Café of Male Weeping

Ebadur Rahman

Read, and show me how well can you read. – Swami Vibekananda

Translator’s Note:
This short story is unique in a number of ways including its form and content. The writer has experimented heavily with the Bangla syntax, breaking away from many norms, especially those related to punctuation by omitting the marks where they are customarily used and putting them where not. In Bangla this does not hamper the readability as much as it does in English. So, in a number of instances I had to insert them for the sake of readers’ comprehension and readability. Although I did try my best to remain faithful to the original linguistic style, I was also compelled in some sentences to mention the subjects, which were missing in the Bangla text, but all the while keeping the flow and flavour of the ‘Pung Kannar Café’ intact. In fact, I had to invent a narrative style in English to construct a near identical English twin of Ebadur’s offbeat Bangla write-up that is one of a kind and infuses a fresh though somewhat delinquent and wild blood into the contemporary Bangla prose. Finally, I request the readers to keep in mind, while reading this story, what Chateaubriand, a famous 19th century French politician, diplomat, and writer, said, ‘An original writer is not one who imitates nobody, but one whom nobody can imitate,’ and so be merciful if you find any lapse in the translated text. - Azfar Aziz


Introduction
Sis and I are basically fun-loving. There are real elephants in our elephant shed. When we lived in New York, we had horses in the stable. We rode in the Central Park at dawn. But, when our plane was about to take off, I was chewing a gum to shake off the nervousness. My dental filling came apart. I realise then and there I am on the rocks. The life of milk and honey, of overindulgence we have been living is over and done with. Has anyone ever been tormented like this, in this world? What pains! Darkness envelops me from all sides.
It pains even to talk. I moan—ah-ah, uh-unh—in a low voice trying to catch Finney’s attention. We are travelling in G class. The seats are set far apart. Plus, Finney is listening to some French hip-hop with her ears plugged with earphones. Totally spaced out.
A handsome boy is there at the other end of the aisle. At first Finney did not pay any attention to him, him being a Bengali. But, since the evening, I find her flirting with him. Says, what do you know? He is Sheikh Rehana’s son, studying at Yale.
I hold out my hand with much pain; and poke at Finney’s ribs. It gives her a jolt. She wields a heavy bottle of Perrier to strike me down. Says you dolt! How dare you. Will you stop or must I stop you once and for all?
I say, sis… I can’t bear the toothache any more. Don’t you know how sensitive I am… look at me; see how awfully my jaws have swollen.
Finney has an unprecedented rapport with the cabin crew. Every few minutes, I see one or other is coming to her and sharing Swiss Colony Baklava, macadamia nuts, ice tea.
I say please call in the hostess for a moment. That blond one, with grey eyes. They surely have some nitrous oxide here. Please do make some special request for me. I don’t have the nerve to ask for it myself. You know mu shyness. Please Finney…
Finney says die, drop dead; why don’t you? All through life, you keep bitching and moaning… I! I! I! My pains! My sorrows! Everyone in the world has to sympathise with you, hah? All have to suffer along with you. How anyone can be so selfish! My ears have rotten from hearing your incessant whining… can’t stand it any more.
A German man asks Finney how many languages she knows. He has heard our talks and has already heard Finney speaking in three lingoes. The man and his daughter have fun talking to Finney; they bubble with laughter.
Finney is in seventh heaven; has gained some attention—says, wait man, wait for a while… I’m completely at ease with French and Spanish vernaculars. I know some German, Dutch, and Greek, also Arabic, Hindi, Urdu, and Punjabi. I have graduated from high school only at 15. Received the mayor’s award, under which I stayed in Italy for eight months. That was the time when I picked up the Italian, too.
When Finney smiles, a dimple appears in her left cheek only. Her large eyes are sparkling. Everyone is completely devastated.
I think, now!
I tilt my head to one side. I heave. Slowly I throw up all the food I have eaten since the morning. My new Armani shirt is ruined. The floor is flooded with the vomit. I keep on groaning.
From my conversations with the blond hostess, we discover I had met her sister. The girl used to study at Juilliard. We took lessons in violin together, from Avrafim Schwartz.
The hostess tells me her sister has abandoned music. She has bagged the leading role in a new film of Larry Clark.
I say don’t be upset. It’s bound to happen to anyone living in New York for too long. At least, she has not taken to drugs. Don’t take it otherwise, but to the Euro trash Junk Frank is now all the rage.
The hostess girl grabs my hand in alarm. I console her. She brings a warm wet towel. Brings cologne, and sponges my body, washes my face with care, gives me a painkiller, and even feeds me hot soup with a spoon.
I discuss modern painting with the German man. I quote Walter Benjamin. He highly praises my accent. He is going to Dhaka to work, at a food aid project of the USAID. Brita is his daughter’s pet name. She is real smart. She tells me her name; then, with a flirtatious look, says: Und mit wem habi’ch die ehre? And to whom have I the honour of talking? She is studying at the King’s College. But she is still very young. To her Oxford is groovy. But every summer, she must travel abroad with her father, only the third world. Because, she admits, we have a fascination for the third world scenarios. The self-generated revolutionary inside my humble self becomes appeased at that—I give her a collection of post-modern poems to read. She is highly impressed. Lovely girl!
God knows how the two and a half days pass. The KLM plane, flying via Amsterdam, may be Bahrain and such places, finally lands in Dhaka. I have survived by seeping diet Pepsi and soups with straws. But I am feeling happy.
I ask Finney to arrange a wheelchair for me, trained medical personnel to carry me. What’s the use of walking in the crowd? There is no meaning in brushing my ass with that of the public without any reason.
Finney turns furious, is about to explode. She bites her nails, bids farewell to all with a smile. A lot of telephone numbers are being exchanged, profusely, with tearful eyes. I hand over my heavy cabin luggage to her. Let her carry it. After all, she is my elder sister. She retorts, dick wad! Let me get off this plane; then we have things to settle. You’ve gone too far… so, are you going home empty-handed? Should I call the blond hostess? Wouldn’t you give her a farewell kiss? It seems she has taken to you pretty well!
I say what are you talking; ain’t she much older than me?
You think everyone is like you?
She says, shut up. I understand. I know all about your balls. You even mumble ‘mom, mom’ thrice just to ask for a painkiller. Better, let me call the fat German girl. That’s your right calibre. You’ve nothing better than that for you, in this life. She’s rich though. Have you noticed? The Rolex on her wrist: Oyster Perpetual, 17 jewels, white gold. The new Donna Karan snickers? The price is at least 350 dollars.
I look around. No one probably has come to the airport to pick us up.
Finney herself collects my Luis Vuitton suitcase from the conveyer belt.
We then see chhoto ma and our driver Amir bhai in the airport compound. Fine.
I have an impulse to run to chhoto ma and hug her. But I don’t. Finney avoids her straightaway, looking in another direction. She whispers this sinister woman has appeared even here. Why? Where’s abbi?
Amir bhai says, sir couldn’t make it today. Bank meeting. Hassles. After dropping you home, I’ll have to rush again to Motijheel.
Chhoto ma wets my face with too many kisses. I smell hard candy lipstick on her. Her hair is untied. She is wearing a shalwar-kamis bought from Dressy Dale, a pair of Taver thong sandals, and glittering pink nail polish.
Amir bhai brings a trolley. Finney is holding the cabin luggage with both the hands. While placing it in the trolley, she drops it on chhoto ma’s feet, bruising the little toe. It bleeds a little.
O Lord! I see a new Toyota Land Cruiser has been bought. Bottle green and very roomy.
A traffic jam is there even on the airport premises. Amir bhai kills the engine, pushes back his cap.
Finney says, hey Amir, turn up the AC. Finney is chain-smoking Marlborough lights. She continuously turns on and off her Zippo lighter, Air Corps—with the emblem of the 73rd Airborne Division on it.
Near Mohakhali, Finney opens the huge window of the vehicle, sticks out her head, and spits right in the body of a schoolgirl, for no reason at all, says ishsh, it seems Dhaka is losing its scenic attractions.
A brand new apartment, just eight months old. We had seen it before only in photos. Now we find it is so large that when we speak the sound reverberates.
As soon as I enter Taltal runs to me. She brushes her face against my belly, and wants to be fondled again and again. She smells sweet, of Johnson’s Baby Lotion.
I whisper in her ears, enough, don’t be too lovey-dovey. Now go to Finney, show her some love, too. She’s in a mood. She has never been without ma.
Fahad’s mother rings. How I’m. She misses me a lot. Fahad has gone to Ameen sir’s house to study economics. He would be able to contact me in the afternoon. Khuda Hafidj.
Finney lashes out at chhoto ma, how dare you shift my things to the guestroom? How dare you give my childhood bed to Taltal? Who has disarranged my book cabinet? Hah? You listen well; you’re nothing but a third person in this house. Don’t try politicking with me…
Finney opens the door of the fridge with a bang, which smashes against the cupboard. She says where is Yoo-hoo, chhoto ma? Don’t you know I eat cereal with chocolate milk? How am I going to survive now? Have you planned to starve us to death? Another thing, get some Snapple; what are these rubbish bread spreads you’ve stacked the racks with... throw these foul cheese-meese from Crafts away, we don’t eat generic food. Get some organic romaine lettuce from Whole Food, some fresh carrots, cucumbers, and tomatoes, frothed cheese, brie and such things, and also some fat-free blue cheese salad dressing from Thaozao Island. Also get some oil vinaigrette, Caesar dressing, sour French rye breads… how I wish to have some éclairs now!... We have some milk in the afternoon. Ma serves us scones with milk and honey. We’re used to that.
Taltal jumps up and down on the sofa. Chhoto ma scolds her. Says stop it… it seems the fever has remitted a bit.
Chhoto ma feels the temperature in her forehead. Taltal says, Noor! Noor! I’ve a fever. I had a math mock yesterday but I missed. Fever has become endemic everywhere. Season change. I’ve to eat lots of vitamin C.
Today Fahad introduces me to Robin. He is quite old, a third-batch student of the North-South. He is roaming with us. He plays guitar, keyboard, too. The newspapers, he claims, are making a big thing of their band’s album. Finney says the boy is very cute. She wants to know if he really is a state minister’s son. I say yes.
Amir bhai has given me daddy’s Lexus to drive around for a while. It’s real smooth to drive. In the morning, I find people sleeping in the median of Manik Mia Avenue. I have dyspepsia. Chhoto ma leaves a potpourri of wilted flowers in my bathroom. A heavy smell of pine oil pervades the air all the while. I weep for sometime sitting in the bathroom. I feel miserable.
Abbi wants to know when ma last took me to a dentist. Noor, he asks.
The last time abbi was in America on business, he had have a hi-fi hair plug done from Florida. Fifty dollars per hair. His teeth are capped with porcelain. They look ridiculous.
Early last month, a few days after my arrival in Boston, two of my teeth were worked on. A holistic dentist is there, a friend of ma.
No, I tell abbi, it has been quite a long time I visited any dentist. I put on a brace when I was in the third grade. That was the last time.
A wide-eyed Finney says what a bluff!
Abbi says Finney, why are you sitting so indecently? Ain’t you old enough? Put your legs down from the sofa and sit properly.
Abbi makes me open my mouth; asks me to show him the infected teeth with my tongue.
He says the gum is also swollen red… did your ma give you the cheque I sent by Rini for you last month?
I say which cheque? I can’t remember. What are you talking about…
Finney and I exchange looks.
The street in front of our complex is pockmarked with trenches. Chhoto ma’s car appears at the gate. I see abbi’s metallic grey Lexus goes out through the gate, stops for a moment; he gives some instructions to chhoto ma, and then speeds away leaving behind a trail of dust.
Like the olden houses, there is a large concrete compound illuminated with subtle lighting between the buildings at our housing complex. A fountain. A marble pool. In it numerous tiny, yellow, artificial ducks are floating on the water. The four sides of the pool are covered with synthetic matting.
The swimming pool enclosed with wire netting is dry. A number of kids are practising skating on its sloping floor. Some girls are racing BMXs. They wave and say hi to chhoto ma.
The parents of Shamim uncle of the eighth floor are relaxing on a bench. Seba aunty and some other residents I don’t know, who were power-walking in the compound, come at the elevator door and talk to chhoto ma.
The complete resemblance between Taltal and me causes people’s eyebrows to rise. She says, Noor, have you brought the Golden Eye-3 I saw you have. She’s an RPG (role-playing game) freak, phoned me time and again to tell me what games I should bring for her. And she reminded me about them on one thousand nights.
I say which world are you living in? Does anyone play Golden Eye, nowadays? It’s totally extinct. The graphics are prehistoric. I’ve brought Half Life. Try it, you’ll be totally stunned.
Taltal asks, hey Noor, tell me is X-box better or Sony Play Station-2?
I say, X-box, what good is that? What a stupid question.
She says, shame, man, you’re totally frumpish. Everyone knows Play Station-2 is how very cool.
Grandma rings. Says, give me Shonima.
I tell her chhoto ma has gone out to work.
Grandma gives a wolfish laugh. How much she must care for you! Anyone can show affection in mere words. You come after so many days and she doesn’t even feel any necessity to take a leave.
I say we are all going together to Kolkata during the puja, may be not Abbi, but many of us are.
Grandma says that women can’t stop showing off.
I say, grandma, will you talk to Finney? She misses you very much.
Grandma says, shut up! Interrupting me while I’m talking!
Seba aunty has made some dalpuries. Hot, hot salsa. She puts in them bits of peach and real strawberry, Jell-O. They’re mouth-watering.
Finney says, enjoy, you son of a bum. What do you care if your father is in trouble? Your father is facing a lawsuit over a Shilpa Bank loan; he’s trying to sell off the condo at Upper East Side in Manhattan; but the market is not as before, ahead of the elections, no one is coming up with money how many things Bush can tackle; the project with the Japanese remains stuck at the midway; the lawyers are sponging him off like anything… those sons of the Jews! They emit some farts at the court and then come to claim money for that… let them, what do you care? The house at Baridhara and the mill at Savar, every thing mortgaged, the bank is going to put on auction; the newspapers have already picked up the story; the process has been stalled only by bribery and such other means… Your father’s going to have a heart attack.
What does all this mean to you? You keep on watching TV and relish dalpuries.
Finney spreads her arms in a gesture, of exasperation.
We live on the 13th floor. So, naturally many of the city areas can be seen from the balcony.
Finney goes to abbi to ask for some cigarettes.
Abbi says, Finney, please don’t give me a hard time. Your ma is yet to have any sense. I told her so many times, please spare me this time; don’t send them now, don’t… I’m going through a tough time…
The price of abbi’s satellite phone, set in a Gucci suitcase, is 22 lakh taka. Abbi calls abroad at 2 in the morning; works on his Mac G-3 power book making clunks.
Chhoto ma takes a blanket and a side-pillow and goes to sleep with Taltal. If only the men in this house had a little consideration! After all, she is not a call girl. After feeding the entire family breakfast in the morning, she has to go to office and deal with her professional tasks. No one spares her.
I have indigestion again and having a float, made of ice cream, diet Pepsi, and indigenous seedy bananas. Z-English is airing a good movie. I watch it with rapt attention. I talk to Fahad over cell phone.
Tonima’s uncle has died. Abbi is unable to go, so, chhoto ma has to. Finney has disappeared with Robin. They are well in with each other, sexually. I feel disgusted. They move always hand in hand. Honey, honey. Hold me darling. Lift me up.
I am playing a video game with Fahad at Sports Zone. But, after playing for some time at a stretch, I have a waist pain. I stretch in front of a mirror. Fahad goes to take a lick. I see Koushik and Tumpa standing.
Tumpa says, hey sailor, long time no see; how come you hit this obsolete joint today?
Koushik says I heard you’ve been in town for some weeks now. What prevented you from giving me a ring? We mean nothing to you, is it? Are we all tin sheets of relief, hah?
Fahad says what’s the use of wasting time with these nobodies? Let’s get out.
I give him a sharp look. I say what has happened to you today? You need some more ass-whipping, what?
Koushik says are you still kids? You’ve yet to learn the adults’ games. Quit it guys. Let’s go home. I’ve some excellent, real, saki of Okinawa. I’ll open it tonight in your honour. Let’s go to my home, now.
Tumpa pipes in, yes, let’s do that, sugar, I’ve been feeling bored the whole evening.
Tumpa was serving warm saki, in jars. I feel nothing by drinking it. But, after a while, it suddenly hits right at my head, hard. I become utterly drunk. Koushik is laughing derisively at my condition: What happened man, all of a sudden, nothing used to make you flushed.
Fahad says let’s move and go to my house. You better go home after sobering up a bit. It’s not yet that late in the night.
Meghla, Fahad’s sister, is lying on a sofa in the living room. She is reading Sherlock Holmes, The Sign of Four. The TV is on. She does not even glance at us. Fahad says I see London, I see France… I see your underpants.
Her panty is red, of linen. Meghla adjusts her dress. She is now staring at me. Her look is hard. What’ve I done! Go for your brother. But, no, you won’t do that. Public!
I am lying on Fahad’s bed. Fahad has gone to get some food. My head is spinning. I feel nausea. If I vomit on the bed, Fahad will kill me. I run out to the bathroom. I enter it and switch on the light only to I find I have entered a different room, Meghla’s. There are a reading table, many books, a dressing table, bed, a chest of drawers etc. I feel the bed. Meghla sleeps here. The smell is distinct. I touch her make-up materials. My heart is beating so fast as if it will burst out of the chest any moment. Meghla and Fahad are talking. Their voices are approaching me. I should get out of this room. But I can’t. I slowly go to the chest of drawers and open it. I feel the dresses, take an item from the lowermost drawer and pocket it. Then, without telling anything to anyone, I leave the house.
The entire duplex is engulfed darkness. I switch the living room light on. Finney is lying on a sofa, with her arm resting on the forehead. Her clothes are dishevelled. She does not care that I am looking at her. She is weeping.
What happened, I ask.
I’ve a terrible headache, put out the light, she says.
I go upstairs. I am taking my shoes off. From my bathroom, Taltal calls, Noor, o Noor, come here. Please, get me out. I’m not feeling well.
The door is locked from the outside. I open it. She is sitting on the floor amid a flood of her vomit. I lift her up. She holds onto me, wrapping her hands around my neck. Her body is really hot, at least 102 to 103.
She says in English, I’ve dirtied your bathroom, Noor. I’m very ashamed and sorry.
I say, apu, what’s happened to you? Did no body come… it’s so late in the night…
She says in a whisper, Noor, Finney beat me up real hard.
Taltal is shaking slightly. She is lying with me under a blanket. She speaks to herself with a mournful expression on her face. I listen to Black Sabbath in low volume. Chhoto ma calls, says she’ll come home late. Seba aunty has gone to the bereaved house so heavily spruced up as if she’s attending a marriage ceremony—jewelleries, make-up, the whole nine yards, chhoto ma reports.
Finney talks to Tonima aunty over telephone. She says Nima wants you.
Hello, I say.
Brother, she says, don’t you ever think of me. Not a single mail or phone call—love has really departed this world. May I meet you on Friday? Will you come or not?
No, I say.
What do you do all the day sitting at home? Don’t you feel bored, she says, look how much Finney is enjoying…
You won’t understand, I reply.
I am relishing the music of Leonard Cohen. The face of Meghla floats in my mind. I am thinking about her, sitting alone, and I feel sad. Without any reason, I am squeezing the baize colour underwear I stole from her room.
Seba aunty says, Noor, I’ve invited Fahads to spend the Friday with us. Joys are also coming. Shelley’s returning to Windsor at the end of this month. I’ve not had a chance to meet her. You better come early. I’ll be preparing cramp chops and butter Scotch pudding. It’s been quite a while I’ve fed you well… Did your ma call? Where’s she? Still in Dallas?
I say, ma is participating in a seminar, in Japan, probably in Tokyo. After that, she’ll go to Sao Paulo with Junaid uncle, on vacation. We’re considering settling down permanently in Boston. Finney has already seen through the formalities to get enrolled in the BEU this fall… Junaid uncle is Boston-based. The only problem is the work schedule of ma… I’m not sure though. Would you like to talk to Finney?
I go to Fahad’s home. Meghla is not there. I knew. I send Fahad upstairs to bring down his game system. He has agreed to connect it up with the 58-inch Magnavox HD TV and play. I take the chance to enter Meghla’s room. My hands are shaking from agitation. I bring out the stolen bra from my pocket and put it back in the drawer. I should leave now but I can’t. I take another bra and pocket it. It’s more enchanting, with the upper half made of flowery lace, Victoria’s Secret. I think deeply about the part of her body this piece of clothing touches.
Fahad says, hey Noor, tell me is X-box better or Sony Play Station-2?
I say what kind of a question is that. What good is X-box?
He says, fie, guy, you’re a real dowdy. Play Station is the king. There’s only one thing cooler than that in this world. That is ganja. Understand? Store this info well in your head. Play Station is the Elvis, Mohammed Ali, Bill Gates of the gaming world… the real leader…
I can’t concentrate in the game. For the first time in my life, I lose to Fahad. Fahad feels cramp in the waist. He gets up and stretches before the living room mirror.
I feel impatient. I say will you play or should I go home?
He gives me an oblique look, says what happened, you want more ass-whipping or what?
Robin is kissing Finney in front of the landing. Are they human or something else! I hem and say are you finished? You may not have any concern about honour and respectability but I do have a social reputation to keep. What’ve you started, and in broad daylight?
Fahad’s father works at the finance ministry. After spending one and a half years at Cornell University of the USA on a government scholarship, he has returned to Dhaka. I’ve a fruitful discussion with him about the country’s future. He said Elvin Toffler is the best-ever political thinker the world has seen. Marx, tarx all have become outdated. What option do the poor countries have but to follow the Toffler Way? Nothing. He’s a sage. He’s the one to understand my ideas. I’ve given him my poems to read.
Abbi has had no time to rest for some days. The tension has peaked, so has the hectic running from place to place. The Gulshan Club is holding its election. The campaign is on. He did not come home last night, just called chhoto ma to tell her he would need the Lexus. Chhoto ma should go to the marriage ceremony of Debu uncle at Sena Kunja in the other car. When Finney was going out on her round, she was told to come home a little earlier that day, by the afternoon, as there was a shortage of cars.
Chhoto ma went in Tonima apus’ car to get her hair done. That car has left to bring Tonima apu from the Pundits. Chhoto ma, dressed and all made-up and painted for the function, has been waiting for an eternity. But there is no sign of Finney. How many times one can ask for other people’s car? After all, it concerns one’s prestige. At last, the queen arrives at 8 o’clock. Chhoto ma and Finney get engaged in a loud quarrel right in the landing. The residents of the complex come out to witness the scene. Even all the drivers, guards, and janitors are relishing the drama.
It takes three men to bring Finney upstairs by force. Chhoto ma hits her in the head with an ash tray. Finney crashes the bone china crockery set. One by one, she breaks chhoto ma’s favourite CDs and LPs.
I come and try to hold Finney still. She is shaking, soaked in sweat. She throws up all over my body.
She says, in English, what a shame, what am I, Noor! I’m very ashamed and sorry.
I say, apu, nothing happened. Come, sleep with me tonight.
Finney whispers, Noor, I’ve very obnoxious doubts about life. I feel so tired, all the time. I’ve nothing to look forward to. I’ve no desire left to go on living…
As soon as I lay her on the bed, she falls asleep. She sobs in her sleep. I cover her with a blanket, put on PJ Harvey in low volume, and say, sweetie pie, wait a few more days, okay, I’ll take you abroad.
Throughout the night she sleeps embracing me in a gross way, while I keep on tossing and turning. At one point, I doze off, see some broken dreams, about Meghla; my member becomes engorged with blood. Waking up in the morning, I find my body wet with sweat. I feel suffocated, and also a sense of guilt. I am unable to look at Finney.
The entire day I spend at Meghla’s house. But I don’t get any chance to creep into her room. My head feels like bursting from a headache. It needs a little bit of courage to do. Whatever happens, now or never, I tell myself. And I intrude. My heart is pounding so fast that I may collapse any moment in a faint. The house is full of people, talks, and sounds of their movement. I shudder from fright repeatedly. I open the drawer. In the semi-darkness, I put my hand inside and get alarmed again. What’s this? It’s empty. The whole drawer is empty. There’s no bra, no panty, nothing. I search all the drawers one by one. I feel empty-headed. It also reels a bit.
She surely has realised. Otherwise, why should she empty the chest? Has she told anyone, her parents, Fahad, about it? I’ll have to die.
The first thought I have is that I must escape from this room, right now. My head spins again. I slump on the floor.
Gradually, I regain some stability. My desire returns. I think, no, she surely is rearranging her clothes or may have sent them to laundry. If she had realised, would she allow me to enter the house? At least, she would have locked the room.
Suddenly a thought strikes me. May be she has shifted the underwear to the bathroom closet. I enter the attached bathroom. The shower stall is enclosed with a plastic curtain. I draw it aside. Ha, ha, ha. Some worn clothes are dangling from the long shower pipe. The long, snakelike, pipe of the nozzle is lying in the tub. The white, well-worn, bra is hanging from the water tap. It has yellow stains at the armpits. I take it up, bring it to my nose, and sniff. The door opens with a click. Meghla is standing there, looking straight at me with piercing eyes.
I, too, look at her. I can’t think anything. Like a blind man I advance towards her. I touch her cheeks with the tips of my fingers. She calmly pushes back my hands and says in a suppressed voice, get out. Get out right now, you pervert. How disgusting you are! Else, I’ll scream and call in people.
Rini aunty rings, says where’s your father? Give me him.
I say he’s not in. What’s the news? Tell me.
She says your mother has been hospitalised again. She had not been taking her medication for some weeks, stopped taking lithium totally. So, suddenly she suffered yet another breakdown… tonight, no matter how late it is, your father must call me… here it’s only afternoon now… tell him to call me at my office number…
Tumpa calls, says, hey, what are you doing all by yourself at home… don’t you feel bored… why don’t you come on up at my place… I’m feeling so horny… I’ve a bottle of tequila, Cuervo; come on, let’s finish it together…
Tumpa’s mother is a Lebanese. She is playing tennis with a young boy. They have three gardeners, who smoke ganja all day long at the servants’ quarters. But today I find one of them cutting the grass around the hard court with a lawn mower.
Tumpa rubs a piece of lemon on the soft surface between my thumb and index finger, sprinkles some salt there. She then sucks on it, keeping her eyes locked with mine, and drinks up tequila from a short glass in a single gulp.
I say, where’s Koushik, ain’t he coming?
Tumpa says, why, ain’t I good enough for you? Do you want him too? His exams are on. He won’t be coming.
I say, I see! You’ve called in only me… Hey woman! What’s in your mind? You know I’m a totally innocent boy…
I lay her on the glass-top table, kneel down between he legs, and roll up her T-shirt.
She says, Noor, don’t try anything knave.
I say I’m showing you how to have body shots… in Mexico they drink tequila this way.
I am amazed at the well-shaped muscles of Tumpa’s belly. She surely works out. I pour tequila in her deep navel. Her body pulsates; goose flesh appears all over her body. Her almost invisible, tiny, belly hairs bristle.
I touch the rim of her belly button with my tongue, very softly, and lap up the tequila. The linear sequence of time, with its inherent self-contradiction, starts manifesting itself.
I feel an urge to phone Fahad. We are going to Boomers today. He is supposed to pick me up. I have a date to play pool game with him.
But Finney is sitting in front of the upstairs telephone set, expecting a call from Robin. She doesn’t allow anyone to approach it.
Taltal is shaving her legs with Finney’s Venus razor. She grins, showing her mouth with some teeth missing, like an old woman. A half-grown incisor shows.
I can’t go downstairs. Abbi has gone down to the living room and switched on the TV. He has a long face. Hangover. He takes two Tylenols with orange juice in an empty stomach.
He has split the screen of the 58-inch Magnavox HD TV and is watching CNN and BBC at the same time. Standing in front of the dining table, he puts eight loaves in the dual toaster.
The Hewlett Packard digital fax-phone rings. Chhoto ma comes stomping. She is still wearing her night dress, a kimono. But she has already bathed, tied her hair up, and the make-up on her face is fresh.
Abbi spreads Just Like butter and marmalade on some toasts for chhoto ma, too; says, Shoni, where’s my soy-milk? He puts his head inside the fridge, looking for it.
It rings four times and a fax arrives. Chhoto ma goes through it. With bloodshot eyes, she asks, Rini bubu is asking you for some money … for what? Why’ve you given our home number to this shameless bitch?
Abbi becomes irritated; says, what’re you saying? He has found the soy-milk.
Then what’s this, chhoto ma asks and throws the fax at abbi’s face. She shouts this time you put up with Rini bubu in Texas, right?... After all those incidents… don’t you’ve any shame… you went and lived in that house again!
Abbi says, speak civilly. What’ve you started at this early morning? The kids are listening… have you no sense! You’ll turn me insane, too… and what sort of soy-milk is this you’ve bought? Twenty-eight gram sugar per serving… haven’t I told you so many times to buy the Australian one?
Chhoto ma pounces on him. Abbi checks her with both hands but his Gucci limited edition Crawford-framed spectacles go flying.
Chhoto ma says, shut up, you scoundrel! I’ll shout it right in the street… the children already know… now the whole world should know about their father’s misdeeds… you fraud of a gentleman!... Didn’t I request you, holding your hands? How many times have I told you don’t get involved in any dealings with Rini bubu, please! please! don’t stay at her Austin home… a characterless woman… how many times have you been insulted… your family may not have any social standing but I’ve some prestige… you’ve two grown-up daughters… unthinkable…
Abbi tries to stand up. He is shaking from anger. His silk socks slip on the marble and he collapse on the floor with a thud. He spits out the words: shut up! If you make another sound, I’ll strangle you to death… get out, of my house, out!
Chhoto ma runs like a mad woman, sits on the floor with a bump. The kohl diluted in her tears has flown down on her cheeks. She picks up the Gucci Loafer shoes in her hands and with them strikes at her forehead and face vehemently, saying, kill, kill, yes, kill me! I never found even a tiny bit of love or kindness… I’ve just been a mute slave. Only I know how I maintain this household on such a small amount of money… while every time you go to America, you squander money like anything… money that belongs to my innocent daughter’s kismet… I’ve said nothing till now, have borne all silently… you think I don’t know? Who pays for the studies of Finney and Noor? Why they had to be schooled at Saint Paul? Ain’t you unable to pay back your bank loan!... the houses and property, all are going to be auctioned… who’s going to pay for Finney’s college education?... how long will I go on shouldering this burden? Tell me, answer me! How different my life could have been… what right do you’ve to play fast and loose with my life… even all that did I accept, for the sake of my girl, but I won’t tolerate any chiding of this whore of a woman…
Abbi kicks chhoto ma in the face, holds on to her hair, and drags her to their bedroom. He is about to close the door but the servants come running. They fall at abbi’s feet… speak incoherently, lament aloud. The parents of Shamim uncle are ringing the door bell; Moni aunties of the next door, too.
Robin has given Finney the slip. After getting tired from waiting, Finney is talking to Meghla.
Meghla is Fahad’s sister. She is 5’10”. She sat half the exams on economics and English in January. The rest of the papers she will complete this June. A-level. Her only occupation is visiting the tutors. She studies day and night. When she feels bored, she prepares exotic dishes. She surely will chat with Finney.
I say, hey, Finney, ask her to tell Fahad to pick me up; now.
Finney says she wants to talk to you. Take it.
I say no, no, no. How dangerous!
Finney says she’s saying today she’s making some strudels—pulipithas made of dough, pure ghee, Sabri banana, and raspberry jam. She’s especially inviting you to visit their home. Take it. Talk yourself. What’re you afraid of?
I say, Finney, it seems everyone has gone nuts today. Ain’t I saying that I won’t talk? I’ve to take a shower and get ready. I’ve no time for chit-chatting.
Finney smirks; says, yah, I know about your balls.
Tonima apu takes us to dine out at Little Italy. I find Robin sitting with Meghla there, with Koushik and Tumpa.
Robin stands up; says, come, come…. sit with us… do you know one another? I know this boy through Finney… see, there’s no scope to have a date, to open up my heart, even at so far away from the city; that’s my problem. Everyone knows me. You see, how we’re going on meeting acquaintances…
Meghla looks at me. I avert my eyes. She is wearing a sari, a tip, eardrops etc. In the slight breeze, her hairs are playing on her face.
I feel very nervous but ignore the pounding in my chest. I lift my left feet from the floor and take off the shoe and the sock. Then I place the feet in Meghla’s lap, between her thighs.
She is startled. Her face turns crimson. She says where had you been in the morning? I phoned you… how’re you doing?
Her voice is shaking.
I stare at her coldly. I feel sad. Once I took her to be a good girl. Grand feelings had been developing inside me for her. Boo, all vain. Vain, vain, all are vain.
We are human. We toil and sweat under the sun. Tell me what good is all the toiling and sweating for? Thousands of generations came, and they all died. Many more generations followed; but annihilation is eternal. Derangement and diseases are our companions. There’s no remedy, no sphere of light, not even the hope of a remedy. It’s tiresome to discourse on these subjects.
I make eyes at Meghla. O God Almighty! What a mistake I had been making. Shame! I say, Meghla, how’re you? I hope you’re fine, physically. You shouldn’t talk much to me, okay? Well, I’m leaving; I shouldn’t hang out here any more.
Robin says, Meghla, do you know my band’s mulling over a proposal of a New York-based label to bring out a CD? Dad’s in seventh heaven. He has ordered a Mercedes CLK-240 for me. Just think about that! I thought, as I’ve become so successful at such an early age, now I should do something creative. I’m having a dialogue with Hasib of Cryptic Faith and Shawn of Phulmoni’s Saroj… I may do some solos soon…
I stand up. Looking at her bored face, I feel sympathy for Tonima apu. She goes out to bring the car in the front.
Meghla follows me; says the weather’s still rough… how’ll you go?
I say, that’s nothing, ours’ is a Nissan Patrol; 4-wheel drive; V-6 engine; it’s a pet thing of Tonima apu’s father, who bought it with the money stolen from foreign aid. God will take care of us… may it be rain or flood…
She holds my hand. A flirt!
Why are you fleeing, she whispers, why you are not staying?
I suppress a laugh, and say, don’t you understand? Must I explain everything to you? I ain’t as bright as you. I ain’t in the habit of personalising everything so easily like you… I’m a boy of a broken family… I ain’t accustomed to being loved… I ain’t smart… whenever I see you, I become nervous. You girl, you have… I mean… a real personality…
She kisses me. I keep my lips close shut so that she may not insert her tongue into my mouth. Go slow, let some more time pass. I have still a few more weeks to return home. Time does not pass by itself, it has to be passed.
I have come to the dry swimming pool in the compound. I am trying out the new roller blade.
It’s 1PM. The sun is too hot. I am thinking about taking off the T-shirt. The woman of the second floor, 306-B is reading Sananda, with spectacles, sitting on a cement bench. A housemaid is caressing her hair. She looks up at me. I look at her, too, and take off the shirt.
Hey! Hey, Finney…
My name is Noor, I say, going near her. I stare at her eyes. Even this hag of a woman blushes and looks away, and coyly drops the sari from her chest in happiness.
She says do you know Tonima? I’m her aunty.
I say, salam, Finney is my sister. She is watching TV wearing an Uptan facemask. She may, don’t you think, at such a hot midday?
She says, no, no, it’s alright. In fact, my daughter wants very much to meet you two… she is a little retarded… I don’t let her go out of door… she stays alone all day… it’s because she hears about you a lot… so she wants to meet you…
I say, is it? I like retarded girls, too; a lot. They say groovy things. Don’t we feel superior when we watch them? Self-satisfaction? How old is your daughter?
The woman becomes astonished; pleased, too. Young boy; yet how many things he has already realised; so understanding. She blesses me, raising her hands; says thirty-four. My daughter is 34. She is still fertile.

Ashropa
I seemed somehow to know her face, and to know it in connection with some dreamy fear…
- Bram Stoker, Dracula
What do we need?
We need a process of consuming the complex whole in stead of grammar
Plunge into the title you will cross a grammatical bridge a line of thirst is drawn far afield a full pond, sandalwoods are in the distance and along with them there may be their possible opposites ignorance foreign language if you go beyond this illusion and the formalist environ of bubbly sounds you will suddenly find we don’t address one another, don’t speak directly to anyone, rather one’s mind is expressed by someone else
O Mother, do awaken me the Virgilian adventurer-like echoes of echoes are the examples of the illusions and forms of translations of how many faces how many conscious acts O Mother leaning on the poisonous arrowheads follow us under this pile of innumerable signature letters in this most-underlined bloody area O Mother awaken our interlocking topography interwoven verbal noumenon
The dark golden-purple intricate sky near the second bridge is fragmented does it indicate that dawn has disjoined from our vision? Is this the temporal phenomenon in the Husserlian sense shut up! witling has started to ferment in your head shut you up! I am telling this today for your own good break up the questions—in our orbit are palaces burnt time and again to death these all these are my thoughts of memorised sights
Look! The betrothed queens who have exchanged rings are jogging while uttering summons the acrid odour of octane a few silence-based feelings… are not these thoughts, too?
For countless nights I have not slept. There is a throbbing inside my head. Blood oozes out of my eyes. (This is a symbolic statement, striking at the consciousness. The intention was to hunt down the shadows of mythic association)
Look a bouquet is beside your head sleep finish your sleeping
A piece of thick woollen carpet you are sitting wearing a rough silk sari I hold my hands together in supplication lower my head going to prostrate before you but you say chhi! what are you doing darling, one should not prostrate before a sick person bare body you have not put on a blouse I look from the corner of my eyes I can see it all and you have spread the wet hair on the back a silver betel case is standing nearby tobacco is ready in a water pipe mashallah it smells real nice you say O ma, you are here why didn’t you wake me up you have grown up much I never thought you would turn into so handsome a man I won’t smoke tobacco in front of you I am feeling shy
I say, lady, solve a riddle; let me see how witty you are. Tell me in which country there really is no country—which is just an indication-centrality of an interim unity consideration of broken narratives and a fable, there is no flow of male weeping. No living terror of separation is in the folds of words and the unspeakable is still produced in the speeches… please
I will but first you come near me hey boy why are you still so afraid do you have anyone nearer than me in the world and swear first swear by touching my head that you will never abandon me look now I am connecting the umbilical cord… my last rites I entrust to you… what had I been saying… all your humiliations end today… I will put an end to all your pains; it is my responsibility… all right? Now come and rest your head on your mother’s chest you will find how very peaceful it is…
I kiss her with ferocious intensity feel her like a blind man bite her boobs… I tear out an artery from deep inside the flesh blood spurts I eagerly drink up the blood, dark green like pudina leaves, I suck at her tits breathlessly
The elders of the family say, explain the programme again, quickly… you will flash light twice, right?
Two lamps will be used as recognition lights… come up following the clear-cut map… this love is for them who can sing… because, male humans, simple male humans have become extinct… the birds sound: ha re re, ga ga, ma ma… when will these studies, adventurism, crying, and hubbubs end… please keep our affairs secret when you return to your nests… we did not set up any home, we have been sold out in the black market after the looting of the museum…
The sun will set in the land of rising sorrow. In long shadows of the moon, dancing humans will say: where is he, the teacher who is no more… once you said there is plastic in the afterlife, pollution too is there…
Alas, our remedy has died. No one is there to bring us back to sense.

Epilogue
It had happened a few days before chooto ma died.
Taltal phones from Jersey. Asks have you arranged the money for me? Bring it when you come to the city today.
I say, no hi, no hello, let alone adab-salam… at least you can ask how I am once in a while. Only money and money. Where do I get so much money?
She says don’t talk rubbish… what has happened to the money from the sale of ma’s house?… If it’s not arranged today I’ll be in deep trouble.
I say, no money is coming. The money that came from selling the house has been invested in mutual fund, in insurance; some blue chip shares have also been bought; all for the sake of your future… Why do you do things that lead to trouble? It’s not that you are not getting enough dough… the tuition for this semester has already been paid. The dorm rent, boarding fees, books all have been paid. Junaid uncle gives you enough pocket money. I’m paying all your credit card bills. After all these, what do you need so much cash for? We don’t have the ability to give more than that. If you can’t do with that then you better think about earning some money yourself. May be then you’ll realise money is not so easy to come by. It has to be earned by hard labour.
She slams down the phone.
The Lincoln Navigator of Junaid uncle crosses the Williamsburg Bridge and enters Manhattan. It moves towards Harold Square. We look for a parking space, he along one side of the street, I the other.
I say where will you find a parking space in midtown on a Friday morning… plus… what is the date today?... Right! There sure is a parade today… look at the number plates… the city is full of outsiders…
Let’s put it in a garage then, what, says Junaid uncle.
I say, will you spend so much? In this part, they charge 28 dollars an hour. What’s so urgent now? We could have parked it in front of my house in the uptown and come here in a train; it would have taken half an hour to 45 minutes…
Junaid uncle smiles, says, oh, no, it’s already too late… I’ve not told you as I wanted to give you a surprise; your chhoto ma is coming today… I’ve come to pick her up… we’re going to spend the whole day together… who knows when we’ll meet again… he sighs.
I look in astonishment at this dolt. My mood turns sour. I say that woman is coming on her own purpose; why have you towed me in with you? You probably have forgotten that I spent half of my life with her. I’ve no itch to see her afresh… hey! Drop me here…
Junaid uncle says cut it off! Why are you being so mulish… during such a crisis! Ain’t you supposed to shoulder all the responsibilities… does Taltal have any other guardian except you? Don’t you understand?
I seldom meet chhoto ma. She lives in Edison, New Jersey. Taltal lives nearby. She is a bright student, going to Princeton. Every weekend she comes to Manhattan. Clubbing, bar-hopping etc… I don’t know. I’ve no desire to know either.
Chhoto ma has been ringing frequently for some days now. It seems she has suddenly turned hyper. I’m informed by Junaid uncle that she is going back home. The fast-spreading cancer in her lungs has spread to the brain. Metastasis. The doctors have told her she won’t live more than a few months. Chhoto ma wants to die at home.
Seventh Avenue. Madison Square Garden Station. Chhoto ma disembarks from a New Jersey transit train. She is dressed in a Shalwar-Kamis. I bought her it, from Silk & Gold at Jackson Heights. She is wearing soft-leather Roman sandals. A very expensive Hermes scarf is tied around her head.
She has become so skinny, with dark patches under her eyes.
Junaid uncle runs to her, says you have travelled so far all by yourself. Was there any problem? If I had known… what so important work Taltal is busy with that she could not accompany you? She doesn’t have any classes on Fridays… I should have gone to bring you… From here Edison is but the next block!
Chhoto ma says, please, don’t fuss!
She looks at me with her large grey eyes. I don’t know how, despite the morphine-induced stupor, she does recognise me from that far. She says, so, Junaid could really bring you, I can’t still believe it.
She becomes exhausted after walking only a little distance, wheezes, and says, why do you look so pale, darling… didn’t you eat anything in the morning… Junaid has dragged you straight from the bed, right?
She kisses a finger and touches me with it. Flirt!
I push away her hand and ask why have you come to the city all of a sudden? Have you any appointment at Sloan-Katering?
She says, no, no, they have stopped the radiation.
I don’t have to go to Sloan-Katering any more. It’s because I’m going home… I’ll buy a wig from Macys… all my hairs have fallen off, it looks so ugly. Everyone will see me like this… I feel bad… thinking about it
She smiles shyly; says I’ve been dying to see you; for the last few days…
I scold her, and say why is this sudden upsurge of love? Please, cut down on the play-acting…. And why have you come to Manhattan in Salwar-Kamis? Do you intend to put us all in danger?... How many times have I told you these are bad days… don’t go out in any such typical Muslim dress. Have you become senile or don’t you understand me, what?
Thirty-fourth, Broadway. We walk towards Macys. We take the back lift on the ground floor. Chhoto ma is unsteady. Junaid uncle supports her, walking slowly; asks which floor, Shoni?
Chhoto ma says third.
The department of swimming costumes is vast and covers almost the entire third level. The wig department is adjacent to it. The wigs are kept in some closed glass cabinets and on the heads of some faceless mannequins.
A young black woman greets us. I say hello and stand away from chhoto ma and Junaid uncle so that no one may realise I’m with them.
Which one should I buy, chhoto ma asks me. At first I don’t get what she is saying. Her tongue is swollen and sometimes her words become slurred.
A teenage boy has put on a pink wig. He stands in front of a mirror. The price tag is hanging behind. He tells me, nice wig, ain’t it? I’ve two more at home… this might be my third. It becomes me.
Chhoto ma removes the scarf. I look away. She takes up a blond wig and puts it on standing before a mirror. She looks at herself from various angles. It looks okay. She tries another wig but doesn’t like it. She takes yet another. She goes on changing. The black girl is a real tout. Instead of stopping her, she eggs her on, making remarks now and then.
I tell Junaid uncle, the day is lost, it’s gone. We’ve to spend the entire day here… I can’t stand it any more. I’m feeling too hungry, let chhoto ma be here; let’s go and have lunch.
At long last, chhoto ma finds the wig of her choice. The black girl is very glad. Chhoto ma inspects every inch of herself in the 360-degree bust mirror from every corner. I look at her in amazement. The wig is exactly like the hair she had many years ago, when she was living in Dhaka. Chhoto ma looks like her old self. The hair of the wig, however, is a little shorter, and the do is in the current fashion.
Chhoto ma combs the hair with a soft brush.
The black girl says it fits perfectly. Will you buy only this, nothing else? Okay, give it to me; let me pack it for you.
Chhoto ma keeps on touching the hair with infinite love. She doesn’t want to take the wig off. She smiles.
I feel like crying. I have a lump in my throat. I pay the price with my Master Card and tell chhoto ma enough, that’s enough, don’t you carry on like this any more; let’s move…
Reader, I salute you.