sleeveless blouse. A vein on each eyelid
alone told of the ordeal. I loathed her.
Sunlight reflected from the river danced through the slats
above the cabin door and between the curtain and window on the white
wall across from me. I felt no joy, as I once used to at that familiar
sight.
I told Laila to go to the deck and order breakfast there. She obeyed without a word.
When I got there, she was biting off a piece of bhetki
fillet after dipping it in sauce. The sight of food made me nauseous. I
sat and looked around.
The sun shone in a million mirrors on the water. The green
banks passed by on either side. A fishing village appeared, with
thatched houses surrounded by areca and coconut palms: there was a
banana orchard behind. Around twenty covered boats floated in a large
semicircle around a net suspended from black drums. A barge carrying
bricks chugged noisily by. The wind was like a substance beating against
my eardrums: it mitigated the heat and the humidity. An egret winged
its way across the water, its white reflected in the river.
How many times had my soul leapt up at such a scenery, every
scenery separate, unrepeatable? Now, all I felt was despair and
contempt. I was a murderer.
Montu, a bearer, stood respectfully before me in his red tunic and blue trousers, hands clasped behind.
“You are well, sir?”
“Fine, Montu. And you?”
“Your prayers, sir.”
His dark, round face broke into a smile.
“Where are we, Montu?”
“We’ll be at Boro Masua soon, sir.”
“What? Of course, we’ve left Mongla behind. Now, I have to
get off at Barisal and get back. I have an appointment at Mongla.”
“We’ll be at Barisal before evening, sir.”
My silence indicated that I wanted him to leave. I stared at
Laila. She was listening to the sitar on her discman with a headphone.
Why did she listen to the egoless sitar? One could imagine a court and a
despot, ego surrendered by performer and auditors, for where the self
is safe, it needs no assurance of its existence.
We watched a cloud move from the shore to over our heads. We
inferred the presence of the cloud from the darkness of the water and
the adjacent greenery, the darkness being its shadow. Then it moved
towards us from the right bank until the water before us was segregated
into light and dark.
The engine was cut and the paddles stopped. Between the
steamer and the pontoon at Boro Masua the water foamed and eddied. A
line was thrown and grabbed by a man in blue uniform.
The megaphone blared: “Do not attempt to jump on the side of
the ship.” This was repeated again and again. “Anyone without a ticket
will not be allowed.”
There was a rush of men, women and children up the double
gangplank with the hapless checker collecting little slips: women in
burquas, with or without babies on their hips, a blind old man in skull
cap, punjabi and lungi led by a child, children carrying trussed
chickens....Then the traffic was in the reverse direction, surging down.
Next to this scene was one of bucolic tranquility: three
date palms stood together, and two a little way off. Cows grazed. A pair
of king crows sat on their reluctant hosts, jumping off when they moved
and hopping on again. A pair of mynas flew to our deck railing and then
wandered about the deck.
Redemption came a few minutes after Boro Masua.
Laila was buying coconut water. The vendor came up from the
third class below. He chopped off the top of the coconut and pierced the
inner covering. A jet of water shot up. The coconut was held, inverted,
above a funnel to fill a bottle. Laila bought three bottles of coconut
water with Montu’s help.
Then the klaxons blared. General Harun-ur-Rashid was coming
with the coast guard. The steamer stopped, and he boarded. There were
armed sentinels all over the deck.
The General, tall and burly with a double chin, came up the
companionway, through the saloon, a guard before and after him. He was
in uniform: I felt better immediately.
“I’m delighted to meet you, Laila! Forgive me, young lady,”
he said, taking off his peaked cap, “but I have some unimportant matters
to discuss with Zafar, here. Would you allow Colonel Masud to escort
you to your room?”
The General did not sit until the girl left. A look of frenzied elation had come over Laila’s face.
“You have the papers. Zafar?”
“Before we begin, sir, I have a confession.”
“I’m not a priest, Zafar,” he boomed, “and killing a rat
like Lenin was an act of heroism for which you should be decorated. This
fillet is fantastic. Try some.”
“I think I will, sir, now that you are here. But how did you know I killed him?”
He dipped a morsel in tomato sauce, and lifted it half way
to his mouth and blinked. “Well, you’re alive, so he must be dead.” He
omitted to add, “Silly boy.”
I cut into the bhetki with vigour.
“When is the coup, sir?” I asked, handing him a briefcase.
“You’ll find a list of all the criminal MPs in here. That means almost
all of them. Including,” – I swallowed – “their cronies and goons.”
“My divisions are moving towards Dhaka right now.” He looked
at his watch, swirling the coconut water in his mouth. “This will give
me all the legitimacy I need.” He looked around. A small, covered boat
supervised a submerged net suspended from floating drums. “Civilians!
They can never run a country. Not one so beautiful.” He picked up his
cap. “Take good care of that girl. She saved the country.”
Klaxons blaring again, the General left. Montu brought a
radio and we heard news of the approaching divisions. The General had
redeemed the phenomenal world. Everything seemed beautiful again, and I
suddenly missed Laila.
I found her quietly sitting, chin in hand; I sat next to
her. The swish of the waves underscored the minutes of silence. Then
the tears of years came: she sobbed in spasms on my chest, and I gulped.
I waited for her on deck. Then she came.
In a white shalwar and kameez.
Iftekhar Sayeed teaches English and
economics. He was born and lives in Dhaka, Bangladesh. He has
contributed to AXIS OF LOGIC, ENTER TEXT, POSTCOLONIAL TEXT, LEFT
CURVE MOBIUS, ERBACCE, THE JOURNAL, and other publications.
He is also a freelance journalist. He and his wife love to tour
Bangladesh.
|
|
|
TDR is produced in
Toronto, Ontario, Canada.
All content is copyright of the person who
created it and
cannot be copied, printed, or downloaded without the consent
of that person.
See the masthead for editorial information.
All views expressed
are those of the writer only.
TDR is archived with the Library
and Archives Canada.
ISSN 1494-6114.
|
No comments:
Post a Comment